Sweet Agony
Page 23
'Aren't you going to speak then?' a voice called as I was returning with the drinks. It was a smart feller in his 50s, with a suntan and plenty of jewellery.
He was familiar but I couldn't place him.
He told me his name and everything fell into place. He'd played me a few games of scrabble when I'd been in Liverpool on my last sentence. He'd been serving 5 years for some fraud involving Rolls-Royces. He was greasy and slippery, a feller I had to watch all the time and if I did he was nice enough, a pleasant, happy-go-lucky sort. He was the road manager of the group who were topping the bill.
Four little black fellers, bushmen from Zambia in mohair suits who sang as if they had a vital part of their anatomy trapped in a vice.
'Are there any birds about?' he asked. 'I could do with a bird.'
After I'd introduced him to Wendy, Ann and her two mates he beamed and gave them each a signed photograph of the group, and asked if they'd like to meet the boys back stage when the act had finished.
'Ooh, yes please,' they chorused.
He shook my hand and said he'd see me later.
Not only had I brought the girls in without paying but I'd managed to introduce them to the stars. Wendy's chest came out now I'd justified her claim I was better than sliced bread but I was troubled, there was something wrong.
He'd asked me if there were any birds about and when I'd introduced him instead of buying a few drinks and chatting them up he'd given out photos and asked them back. He didn't want a bird at all, he wanted them for the group. Road manager he said. More like bird arranger, the slippery bastard.
He came back when the show was over to escort us to the steep flight of wooden stairs at the side of the stage and then left. The girls
trooped in to the rest room to glance nervously at the four bushmen
with bow-ties and jackets off lounging about and a minute later we all trooped back down the stairs.
All but Ann, and she was nowhere to be seen. We waited a minute, two minutes, and then I went to look for her. She was still sitting in the rest room on a chair inside the door.
'Come on Ann, we're off now.'
'I'm not,' she snapped 'I'm staying here.'
'Not with me you're not. I brought you and I'll take you home.'
'I'm old enough to do as I like.' She turned away as if I'd been dismissed.
'If you're not down the stairs in two minutes,' I said as a matter of fact, 'I'll come back and drag you out by the hair of your head.'
She came down the stairs looking haughty and arrogant, a real beauty from the jungle round Shangtung. If people could read me as well as I could read people the world would be a better place, I thought driving them home. On the way to Outwood to drop Ann's mates off a record by the Drifters came on the car radio and I suddenly had an overwhelming urge for a pot of tea. Ann didn't speak to me again and slammed the car door when I dropped her and Wendy off. Wendy hadn't any inhibitions or hang-ups when it came to sex but her sister was something else.
She told me the following day she'd fallen out with Ann and from the way she told me the shadow she'd been living under had gone, vanished. She was beautiful in her own right now and she knew it. She ought to know, I'd told her enough times and anyway I'd more to occupy me than kinky sisters.
* * * *
On the big new roundabout at the bottom of Kirkgate, with its subways and steps, where it joins with Peterson Road, and hidden in the shadow of the huge white Social Security offices, is a little chapel, stone-built and black. It's been there for at least a hundred years, tucked away minding it's own business and I must have passed it a million times without knowing of its existence until Jerry took me to see his gym. Jerry's gym was two rooms on the top floor each the size of the average council house living room. One room had a boxing ring rigged up from lengths of oily tow rope and the other had a couple of scruffy kitbags hanging from the roof joists. There was a
smattering of rusty weight discs under the window. This was the building where I trained and had done since the week after the Malpass fight.
Jerry's wife, who stood the next stall to Mother on Wakefield market on Mondays, had listened to what Mother said about the difficulty I was having finding somewhere local to train and she'd told her husband the first time she remembered. He leapt on his moped the minute he heard and came straight to the house to offer the use of his gym. It had been early Sunday morning when he'd come and in the midst of a howling blizzard. He showed me the two rooms the next day where he taught the local scallywags the rudiments of boxing but I wasn't in the least interested because downstairs, where the Barclay's Bank badminton team practised, the ladies' keep-fit league ponced about and a karate club broke tiles and bits of wood, was just what I'd been praying for. A standard prison gym. It had a badminton court with a nice margin all the way round and two sets of wall bars. Everybody used it at night and I used it at 3 o'clock when Jerry had finished the shift emptying bins.
