Burning Down

by Venero Armanno

  His papi indicated the receiver in his hand. ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘But the problem’s too big.’

  ‘So we negotiate.’

  ‘The time for negotiating’s over.’

  ‘Who says it is?’

  ‘They do, Papi.’

  ‘And I just told you—if you make yourself available, men like that will come for you. If you open your door, who can you blame when they walk in? And if you let them lead you by the nose, all you can do is follow. I don’t follow.’

  Bobby tried to think the entire equation through; he still saw no solution.

  ‘You can’t ignore this.’

  ‘I’m making plans. Now get out so I can call Junior and fix this extra mess you’ve made.’

  Bobby felt his head literally pound with confusion. The only thing one hundred percent clear? This cheap ring in his hand, and its message.

  Wait, Sissy wasn’t rostered on until the evening shift. He looked at his watch. She was in that flat alone.

  Fuck.

  Bobby left his father standing there with that receiver in his hand, finger over the dial. He shut the office door behind him, yet before he started out of the bistro he went to the main telephone at the reception desk. It was next to the cash register and bookings journal. There were two lines: the bistro’s and the one in Papi’s office. If his father was using the line, that second light ought to be on. It wasn’t. Both lights were out. He waited, staring at it.

  Come on. Come on. Call Junior and put things right.

  Bobby lifted the receiver. Don Paulo watched as he pressed the line button for the first and then the second. Both as dead as dead could be.

  ‘And if you let them lead you by the nose, all you can do is follow. I don’t follow.’

  In his heart, in his mind, just about inside his very soul, Bobby didn’t think he could take one more moment of this.

  His father wasn’t calling anyone.

  …

  Even when things seem bad, and the news is worse, there are such great things in the world, simple as a collection of words.

  I love you.

  Here is your new baby.

  Smokin’ Charlie wins on all judges’ cards.

  No, that one’s stupid and tainted the way the first two can’t be, but this is just about perfect: ‘Charlie, let’s sit in the shade.’

  As he waited to see the GP in Kulari, he was thinking about the sound of Holly’s voice and the way her eyes looked. She had asked him to knock off for the day and get himself looked at. For once he saw the sense in that, so here he was in the early afternoon. Soon Dr Singh examined him.

  ‘Possible capsulitis. More common than you’d expect, especially in women.’

  Affront? At this news, sheer mortification. Charlie couldn’t get out of Dr Singh’s office fast enough.

  ‘I’ll refer you to a specialist. Dr Tetley-Barber. Heart’s all right?’

  Dr Singh’s receptionist called on his behalf and made Charlie’s appointment the next day. Okay, fine. He’d get himself checked then forget this rubbish. He started home, but for once that lonely seclusion just didn’t feel right. It was crazy. He wanted to see Holly again—and he knew there was no Mr Banks to glare at him. The man had left the family home. The four-door Toyota wasn’t there. Every morning Holly or Ricky came out on their own, and he’d seen Holly walk off to catch a bus whenever she needed to go out.

  Not to mention a sadness in her face, not quite hidden.

  A simple collection of words, all right.

  ‘Charlie, let’s sit in the shade.’

  Or more likely: ‘We’ve all got a secret crush somewhere.’

  There was still plenty of the day left. Why waste it? His shoulder problem was going to stay the same whatever he did. He turned the ute around and started the drive back to Holly’s, not quite believing he was actually doing it. As he went, the Muddy Waters blues from the cassette deck couldn’t stop him imagining what might happen if he really did have something serious. Was it possible he mightn’t be able to work any more? His will, it needed looking at, right? Come the weekend he’d update it with a proper address for Sistine. Her old address with Tracy was still there, and Tracy was still listed as the person responsible for Sissy’s inheritance until she turned twenty-one. The house and its furnishing, the ute and his equipment, a small amount of savings in the bank—Sissy could use it all. Then there was something you couldn’t put in a will and that he’d have to handle direct. How and when? That part was trouble, and poor Tracy might turn in her grave.

