by Markus Zusak
More people show up.
“Who?” they ask. “Ruben Wolfe? But he’s just a —” A what? I wonder.
“I didn’t mean to hit him so hard,” Rube mentions, and he sucks on his knuckles. “Or that good.” I don’t know about him, but I get a flashback of the many fights Rube and I have had in our backyard, with just the one boxing glove each. (You do that when you have only one pair of gloves.)
This time it’s different.
This time it’s real.
“This time I used both hands,” Rube smiles, and I know that we’ve been thinking about the same thing. I wonder how it feels to really hit someone, that final commitment of putting your bare fist in his face, for real. Not just some brotherly thing you do in the backyard, for fun, with boxing gloves.
At home that night, we ask Sarah what’s been happening.
She says she’s done a few stupid things lately. We ask her to stop.
She says nothing, but gives us a silent nod.
I keep meaning to ask Rube what it was like to really beat the hell out of that guy, but I never do. I always pull out.
Also, in case you’re interested, something has started to stink in our room, but we don’t know what it is.
“What the hell is that?” Rube asks me. A threatening tone. “Is it y’ feet?”
“No.”
“Y’ socks?” “No way.”
“Y’ shoes? Undies?”
“It’s this conversation,” I suggest.
“Now don’t get smart.”
“All right!”
“Or I’ll crush y’.”
“All right.”
“Y’ little —”
“All right!”
“Somethin’ always stinks in here,” interrupts my dad, who has stuck his head into the room. He shakes his head in amazement, and I feel like everything’s going to be okay. Or at least half okay anyway.
“Hey Rube.”
“You just woke me, you bastard.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m glad I did. You deserve it.”
“What is it this time?”
“Can’t y’ hear ‘em?”
“Who?”
“Mum and Dad. They’re talkin’ again in the kitchen. About the bills and all that.”
“Yeah. They can’t pay ‘em too good.”
“It’s —”
Bloody hell! What is that smell? It’s a dis-grace, ay. Are you sure it’s not y’ socks?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
I stop and breathe.
I think a question and speak it. Finally.
“Did it feel good to smash that guy?”
Rube: “A little, but not really.”
“Why not?”
“Because …” He thinks for a moment. “I knew I’d beat him and I didn’t care about him one bit. I cared about Sarah.” I sense him staring at the ceiling. “See, Cameron. The only things I care about in this life are me, you, Mum, Dad, Steve, and Sarah. And maybe Miffy. The rest of the world means nothing to me. The rest of the world can rot.”
“Am I like that too?”
“You? No way.” There’s a slight gap in his words. “And that’s your problem. You care about everything.”
He’s right.
I do.
CHAPTER 4
Mum’s cooking pea soup now. It’ll last us about a week, which is okay. I can think of worse meals.
“Top-notch soup,” Rube tells her after it’s swallowed on Wednesday night. Miffy night.
“Well, there’s more where that came from,” Mum answers.
“Yeah,” Rube laughs,
and everyone else is pretty quiet.
Steve and Dad have just argued about Dad going on the dole. The silence is slippery. It’s dangerous, as I go over what was said:
“I won’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s below my dignity.”
“Like hell it is. You’re even knockin’ on doors like a pathetic Boy Scout offering vacuuming and dusting for fifty cents apiece.” Steve glares. “And it’d be nice to pay our bills on time,” which is when Dad’s fist comes down on the table.
“No,” and that’s pretty much it.
Know that my father will not be bent easily. He will die fighting if he has to.
Steve tries a different tactic. “Mum?”
“No,” is her response, and now it’s final for sure.
No dole. No deal.
I feel like saying something about it when we walk Miffy later on, but Rube and I are concentrating too hard on not being noticed by anyone to say anything. Even later, there is no conversation in our room. We both sleep hard and wake up without knowing that this is Rube’s day — the day that will change everything. Short and sweet.
It’s after school.
It waits.
Outside our front gate.
“Can we talk inside?” a rough bloke asks us. He leans on the gate, not realizing it could fall apart any minute (although he doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would care). He is unshaven and wears a jeans jacket. He has a tattoo on his hand. He puts the question to us again, with just a “Well?”
Rube and I stare.
At him.
At each other.
“Well, for starters,” Rube says in the windy street, “who the hell are y’?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” says the guy in his thick city accent. “I’m a guy who can either change your life or smack it into the ground for bein’ smart.”
We decide to listen.
Needless to say it.
He continues with, “I’ve heard a rumor that you can fight.” He is motioning to Rube. “I have sources at my disposal that never lie, and they say that you gave someone a good caning.” “So?”
Straight to the point now. “So I want you to fight for me. Fifty dollars for a win. A decent tip for a loss.” “I think you’d better come inside.” Rube knows.
This could be interesting.
No one else is home so we sit at the kitchen table and I make the guy coffee even though he says he wants a beer. Even if we did have beer, I wouldn’t give it to this guy. He’s arrogant. He’s abrasive, and worst of all, he’s likable, which always makes a guy difficult to deal with. See, when someone’s strictly an awful person, they’re easy to get rid of. It’s when they make you like them as well that they’re hard to contain. Throw likable in and anything can happen. It’s a lethal combination.