He'd never heard of circuit training and shuttle running but over the weeks he'd got into the hang of timing me how I wanted to be timed although from his face he thought I was wasting my time. And his. Afterwards had me upstairs to pound his bags for the fight's scheduled distance with a 30-second rest between rounds; he said if I could pound the bag non-stop for the length of the fight then the fight itself wouldn't be any trouble.
I'd refused at first. 'But Jerry,' I'd explained patiently, 'what's the point of a 30-second rest? Surely I've got to train for a minute's rest not 30 seconds. Anyway Jerry, how can I measure my improvement unless 1 throw more punches per round and then it all depends on how hard 1 hit.' Jerry was the old-fashioned traditional type and stuck to his guns. Going up the stairs 1 continued to argue, 'I want to break bones Jerry, punching the bag breaks mine not the other fellow's.' He wouldn't listen because I hurt his ears, 1 made his dustbinman brain work. He had had me finish with a series of calisthenics and belly exercises. If it had been anybody but him I'd have told him to go and ride his bike but Jerry was such a quiet, inoffensive feller 1 hadn't the heart. Besides 1 appreciated what he was doing with the kids and 1 didn't want to upset him. Slowly, methodically, and inevitably my fitness
had improved until now I was as fit as I'd ever been. I'd enjoyed pounding the bag and my shoulder muscles, the anterior deltoids, had never felt better. Neville Meade hadn't a chance.
Wendy came up the road just as I was setting off like she'd done for every fight. As she drew level, Mother said distinctly 'The bloody towrag' over my shoulder. Wendy hurried past with her head down and then she called 'I hope he bashes you', and laughed. Mother had gone back into the house. How she knew there was something going on between us had me beat but now wasn't the time to think about it. Or Wendy looking divine in her tatty blue jeans and ripped bomber jacket.
At Tingley crossroads I had to stop the car to be sick I was so wound up; three weeks I'd been going over this fight, punch by punch, tuned into Meade's right fist like 10drell Bank tracking station. Half a pint of tea gushed onto the grass verge and it was as if all my fears and doubts had been used for milk and sugar. I felt purged, ready for anybody. Jerry said it was on account of being so fit but it wasn't, I'd been terrified of losing. I wouldn't lose, Meade wouldn't hit me.
It was heaving again. All my mates, and their mates, and their mates, everybody it seemed had come to see me. The dressing room door opened and closed like a taproom's with them coming to wish me luck and laugh when I told them what Kay had said to Dawson this afternoon. He'd come to the stall to tell her and Mother about a coach crash at Newton Hill. A coach carrying coppers on their way to Blackpool for the Police Federation Conference had crashed. It was awful he said, policemen lying dead and injured all over the place. Kay looked at him and said with a straight face, 'The lengths you'll go to upset our Paul when he's having a fight.' Norm almost burst his bow-tie and Del let out a screech that had the fire sprinklers flickering. Telling the tale kept me busy and my mind too occupied to worry about losing.
Sardines would have been smothered in the Bronte suite and stretching right across the top table was a huge banner with
'Welcome to George Kantor' printed across it. Manny's sidekick had arrived from the States.
Keeping my head down to avoid catching the excitement, con-centrating on staying calm and saving energy, I didn't see anything until I was under the spotlight looking at my opponents boots, I looked up.
Meade gazed from under lizard-like eyelids when the ref gave his instructions and he'd trained for this fight. He'd come down from 17st 100b to 15st 100b but he was still fat. Not much though. His back reminded me of a brown cell door as his second gave him instructions before the bell rang. Oh yes, he was confident, very, very confident.
