disintegrating like a demolished chimney tower. Moody stepped back, instinctively seeking the neutral corner then he moved towards Sandy.
“Leave him, Jacko,” Trueman roared. “Don’t spoil a good punch. Go and have a shower.”
Moody nodded, banged his gloves together and took off his helmet. He vaulted over the ropes and danced off to the dressing room. Sandy sat up groggily and Trueman wiped his face with the dirty towel; the boy swore and pushed it aside.
“You’re orright Sandy, you had a go, done your best. I’ll fix you up later.” Trueman thumped the sitting boxer on the back and got out of the ring. Blood suffused his face from the effort of bending and it was a full minute before he got together enough asthmatic wind to speak.
“Great eh? What did I tell youse? Bit of work on the killer instinct and he’ll be ready.”
“Is that why you wouldn’t let him help the other boy?” Tickener asked.
“Yeah. He’s got to get tougher, enjoy seeing ‘em down.”
“Bullshit,” I said.
Trueman was about to reply when a noise over by the door stopped him. The big pink man who’d been pounding the bag the whole time was barring the way to a man trying to get into the room.
“Let me in, get out of my way.” His voice was high and thin. “I don’t want to make trouble, I just want to see Ricky.” He struggled against the immovable flab and muscle in front of him, then he yelped when he caught a smack in the mouth delivered at about one tenth of the bruiser’s force. I got up as the big man was manoeuvring the intruder into a position where he could get a good swing at him.
“Sick of you,” Pinky grunted.
“Sling him out Tiny,” Trueman yelled.
I grabbed the big, fair arm and pulled it down.
“Better not Tiny Pinky,” I said. “You could go for assault.” I tightened my grip but he could still have broken it easily. Confusion spread across his flat, piggy face and he looked across at Trueman.
“Fuck off,” the trainer said to the intruder. “I’m sick of people coming around looking for that bum. Fuck off, Ricky’s not here. You’re upsetting my boys.”
Tiny let go of him and the man straightened his clothes. He was on the small side with brown hair, regular features and a rather glossy, artificial look to him. His voice was stagey, clearer than necessary.
“Just tell me where he lives then, and I won’t bother you.”
“Dunno,” Trueman growled. “Piss off. Tiny, get back to the bag.”
The gorilla moved away and the newcomer turned to go.
“Just a minute,” I said. I went over and put my foot down on Trueman’s instep. “Where’s Ricky live?”
“I said I dunno;” he gasped.
I bore down a little. “Where, Sammy?”
Pain screwed up his eyes and cut his voice down to a reedy whisper.
“Albermarle Street, Redfern, 145.” I lifted my foot. “Shit Cliff, what’s it to you. Look, what do you think of my boy? Good?”
I beckoned to Tickener who got up and moved to the door with me.
“He’s great Sammy. I hope he’s got some brains left when you’re finished with him. He won’t have anything else.”
Trueman staggered to a chair, sat down and started massaging his foot. Tiny sank his fist into the heavy bag. The boy with the withered leg tapped the light bag. Sandy sat on the canvas rubbing his chin. The Latin gentlemen hadn’t moved. We went out.
3
He was leaning against a wall lighting a cigarette when Harry and I came out of the gym. Again, there was something exaggerated about the way he did it, the way he cupped his hands and flipped the spent match down the stairs. He was good-looking in an old-fashioned, Leslie Howard sort of way, and he turned a boyish smile on us.
“Thanks very much. That ape could’ve hurt me.” He put a hand up to his face to make sure it was all there just the way he’d left it.
“Forget it,” I said. “Gymnasiums aren’t places to barge into shouting names. You’re Saul James, right?”
He looked pleased and trotted along abreast of me as I started down the stairs after Harry.
“That’s right. You’ve seen me on TV?”
“No, I only watch TV when I’m sick. Big Ted Tarelton told me about you.”
It deflated him. He said nothing more while we went down the stairs and he seemed to take a great interest in the end of his cigarette when we stopped in the doorway.
“I know about Noni.” I said. “We better have a talk about it. Drink?”
He nodded. Tickener wanted to talk about Moody and so did I but it looked like work would come first. He tagged along when I suggested the pub across the road. We made the dash through the rain again.
“Let me get them,” James said. Harry and I didn’t kick. We sat down at an ancient table; I rolled a cigarette and Tickener got a Camel going. We watched cynically while James got served. He was slim and he wore a waisted suede coat to accentuate the fact. They’d eat him alive in Redfern. He couldn’t even get himself served in a Newtown pub. He tried waving his money and clearing his throat and the barman ignored him until he was good and ready. James was red in the face when he got back to us, but we watched with polite interest as he lowered three double Scotches onto the scarred beer-ringed boards. He sat down.
“Cheers.”
We drank a bit. I studied his face. It was mostly full of conceit to my eyes but there were some signs of something else in it. Maybe it was character, maybe worry. He had tried to get into Trueman’s after all.
I introduced Tickener and told James that he was a reporter. The actor looked interested and asked what branch of reporting Harry was in. When he was told he lost interest. He transferred his attention to me.
“And what do you do?”
I told him. “I would have had to see you soon anyway,” I said, “I take it you’ll co-operate with me?”
He nodded.
“Give me the story.”
He told me that he’d met the girl two years before when she had a small part in a play he was in. They set up house with an understanding that there were no ties. The girl went off for a week once a month and she claimed to spend this time with her father. James said he didn’t check.
“That seems odd,” I said.
He shrugged and drank some of his Scotch. “That was the deal.”
“Did you go off too?”
He looked smug. “Occasionally.”
I was liking him less by the minute and wanted to get the interview over. Tickener looked bored. He finished his drink.
“Look Cliff, I’ve got to go. What did you think of Moody?”
“He’s good, give him a bit of time.”
“Yeah. He’s fighting soon, I’ll get you a ticket.”
I thanked him. The reporter nodded to James and thanked him for the drink. He wrapped his big tweed overcoat around him and bustled out of the pub. For no good reason it crossed my mind that I knew nothing about Harry’s sex life.
“Can you remember that address?” I asked James.
“Yes.” He recited it back.
“What do you know about this Ricky?”
“Almost nothing. He’s an Aborigine, but not dark I gather.” He said it quickly as if it made a difference. “Noni met him when she was doing a TV film, he was an extra.”
“How old is he?”