  Easier was stuff for the kids he trained. They’d have his old boxing gear and everything he’d purchased since. He’d already given his crew plenty so he might as well think about the final clean-out.

  ‘Charlie, let’s sit in the shade.’

  Then again, he wasn’t dead yet, and this thing with his shoulder might just be a short-term problem. One hundred percent recovery. Of course. He was thinking ahead for no reason at all.

  The ute rattled to a stop in its usual place, off that main road and just up the Bankses’ driveway. Maybe the most useful thing to do would be to set things up. He forced himself to ignore his arm and shoulder pain and stacked new bricks and blocks delivered from the foundry in Darra. He carried heavy bags of cement from the driveway where they’d been dropped off into the yard next to his mixer.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow.’ He liked that smile on Holly’s face. No sadness right now. She didn’t look wan. ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘He gave me a referral.’

  Then, later, Ricky was home too, school day done. The boy wanted to move things for him.

  ‘How about we do it together?’

  They kept busy until the sun was moving into the horizon.

  ‘How old were you when started doing this, Mr Smoke?’

  ‘It was at the end of my boxing so I was already getting on.’

  ‘Did someone have to show you?’

  ‘Course. And I had a real expert too. In Italian we call someone like that the maistru. It means “teacher”, or close enough.’

  ‘It sounds like “maestro”.’

  ‘Huh, that’s better.’

  ‘So where do you want these, Maestro Smoke?’

  Charlie had to smile at that: Yeah, me, a master of bricks and concrete and nothing else.

  ‘Can you manage one big pile there? No Leaning Tower of Pisa.’

  He wondered if his real intention was obvious. Would Holly understand that he’d come back just so he could be near her again? She’d returned inside. Maybe she was making her boy dinner.

  ‘These ones here, be careful, they’re heavier than they look.’

  So Ricky, he was chunky, but he had determination—good determination. Back in the old days Charlie had seen plenty just like him. Troubled but otherwise strong-minded boys intent on turning themselves from what they were into what they could be. Had Charlie been one of them? He was never too sure. His father used to whip him on. Without that man’s bitter resolve he might never have entered a ring and might never have thought to keep entering it.

  ‘Hey, you two, time to come up here.’

  Holly was calling them to the house. Under the poinciana she had an evening pot of tea. A freshly baked orange cake as well. When she was distracted and the boy was doing something else, Charlie let his eyes quickly take her in. Another very light summer dress, bare arms and calves, her hair the colour of the sun, falling to her shoulders.

  ‘How does a boxer move, Maestro, how does he punch?’

  ‘You sure?’

  They were on their feet.

  ‘First thing worth remembering is that your jab is king. Mine’s a long way down the royal line at the moment, got this problem with my left, but this is how it starts.’

  At least he co
uld show Ricky how to turn his torso and extend his arm, chin tucked into his shoulder nice and tight.

  ‘Now, you put that fist up into your opponent’s face. That’s your jab, your lead. Even without hitting him you’re getting damage done.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’re making the guy blink, distracting him so he’s not quite seeing what comes behind your jab.’

  ‘Like throwing mud on his glasses?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Charlie laughed. ‘So go ahead, throw some mud. You won’t hit me.’

  The boy’s young fist, white-knuckled with tension.

  ‘Relax or you’ll burn out. You’ll go lots of rounds so you need to stay cool all the way.’

  And that fist did relax, the boy getting it. With the subtlest moves Charlie made the boy’s jabs miss him. There was no pain on his left side when all he needed was to twitch his head.

  ‘So there’s one secret.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘How to make your jab really fast.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Don’t put your concentration on how hard or how quick you can push it out. Instead, try to pull it back like this.’ Charlie snapped his fingers. ‘Out—and back faster than a rabbit. Try it. Here’s my hand. Hit my palm. Fast. Faster. Pull it back faster.’

