Stone Fist

by J. D. Weston

  “Get your weight behind it. Come on, Tyler. You’re a big boy. Move with it.”

  Another combination hit the pads. Three successful blows. Three vibrating exhales that matched the dull thuds like a snare drum with a bass.

  “Right, good,” said McGee. “Let’s call it a day. Get washed up.”

  The old man shook the pads off his hands. Tyler turned to Lloyd, who stood beside the ring to help remove his gloves.

  “You did good, Tyler,” said Lloyd. His voice hit the lower octaves that seemed to be reserved for men of African descent. “Listen to the old man. Do what he says. He’s putting time into you. Respect that. When he says move your feet, move your feet. When he says put your weight behind the punch, he means it. You won't hurt him. I’ve seen bigger guys than you in here, and the old man would put them all on their arses with a look when they don’t do what he says.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Tyler. He turned and watched McGee pick up a broom and sweep the floor beneath the row of six-foot punch bags that hung from the ceiling joists. “He knows his stuff. Did he train you?”

  Lloyd gave a laugh through his nose like a single note on a tuba.

  “No, but I’ve been ringside long enough to know a good one from a bad one,” said Lloyd, as he pulled off the first glove.

  “A good trainer, you mean?” said Tyler, flexing his hand.

  “A good man.” He nodded at Old Man McGee. “And that right there is about as good as they get. Do you see anyone else in here tonight?”

  “Well, no, but I guess it’s late.”

  “How many gyms have you trained in?” asked Lloyd.

  “Enough.”

  “Were they ever empty?”

  “Well, not really. There were always one or two guys there.”

  “The old man’s putting time into you. Right now, you’re his focus. You want my advice?”

  “Yeah, go on.”

  “Make the most of it. Don't let him down.”

  “I don’t plan on letting anyone down, Lloyd,” replied Tyler. “Did you fight?” He held out his left hand for Lloyd to untie.

  “Yeah, I fought. Won some. Lost some. I just like being here.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Tyler. “I’ve been in gyms since I was a boy. It’s the smell that gets me. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that smell.”

  “Sweat?” asked Lloyd, as he pulled the glove.

  “No, mate. Hard work.” He winked at Lloyd who held the ropes open for Tyler to step through. “I’ll shower up at home. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

  “You sure will,” said Lloyd.

  The old man leaned on his broom as Tyler walked past.

  “Thanks for tonight,” said Tyler. “Same time tomorrow, yeah?”

  “If you’re game,” said the old man. “I’ll be here. Always am.”

  The sound of the brush strokes faded as the door closed behind Tyler, giving way to the sound of rain hitting the street. The gym was in the fourth arch along below a railway bridge. Dim street lights lit the road, but the path was dark and immersed in shadows, lit only by the reflection of the city on the surface of the water.

  A few cars rolled past, creating small waves as they cut through the deep puddles of water. At the end of the road, Tyler turned left and made his way towards Shadwell. The walk home usually gave Tyler time to think about the things the old man had said about his technique, but it was Lloyd’s words that accompanied Tyler that night. The fact that the old man had chosen to focus on him over all the others, it was motivating. It was his chance and he wouldn’t let him down.

  He passed tyre shops and garages, an old church, and small parks that were tiny pockets of green between rows of blocks of flats. An old factory that had been reclaimed and turned into high-end apartments marked the end of the council housing. A narrow road marked the division where offices took over, climbing higher towards the city. The division also marked Tyler’s home, which was a small flat in a two-story high building. He was thankful for the location. Although he would have liked to have been closer to the gym, the council flats were a maze of gang fights, drugs and crime. The last thing Tyler needed was to be mixed up in anything.

  “Mum?” he called, when he opened his front door. “Are you awake?”

  No reply came. Tyler eased the front door closed, stepped into the kitchen, and flicked on the light.