“Perry Cole.”
That’s his name. It sounds familiar, but I shrug it off.
“Ruben Wolfe,” says Rube. He points at me. “Cameron Wolfe.” Both Rube and I shake hands with Perry Cole. The tatt is of a hawk. Real original.
One thing about the guy is that he doesn’t muck around. He talks to you and he isn’t afraidan close, even if his coffee breath reeks like hell. He explains everything straight out. He talks of steady violence, organized fights, raids from police, and everything else that his business involves.
“See,” he explains with that succinct, violent voice of his, “I’m part of an organized boxing racket. All through winter, we have fights every Sunday afternoon at four different places in the city. One’s a warehouse out the back of Glebe, which is my home arena. One’s a meat factory over at Maroubra. One’s a warehouse in Ashfield, and there’s a pretty decent ring way down south on some guy’s farm at Helensburgh.” When he speaks, spit fires from his tongue and sticks to the corner of his mouth. “Like I said — you get fifty dollars if you win a fight. You might get a tip if y’ lose. People pay in like you wouldn’t believe. I mean, you’d think they’d have better things to do on a Sunday afternoon and evening, but they don’t. They’re sick of football and all that other garbage. They pay five bucks to get in and see up to six fights into the night. Five rounds each and we’ve had some good fights. We’re a few weeks into this season, but I reckon I’ve got room for you…. If you feel like going to
one of the other guys who run a team, you’ll get the same deal. If you fight well, we’ll give you enough money to scrape by, and I myself get rich off the way you fight. That’s how it is. You wanna do it?”
Rube hasn’t shaved today so he rubs his spiky beard, in thought. “Well, how the hell do I get to all the fights? How’m I gonna get back from Helensburgh on a Sunday night?”
“I’ve got a van.” Easy. “I got a van and I cram all my fighters in. If you get hurt, I don’t take you to a doctor. That’s not in the service. If you get killed, your family buries you, not me.”
“Ah, stop bein’ a tosser,” Rube tells him, and all laugh, especially Perry. He likes Rube. I can tell. People like someone who says what they think. “If you die …” My brother imitates him.
“One guy came close once,” Perry assures him, “but it was a warmer than usual night. It was heat exhaustion and it was only a mild stroke. A heavyweight.”
“Oh.”
“So,” Perry smiles. “You want in?” “I d’know. I’ve gotta discuss it with my management.”
“Who’s your management?” Perry smiles and motions to me with a nod. “It’s not this little pansy here, is it?”
“He ain’t no pansy.” Rube points a finger at him. “He’s a cream puff.” Then he gets serious. “Actually, he might be a bit skinny, but he can stand up all right, I tell you,” which shocks me. Ruben L. Wolfe, my brother, is sticking up for me.
“Is that right?”
“It is…. You can check us out if you want. We’ll just have us a game of One Punch in the backyard.” He looks to me. “We’ll just climb over and g Miffy so he doesn’t start barking. He likes watching when he’s in our yard, doesn’t he?”
“He loves it.” I can only agree. It’s being on the other side of the fence that offends old Miffy. He’s gotta be closer to the action, where he can see what’s going on. That’s when everything’s apples. He either watches contentedly or gets bored and goes to sleep.
“Who the hell’s Miffy?” Perry asks, confused.
“You’ll see.”
Rube, Perry, and I stand up and proceed to the backyard. We put the gloves on, Rube climbs the fence and hands Miffy to me over the top, and One Punch is about to happen. By the look on Perry’s face, I can tell he’ll appreciate it.
We each wear our solitary boxing glove, but Miffy the Pomeranian is demanding attention and pats. We both crouch down and pat the midget dog. Perry watches. He looks like the kind of guy who would dropkick a dog like this from here to eternity. As it turns out, he isn’t.
“The dog’s an embarrassment,” Rube explains to him, “but we have to look out for ‘im.”
“Come ‘ere, fella.” Perry holds out his fingers for the dog to sniff and Miffy likes him immediately. He sits next to him as Rube and I start our game of One Punch.
Perry loves it.
He laughs.
He smiles.
He watches with curiosity when I hit the ground the first time.
He pats Miffy happily when I hit it the second time.
He claps when I get Rube a good one on the jaw. Just a good, solid clip.
After fifteen minutes we stop.
Rube says, “I told you, didn’t I?” and Perry nods.
“Show us a bit more,” he states calmly, “but swap gloves.” He looks like he’s thinking hard. Then he watches as Rube and I go at it again.
It’s tougher with the other glove. We both miss more, but slowly, we get into a rhythm. We circle the yard. Rube throws out his hand. I duck it. Swerve. Make my way in. I jab. Hit his chin. Shoot one at his ribs. He counterpunches. His breath is stern as he stabs his fist through my cheekbone, then gets me in the throat.
“Sorry.”
“Okay.”
We resume.
He gets one under my ribs and I can’t breathe. A yelp escapes from under my breath. Rube stands. So do I, but crooked. “Finish him off,” Perry tells him. Rube does it.