  Pop. Pop-pop-pop.

  ‘You caught on to that.’

  The kid, barely breathing hard, enjoying himself.

  ‘Now you catch these, Ricky.’

  So Ricky held up his own hands, and now man and boy played a training game old as the sport itself, one person lightly catching or smacking away the other person’s punches, then doing that in reverse.

  ‘Good, you’re doing good. Now fists under your chin, you’re going to make me miss by twitching your head just a tiny bit. No pulling yourself backwards. My fist has to pass your face.’

  This was the toughest part for any beginner, even for experienced fighters, to have to lose the natural reaction to shy away. You had to be confident that you could make your opponent miss. You let that punch sail this side or that side of your head, or you ducked and weaved, got yourself low for your counter. Charlie remembered his beginner’s days with some kindly guy in a ring, some real boxer. These were the men who had no flash about them, who always liked training newcomers. Ten rounds and maybe a green kid like Charlie wouldn’t be able to touch a boxer like that even once, much less land a punch. A long exercise in control, of controlling your frustration, of not losing your proper technique and going sailing in with desperate flurries that would only leave you open to being knocked cold. Meanwhile, young Charlie would feel gloves popping away at his body and head, everything striking, yet always gently.

  So Ricky liked this part. He liked it a lot. Maybe Holly did too; she watched in rapt attention. The light was fading. Street lamps came on. Charlie felt his heart so full he danced the boy across the green yard. He stepped and chased and let Ricky do the same.

  ‘Left, three steps, keep facing me, never turn your back. Now right and a half-turn, follow how I do it. Come on, Ricky, that’s it, hey yeah, you’ve got it, you’ve got it …’

  ‘Hey, Mr Smoke, stop a second, stop, I want to ask you something.’

  The boy breathing hard now, happy, bending over with his hands on his thighs.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I joined a soccer team … Dad never let me. They’ve got weekend games. But we don’t have a car.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Mum and me. No car, so I can’t get there. Will you take me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘First game’s Sunday. Could we go together?’

  ‘What’s your mother say?’

  ‘You ask her.’

  Charlie stopped. He looked around. There she was, at her doorway, something like the aroma of baking or roasting rosemary and lemon wafting from inside the house. Holly wasn’t doing anything now, only watching the pair of them with eyes that might soothe any uneasy heart.

  He was holding a polystyrene cup of instant coffee in one hand and a white bread hotdog in the other, both purchased from a refreshment tent the parents had set up. Their barbecue wafted fragrant wisps skyward that smelled good enough, but that was about the only thing he could bring himself to like about the place.

  The two under-fifteen teams were the Saints and the Chiefs, the former on their local ground. The latter were visitors from an out-of-town prestige school that Charlie could imagine was expensive as hell. Thing was, with all the noise they made, parents from both sides appeared to be more into the game than the kids. From a grassy slope Charlie observed two distinct groups of adults. Neither appeared approachable; his utility truck had attracted attention, and not of the nice kind. But what Charlie really didn’t like was that Ricky had barely been acknowledged by his team, his so-called coach, or the parents giving their kids earnest last-minute instructions.

  Just to stand there made his stomach squirm. He wished Holly had come, but he guessed she would have hated it just as much as he did. Fact was, he’d spent the entire night before tossing and turning, experiencing an unfamiliar sense of excitement at the thought of spending this morning with her. Ricky would go off to play and Charlie could sit with Holly, almost as if it was a date. A crazy thought, but there you go.

  A secret crush can touch anyone.

  Yet when he’d arrived to collect them the look on Ricky’s face had told Charlie the boy had asked his mother to stay behind. Charlie had to hide his disappointment and find a smile from somewhere.

  Now, he dropped the sandwich into a bin and poured that bitter excuse for coffee into the grass. Parents were shouting. They seemed far too well dressed for a Sunday game. It was as if the real competition was off the field. Charlie had no experience with private schools or expensive cars, and poor Ricky stuck out like a sore thumb. Stocky where the other kids were sleek, he’d been dismissed to the outer reaches of the field—at least he wasn’t being yelled at from the sidelines.