  On the sideboard was a plate with a knife and a mug. He washed them under the tap and turned them upside down on the draining board to dry. The kitchen, which overlooked the road below, had been painted in a sickly yellow. The ceiling had signs of mildew in the corners and the linoleum floor was torn by the door. The council provided the housing. His mother had been taken ill two years previously and had since been unable to work. Tyler took care of her between work and training. Although she was stubborn and determined to cook her own meals and bathe herself, some days the chemo cut her down and reduced her to a fraction of the woman Tyler remembered as a child.

  Tyler used a cloth to wipe the sink clean, then folded it, hung it over the tap, and reached over the counter to close the two small curtains.

  That was when he saw two men staring up at him from the street below.

  3

  The Golden Ring

  “Was that the best you’ve got, John?” Del Dixon’s already hoarse voice was like gravel over the mobile connection. “Who are you putting up next? Your old lady?”

  “Very witty, Del,” replied John. “How did you do it?”

  “Do what, John? I hope you’re not accusing me of anything.”

  “There’s no way Fraser lost his form overnight, Del.”

  “Choose your words carefully.”

  “I’ll choose my words how I like, Del.”

  “So we’re still on for the second match then? I mean, you’re not going to run away?”

  “I’ve given you two hundred grand, Del. I don’t intend on losing any more.”

  “So tell me. Who are you putting up?”

  “Why? What are you going to do? Pay them a visit? Are you going to send the boys round? I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t have anyone yet, do you?” said Dixon.

  John remained silent.

  “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re not your usual cocky self because right now you don’t know who’s going in that ring.”

  “I’ve been in this game a long time, Del. I can smell when a fighter has been got to. It smells like rotten flesh.”

  “Maybe you need a break from it all then, John. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I haven’t lost anything.”

  “Except two hundred grand.”

  “I’m too long in the tooth for your games, Del.”

  “So we’re on then, are we?” said Del. “Two weeks’ time. Oh, and John?”

  John let the silence speak for itself and waited for Del to continue.

  “I prefer cash if you don’t mind.”

  The call disconnected. John slid his phone onto his desk, picked up his tumbler of brandy and downed its contents. But Del’s words played over in his mind. He imagined the self-righteous smile that accompanied the smug voice. John hurled his glass across the room. It smashed against the wall, sending tiny fragments of crystal glass to the solid oak floor, and left a tear of amber to run down the plaster.

  He picked up the phone again and dialled Mick’s number, who answered on the first ring.

  “Give me good news,” said John.

  “Nothing confirmed yet. But we have two options, John. We’re working on bringing them in.”

  “I want a name tonight and I want to meet them tomorrow. Make it happen, Mick.”

  He hung up the call before Mick could respond, then poured a fresh brandy into a new glass from the tray beside his desk. At the forefront of his thoughts was an image of Del handing over three hundred thousand pounds. A profit of one hundred thousand wasn’t bad. But in the two-match run, the scores would be equal. On
e win each. A hundred thousand pounds didn’t have the same ring to it as the original five hundred. Taking five hundred grand from Del Dixon would have set John back on top of the food chain. One hundred would just about make them even, once the damage to reputation had been factored in.

  He tapped his phone against his lip, letting possibilities run amok like a roulette wheel inside his mind. Ideas were scratched off as they appeared. Having Del taken out was too risky, and he’d be expecting it, just as John was ready for a hit himself. Having Del’s family taken out just wasn’t how things were done. Families were a no go. It was an unwritten rule between men such as John and Del Dixon. Hitting his business was a possibility. But two weeks wasn’t long enough to coordinate such an effort. The wheel span with just a few ideas remaining. It slowed, and the clicking sound slowed with it, until the pointer hung between two final ideas, both as dangerous as the other.

  And then the wheel stopped.

  With the last of the brandy in John’s gullet, he dialled Del’s number. He breathed in and savoured the air that cooled the alcohol burn inside his throat while he listened to the ringtone.