At the end of the first round he was still confident although he hadn't touched me. My left hand had smacked into his face time and time again with all the speed, power and accuracy of a piston. Twice he'd launched the right and twice I'd swayed out of range and twice it had settled back onto the launching pad, ready and primed and waiting to land.
The second was a repeat of the first plus a sickening right hook into his belly up to my wrist. It was easy, like hitting the punch-bag but more fun. Halfway through the third I realised I was standing in the neutral corner on the left of my corner where the floor boards sagged. It felt as if I was on a scaffolding plank. This was my fourth fight in this ring so I knew every inch of it and it was only a small ring anyway. Tommy said a small ring was better because it wouldn't allow my opponents to run but the real reason was to cram more punters in. I'd told him about these boards, the cheap skate bastard I thought, when the next thing I'm laid on my back. The lights were spinning above the ring. Four of them in a blur of blinding light. The crowd was howling like some enormous animal caught in a trap and in agony and I was thinking all my training, all my caution and planning had been in vain; Meade had thrown his bomb and I'd caught it flush on the chin. But I wasn't out, was I fuck out. The light had slowed and I could see. I got up and steamed in to prove it. The bell rang and Alex pushed his face into mine and ordered me to pull myself together. 'Fucking pull yourself together, now this minute,' he cried on the verge of panic. It may have been the shock of hearing him swear for the first time or the surprise of seeing him standing on the apron in full evening dress but for whatever reason my brain
crackled as if cellophane was being stripped from it. The same crackle I'd had in the showers after sparring with Dave Owens. I realised I was sitting with a stupid grin on my face suitable for outside the Fun House on the pleasure beach. The fourth I bumped him off no different to the first, ice-cool and deadly accurate and in the fifth he blew up, knackered, spent, unable to defend himself. He'd laid back against the ropes after I'd clipped him with a short right so I'd followed up with a combination to finish him off. The ref yelled so I stepped back but he'd been telling Meade to defend himself, the cunt. He should have either stopped it or shut up. Two seconds later he yelled it was all over and he raised my arm.
Del, Ronnie, Norm, were the first I saw but there were so many good lads. Some were standing on chairs and punching the air and screaming 'Yahoo' over and over again. Going through the doors the lads from the Manor clambered over me as if I was something in the kids playground. The old feller came into the dressing room when the rush had gone and stood looking down at me with a beatific smile.
'Chuffin' 'ell Paul,' he said in wonder, 'I thought it was curtains when he hit you with that punch. It's a chuffin' miracle how you got up.' He patted my shoulder, the light glinting off his glasses and said Burky had bought him a drink. He wandered out as if it was all too much for him.
It was a miracle how I'd got up. When I'd gone down I'd buckled my leg and torn the ligaments in my right knee and now it felt as if my leg was being wrenched off. My concentration had been so absolute I hadn't noticed. Tommy came in next, his face flushed with the excitement of having the number one contender and told me to get myself upstairs to Manny's office.
The copper's psychology, a rank amateur move that put my back up. 'Tomorrow Tom, tell him I'll see him tomorrow.'
CHAPTER SIX
Manny's office was on the fourth floor of the hotel, a tiny room which could easily have been a converted bathroom. He was sitting behind a desk with the American, George Kantor, sitting by his side, a ringer for a fat Woody Alien. Burky was with me. I'd asked him to come because I valued his opinion when it came to money, and the reason Manny wanted to see me had to be about money.
'Sit down Paul, sit down,' Manny said, his nose going like the clappers and wearing his shiny brown suit.
'Before I start, let me assure you I've discussed what I'm going to say with Tom and he's given me his full backing so you don't have to worry about what he will say.'
He wanted me to sign another contract to give him exclusive rights to promote me, which in effect made him my manager. He would pay all my expenses, hotel bills, training kit, air fares, and in return he would collect 50% of all my purse money.
The contract I'd signed with Tom was a standard 3 years one which gave him 25% of my purse money and 33% for title fights and fights abroad and in return he would act in my best interests. He'd done that to the letter. Not another manager in the country could have got me where I was now in such a short time and he'd only taken his cut once, last night, when he'd taken £125. My purse had been £500 because Manny was now in the act.