  Meanwhile, the Saints coach stalked a sideline eating oranges and smoking cigarettes. Charlie kept watching Ricky so ridiculously back field that every now and then the boy wandered over to his goalie and exchanged a few words.

  A Chiefs player was fouled so badly his face ate grass and his legs twisted underneath him.

  ‘Ref! Look at that! Are you blind?’

  Parents took to the field. Crying, the boy limped off with the help of two dads. A substitute came on. There was no yellow or red card. The on-field referee let the run of play favour the Saints.

  ‘That’s it!’

  ‘Good call, Ref!’

  More cheers and hooting from the happy side. On the other, Chiefs parents booed. Not long after, the entire Chiefs team crumbled. Charlie wondered if he’d be able to bring himself to come to a game like this again, even if it was for Ricky.

  The Saints coach was by a large Esky, open to reveal fresh fruit, wrapped sandwiches, drinks and a bottle of beer. The game had another twenty minutes.

  ‘Hey, coach.’

  The face that turned toward Charlie was fleshy and unhappy. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s ten of your players having fun. How come it’s not eleven?’

  ‘You’re the new boy’s father, huh?’

  ‘Just a friend.’

  ‘Robbie’s not very good.’

  ‘Ricky.’

  ‘And he doesn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Why not let him learn?’

  ‘One day.’

  ‘Keep him in no-man’s land and there won’t be a “one day”. You’re killing whatever enthusiasm he’s got.’

  ‘That’s not on me. Them up there, they have the say.’

  ‘Ricky wants to try. I think you have to respect that.’

  ‘What I have to respect is how much those parents pay for tuition. Try f
ighting that, Mr Smoke.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  ‘“Killer Karl.” I was on the circuit, saw you plenty of times.’ He eyed Charlie to see what the years had made of him. ‘Karl Kennedy? You don’t remember me. Last fight of yours I saw was against Domingo. Never followed you after that.’

  Charlie looked away from the coach, occupied himself by observing those parents.

  ‘Great bunch, hey? Try working with them. Make the boxing crowds look tame.’

  ‘They’re very expressive.’

  ‘Eat your spleen if it’d help their kids.’

  ‘Why not give a chance to a kid who’s not one of them?’

  ‘Killer Karl’ sucked a molar. Then he gave a grin, mean-spirited as any Charlie had ever seen. As he walked away, Karl Kennedy, long distant from any killer he might once have been, brayed like a foghorn: ‘Sam! Swap with the new kid!’

  On the field, a striker looked around in dismay.

  ‘The rest of you!’

  The coach might as well have called for the team to pack up and give in, the Saints parents objected so loudly. Amid calls and complaints, the team switched key positions, Karl shepherding them around. For a moment Ricky was close enough that Charlie saw the grin on his face. He nodded encouragement, felt the pang of his own relief, and some weird reflected pain in his shoulder. Gesù and the Madonna, good news, bad news, it all stabbed the same.

  He spoke quietly: ‘Anticipate the ball like we do it at your place.’

  Ricky nodded and Charlie felt a kind of blessed relief that something was going the boy’s way. Holding his shoulder because of its new, heavy aching, he watched the game restart. Maybe Ricky’d get a run at the ball before the ref called time. Maybe he’d get a feel for what it was like to be in a genuine team. For the moment even Coach Karl appeared interested.

  With a kick the ball arced high, spinning, and in came two Chiefs players skidding along the grass. There was Ricky running in, that look of determination in his face, and—

  —and Charlie felt the heaviness make something like a twisting right turn into his chest. His left arm trembled and there was a crashing sound inside his head.

  This was something to fight against, and he did fight, but his balance went and then his senses were melting. The Smokin’ Charlie of old had to yield. He went down to one knee.