  “Cooper?” said Del. “You’re keen tonight. You’ve caught me counting my winnings, so make it quick.”

  “Double it,” said John. “Six hundred grand.”

  A silence followed, broken only by the whisper of the telephone signal.

  “Six hundred grand and the Golden Ring,” said Dixon.

  With a final glance around the house, Harvey committed the scene to memory. It was a trick he’d learned from his mentor, Julios. Each item, no matter how small or trivial, had been placed in such a way that any differences in position would stand out a mile on Harvey’s return.

  He pulled the back door closed, locked it, and then walked around to the front of the house, where Melody was waiting in her little sports car. The roof was down and their luggage was in the tiny back seat. She smiled as he approached and started the car. Harvey took a final look at the house then climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Are you sure you don't want to drive?” asked Melody. “It’s a long way to London.”

  The seat slid back as far as it would go and Harvey stretched his legs out.

  “I’m good,” he replied. “It’s about time you earned your keep.”

  “You know what, Harvey Stone?” said Melody. “If I’m not mistaken, I do believe you’re developing a sense of humour.”

  Harvey didn’t reply. Instead, he watched the house disappear in the side-view mirror and let Melody ponder on her statement some more.

  “Maybe it’s just that you’re relaxed,” she mused. “You love that house, don't you?”

  “Have you any idea of the things I had to do to get it?” asked Harvey.

  “Yes, I do. I found the bodies, remember?”

  “You found some of the bodies, Melody. And yeah, I do love that house. I dreamed about it for years. I just wish I could actually spend some time there to enjoy it.”

  Keeping her eyes on the road, Melody shuffled in her seat, making herself comfortable for the long drive to London.

  “This is the last one, Melody.”

  “Last what?”

  “The last trip. At least for a while. I’m supposed to be retired with my feet up.”

  “It’s Reg’s wedding, Harvey. You can’t not go. He’d be devastated.”

  “I know, I know. I’m going, aren’t I? But after this, no more. London has a lot of memories for me. Most of them I’d like to leave behind and forget about.”

  “They can’t all be bad.”

  “No, not all of them. But enough to keep me away. Besides, every time I go there, something happens. I need to keep my head down. Julios would have a fit if he was alive and knew about the things I’ve done.”

  “Julios?” said Melody. “Wow, I haven’t heard that name for a long time.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Harvey, “it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about him. The bloke was like a dad to me.”

  “Do you ever think about your real dad?” asked Melody, as she pulled out of their lane and onto the main road, a dual carriageway that would link them to the main artery network of French motorways.

  “Yeah, of course. But there are no images. Not like Julios. I’ve got memories of him. As clear as day, most of them.”

  “What’s your favourite?”

  “Memory?” asked Harvey. “I don’t have a favourite.”

  “So what one do you remember the most? If I said the name Julios to you, what memory does it invoke?”

  “The one of him lying on the ground full of bullet holes.”

  Melody was silent.

  “You asked,” said Harvey.

  “And I wish I hadn’t.”

  Melody sat for a while, deep in thought and quiet.

  “How about you?” asked Harvey.

  “Me?” asked Melody. “How about me what?”

  “Your favourite memory.” He asked the question to break the silence, but waited for the answer, intrigued as to her reply.

  “My parents. My dog. No specific memory,” said Melody.

  “So if I mentioned your parents, what memory does it invoke?”

  “The funeral,” she replied, then gave him a sideways glance and returned her attention to the road.

  “See,” said Harvey. “I’m not the only psycho in this car.”

  “There it is again,” said Melody.

  “There’s what again?”

  “That sense of humour,” said Melody, as she dropped to third gear, manoeuvred into the outside lane and overtook a lorry. “You should be careful. You might be losing your mean streak.”

  “See you tomorrow, boss,” said Tyler, as he heaved his work bag over his shoulder.

  “Are you not coming for a beer, Tyler?” said George. “Come on, son. Dirty Harry had a kid yesterday. We’re going to wet the baby’s head.”