'It's a standard American contract,' George Kantor assured me with the smile of a bishop. 'All fighters have this contract in the States. '
Yeah, I don't doubt it is but England isn't the States where a fighter living in New York gets a fight in Seattle or Buffalo, or anywhere for that matter and it means an airflight and an overnight stay. Managers will have to pay the expenses to make sure the feller turns up. It doesn't happen here, and besides, if things go according to how I hope, I'll only be four miles from the venue, a 30p bus ride.
Mind you I didn't want to fight anywhere else. Certainly not Leeds Town Hall where the atmosphere was about the same as a Magistrates court. Liverpool stadium could be a possibility or the King's Hall in Manchester but even so my expenses wouldn't amount to a carrot. Supposing I say I'm perfectly happy with the contract I already have, what would happen then? Suddenly Tommy wouldn't be able to get me any fights. The blocks would go on. He'd grovel and whinge and blame promoters and drop dark hints I ought to sign. Fucking blackmail me like they've been doing since '73. The difference now though, was I was in a position to call the tune. Four fights in three months and I was at the top of the tree. Not bad for a feller a couple of days short of his 32nd birthday and almost 13 years in the nick under his belt.
Over Manny's shoulder was a pigeon on the window sill pecking at the ledge. If I made the wrong decision that's how I might end up, just another skint working peck like all those I'd seen this morning standing at the bus stops on Broadway when I'd hobbled to the paper shop.
'It's got to be worth a few bob Manny, to sign a contract giving you exclusive rights.'
'What do you think it's worth?' He leaned back in the chair ready to negotiate, his nose still and both eyes taking a step closer together.
'Three grand Manny. It's got to be worth three grand.'
'Paul, three grand's a lot of money. I've been losing money up to now to get you where you are. It's cost more than you can imagine to get these fellers to fight you.' He wasn't explaining as much as pleading. My signature on a contract with anybody from the Northern Area wasn't worth the paper it was written on. I had no feelings of loyalty for any of the people who'd stopped me from boxing earlier, in fact I wanted to get revenge if I could and a court case for breach of contract would give
me the opportunity.
If any promoter offered me a decent purse then it would be a court case but no promoter would unless I won a few more fights and really got known and Manny was the one to ensure I did. Until I did though, what I settled for here would be my future purse money. It was a feeling I had, a sort of premonition. The contract was me, how much are YOU worth, he meant.
It was another catch-22, take what he offered and sign the contract or I wouldn't fight. He paid me a grand, sliding two plastic envelopes
with £500 in tenners in each across the desk while Kantor looked on, still with the soapy smile and nodding. Manny listened without interest when I told him about the theatre club and said I hadn't a clue of the headaches involved promoting a show.
'Just come and have a look at the place Manny. It's all arranged for you to come and it won't cost you a penny. The gaffer wants you to. He wants to put on boxing and it's tailor-made for the job.'
'All right. Arrange it for sometime in mid-week,' he said with resignation to keep me happy. 'Sometime when the place isn't busy. Now Paul, have you got a passport?'
'Yes Manny, I've got a passport. Why?' I had a brand new 10 year one that Del had insisted I get last year.
'Come across on Sunday morning. I'll ring and let you know the details before and bring it with you. I'm going to get you a visa for the States.'
Visa for the States. Yeah Manny I've heard that one before. Once you ' ve seen the theatre club there'll be no trips to the States even if what you've said is true.
He didn't mention my leg at all even though he couldn't help but notice. It had seized up over night and wouldn't bend. All the time we'd been talking it had stuck out stiff and straight. Surely if he was genuine my health would be his first consideration but he hadn't even noticed. I didn't like Manny. His brown suit, his twitching nose, his air of careful selfishness and greed. His eyes so close together he could use a telescope with both eyes at once. He was a feller who wanted watching or he'd cock me up but Burky didn't agree. He said I'd done well to get the grand and Manny would get me some real fights quickly to get his money back.