When I wake up, the first thing I se Miffy’s dog-ugly face pressed into mine. Then I see Perry, smiling. Then I see Rube, worried.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
“Good.”
When they get me back up, we all walk back into the kitchen and Rube and Perry sit down. I slump down. I feel like death warmed up. A strip of green flanks my vision. Static reaches through my ears.
Perry motions to the fridge. “Y’ sure you don’t have a beer?”
“Are you an alcoholic or somethin’?”
“I just like a beer now and then.”
“Well.” Rube is forthright. “We don’t have one.” He’s a bit upset about knocking me unconscious, I can tell. I remember him saying, The only things I care about in this life …
Perry decides to get back down to business. What he says is a shock. It’s this:
“I want both of y’s.”
Rube sniffs, with surprise, and rubs his nose.
Perry looks now at Rube and says, “You …” He smiles. “You can fight, all right. That’s a fact.” Then he looks at me. “And you’ve got heart…. See, one thing I didn’t go into detail about before was the tips. People throw money into the ring corners if they think you’ve got heart, and … it’s Cameron, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you’ve got it in spades.”
Trying not to, I smile. Damn guys like Perry. You hate them, but they still make you smile.
“So what will happen is this.” He looks at Rube. “You’re gonna win fights and you’ll be popular because you’re fast and young and you’ve got a rough but somehow attractive head.”
I look at my brother now as well. I examine him, and it’s true. He is good-looking, but in a strange way. It’s sudden, rough, rugged. A wayward kind of handsome that’s more around him than on him. It’s more of a feeling, or an aura.
Perry looks now at me. “And you? You’ll most likely get hammered, but if you keep clean enough and stay off the ropes, you’ll get close to twenty bucks in tips, ‘cause people will see your heart.”
“Thanks.”
“No need for thanking. These are facts.” No more time-wasting. “So do you want in or not?”
“I don’t know about my brother,” Rube admits to him, with caution. “He can take a beating in the backyard, but that’s different to taking it week in week out by some guy who wants to kill him.”
“He’ll fight someone new each week.”
“So what?”
“Most of ‘em are good fighters but some are dead average. They’re just desperate for the money.” He shrugs. “Y’ never know. The kid might win a few.”
“What are the other dangers?”
“In general?”
“Yes.”
“They’re these.” He makes the list. “Rough guys watch the fights and if you back out of a bout they might kill y’. Some nice girls come along with these guys and if you touch ‘em those guys might kill y’. Last year, some cops were getting close to raiding an old factory we were using in Petersham. If they catch y’, they’ll kill y’. So if that happens, run.” He’s pretty happy with himself, especially for the last one: “The biggest danger, though, is leaving me in the lurch. If you do it, I’ll kill y’, and that’s worse than all the others put together.”
“Fair enough.”
“You wanna think about it?”
“Yeah.”
To me: “How ‘bout you?” “Me too.”
“Right,” and he stands up, handing us his phone number. It’s written on a piece of torn cardboard. “You’ve got four days. Ring me on Monday night at seven sharp. I’ll be home.”
Rube has two more questions.
The first: “What if we join and then wanna quit?”
“Up until August, you have to give me two weeks’ notice or find someone to take your place. That’s all. People quit all the time because it’s a rough game. I understand. Just two weeks’ notice or three legitimate names of blokes that can fight well. They’re everywhere.
No one’s irreplaceable. If you make it to August, you’ve gotta finish the season, into September, when the semifinals are on. See, we do a draw, a competition ladder, the lot. We have finals and everything, with more money in ‘em.”
The second question: “What weight divisions will we fight in?”
“You’ll both be in lightweight.”
This triggers a question in me.
“Will we ever fight each other?”
“Maybe, but the chance is pretty slight. Once in a while, fighters from the same team have to fight each other. It does happen. You got a problem with that?”
“No really.” It’s Rube who says it.
“Me neither.”
“Well why’d y’ ask?”
“Just curious.”
“Any more questions?”
We think.
“No.”
“Good,” and we see Perry Cole out of our house. On the front porch, he reminds us. “Remember, you’ve got four days. Ring me Monday night at seven with yes or no. I’ll be unhappy if you don’t ring — and I’m not someone you want unhappy with you.”
“All right.”
He leaves.
We watch him get into his car. It’s an old Holden, done up well, and it must be worth a bit. He must be rolling in money to have both his van and this car. It’s money earned off desperates like us.
Once back inside, we hang around with Miffy, feeding him some bacon fat. Nothing. Not yet. Miffy just rolls around and we pat his stomach. I go to our room to try and find out once and for all what stinks in there. It’s not going to be pretty.
“Yes, I’m awake.”
“How’d y’ know I was gonna ask?”
“You always do.”
“I found out what the smell was.”
“And?”
“Remember when we got that job lot of onions from the fruit shop?”
“What? The ones my mates stole? Last Christmas?”
“Yeah.”
“That was six bloody months ago!”
“A few strays must have got out of the bag. They were under my bed, in the corner, all disgusting and rotten.”
“Oh, man.”
“Damn right. I chucked ‘em in the compost, up near the back fence.”