  “Not tonight, George. Sorry, mate.”

  “Tyler, what is it? Don’t you like us? Is Frank too hard on you? Don’t worry about him. Look at the bleeding size of you. You could knock him over with your little finger.” George slammed the door to his van and moved around it to stand beside Tyler.

  “No, George, I’ve got training, that’s all, and I need to check on my mum. Another time, yeah?”

  “When? Christmas?” said George. “That’s a long way off, Tyler. Are you okay, mate?” George lowered his voice. “Are you alright for cash, son? Do you need a bit more work?”

  “No, it’s fine, George. Honest.”

  “I can get you on the tools if you want. We’ll start you off slow. No more fetching bricks and muck for us lot. You’ll have your own labourer.”

  “No, seriously,” said Tyler. He backed away from George. “I’m fine, mate. Honest. I like the graft. It keeps me in shape.”

  “Yeah, but you can get some serious cash on the tools. Price work, Tyler. That's where the money is.”

  “Yeah, maybe one day. Listen, I’m running late. I’ve got to see my mum and get to the gym.”

  “Alright, son, if you’re sure. But listen, if there’s something you need, you tell me. Alright?”

  “Yeah, no worries,” said Tyler, as he moved towards the gate of the construction site. He turned and called back to George. “Hey, George.”

  “What’s up?” said George, as he opened his van door, leaned in and started the engine.

  “Thanks,” said Tyler. “I’ll have a think about getting on the tools.”

  “You do that, son,” said George, and he climbed into his van.

  Tyler turned right out of the site, tightened his hooded sweatshirt around his neck, and pulled on his beanie hat. He worked himself into a stride that was just out of his comfort zone, enough to raise his heart rate, but not too much to tire him out on the three-mile walk home.

  The winter sky loomed above, dark and foreboding, and although the rain had stopped, the roads still held their sheen, magnifying the lights of passing cars and street lig
hts. Tyler turned onto Commercial Road. It was the easiest route home and a straight line from Poplar to Shadwell. There were faster routes to take, but they meant entering the maze of back streets. The direct route gave Tyler a chance to go over the things that the old man had told him the night before. Lloyd had advised him to listen to the old man; the last thing Tyler wanted to do was make him repeat himself. He needed to prove how good he was and demonstrate his potential.

  He opened the front door to find his mum standing in the kitchen. She was stirring a saucepan of soup and beamed at him as he closed the door.

  “You’re up and about,” said Tyler. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

  “Oh, Tyler, I can’t lie in bed all day. I get up when I can. Anyway, how was your day, love? Do you want some soup?”

  “Here, let me, Mum. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll bring it through to you.”

  “Stop fussing. It’s only soup. I can manage,” she replied. “So? How was your day then? Tell me about the world outside these four walls.”

  “You’re better off inside, Mum. It rained all day.”

  “Yeah, I know. I heard it on the window. And the wind. I hope you wrap up warm at work.”

  “Of course, Mum. It’s hard work though, up and down ladders. I’m usually stripped down to my t-shirt within twenty minutes.”

  “Does George make you work in the rain?”

  “We all work in the rain, Mum, or else we don’t get paid. We do the internal walls when it’s wet outside. You can’t lay a wet brick, Mum.” He talked to his mum from his room as he changed into his gym shorts, a fresh t-shirt and clean socks.

  “Are you training tonight?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” said Tyler, as he pulled the door closed to his bedroom. “The old man’s giving me some of his time. Lloyd said I should make the most of it. I reckon I can really show them what I can do, Mum. Now could be the chance I’ve been waiting for.”

  “Which one’s Lloyd?” his mum asked.

  “He helps the old man. He’s a really nice bloke. Knows his stuff too.”

  “Will you be late?”

  “I don’t know, Mum. If the old man wants to carry on, I’d be stupid not to.”