by Peter Corris
“You know Jimmy?” I was desperate, using Sunday’s name as a talisman.
He moved closer and from the way he moved I could tell that he wasn’t planning to waste any more breath on words. It wasn’t a negotiable situation. I wished I had Carlo’s blackjack. The glass in my hand felt as useless as a yo-yo. His eyes under heavy bushy brows were focused on my hands and feet the way every bar-room heavyweight knows to do. To hell with the look in the eyes — if you know your business that’s going to be fear. I slid along the bar just to stop myself from freezing up and to give him a moving target. But I had to stop somewhere and I did so where the bar met the wall. I let him get within punching distance and made a shaping-up gesture with about as much threat in it as a pas-de-deux. His punch came in hard and fast but he was a little bound up by fat and I leaned away from it. He lost balance for a fraction of a second and I clipped him on the ear as hard as I could while on the retreat. If I thought that’d win me a little respect I was wrong; he rushed at me like a bull crowding a matador into a barrio. He half-caught me but I twisted free and ground my elbow into the same ear. It didn’t seem to bother him; he circled with his arms outstretched and seemed to cut off half the room.
I backed away and cornered myself again over by the table where the elders had been playing cards. I stumbled against a chair and he came forward and threw a right at my belly. He was more than half a foot shorter than me and the punch was straight and full-forced. I rode back from it a bit but it knocked wind out of me and jellied my legs. He came on and I cocked my right for a haymaker to the head. He couldn’t have cared less and kept coming. I braced myself and swung my foot short and hard up into his crotch. He doubled over. He’d expected a fancy fist fight and I didn’t give him a chance to correct his mistake. I shuffled fast and delivered the foot again to the same spot. He started to crumble and I bunched my fingers and drove into his fleshy neck below the ear. I felt the muscle under the skin resist and then the knuckle bit into the veins and cartilage. He dropped in a heap and crashed his head on a table edge on the way down. As he fell, the breath wheezed out of him and I had a flash of memory about the sound. It was like the noise I’d heard in the car in the split second before my head caved in.
Williams hadn’t moved from the door. I eased my way out from the table and went across to the bar. I reached over it and pulled up a schooner glass which I filled with beer from the tap-gun the woman had left lying on the rusty tray. I took a deep drink and waited for my heart to settle back to a normal pace. Tommy was lying with his feet drawn up to his bulging belly. I set the glass down next to him. His eyes were open and he was concentrating everything he had on his pain. His dark skin had a yellowish tinge and some veins had broken in the whites of his eyes making them a murky pink. The harsh breath was coming regularly but with enormous effort. I was safe from him for at least ten minutes. A sound behind me made me turn as the barmaid came through her door at the back of the bar. She stared down at the man on the floor and then up at me with a new respect.
“Jesus,” she breathed. “What did you hit him with?”
“This.” I held up my fist which was swollen from the neck-punch and bleeding around the knuckles from the earlier tap.
“Jesus, do you know who that is?”
I looked at him again and tried to imagine him years younger and without the fat, as a chunky welterweight perhaps. But I couldn’t place him.
“No. Fighter was he?”
“That’s Tommy Jerome,” Williams said quietly.
I let out my breath in a whistle and felt back for the support of the bar. The jelly feeling had come back into my legs and I suddenly felt very, very tired. Tommy Jerome had killed two men in the ring and had beaten others so savagely that he’d run out of opponents. He was number one contender for the Australian welter and middleweight titles for a couple of years but he never got a shot at the titles because no fight manager wanted his meal ticket wrecked that badly. The championships changed hands a couple of times while Jerome sat there at number one. I’d read that he’d gone to England and lost a few fights there which could have only one explanation. That was ten or more years ago and he’d gone to seed badly. Still, I was glad I hadn’t known who he was before I hit him.
“I got lucky,” I said to the barmaid. “He thought I’d fight fair.”
“Lucky? Fair or unfair, you’re lucky to still have teeth.” She lit a cigarette and looked across at Williams. If it was a challenge he wasn’t taking it up. There’d been enough talking, now I had to get something done. I reached for my change on the bar and detached two dollars. I went around the bar and made her a gin and tonic and pulled a middy for Williams. I gave them the drinks and dropped the money on the till. There was a rattle at the locked door but we ignored it. Neither Williams nor the barmaid was happy with the situation but they seemed to have run out of ideas. They took the drinks.
“Right. Now I want Jimmy Sunday. Where is he?”
They drank but didn’t answer.
“Look,” I said to Williams. “I gave you a wrong name. OK, I’m sorry but I had reasons. Get Sunday here and you’ll see what I mean.” I jerked my thumb at Jerome who was lying crumpled and still. “What do I have to do, eat his kidney fat?”
“I’ll get Jimmy for you.” The barmaid moved off to the phone.
“Where is he?”
“Sharkey’s.”
“Call him.”
She did. A voice came on the line and I grabbed the phone. Sunday didn’t sound surprised to hear me and said he’d come straight down to the pub. The barmaid had picked up a cloth and begun polishing glasses. She was humming “Get me to the church on time”. I went over and slid down the door bolt and opened the door. Sunday was jogging easily down the street and I stood back with the door open and waved him in. The barmaid flicked some money out of my change and pulled a beer. She slid it along the counter to Sunday who grabbed it and went over to look at Jerome. He’d straightened up a bit and was trying to prop his back against the wall. He made it and massaged his crotch with both hands. A vein was throbbing hard in his forehead and there were bubbles of saliva at the corner of his mouth. I stepped quietly across and handed him the two-thirds-full schooner. He wrapped a big, dark hand around it and lifted it to his mouth.
“This is the guy who bashed me the other night,” I said to Sunday. “He came back for a second go and got careless.” I took Sunday by the arm and steered him to a chair. I got the makings out, made a cigarette and put the tobacco on the table like a peace offering. “Now, you tell me what’s going on around here,” I waved to indicate the room and the world outside, “and I’ll tell you what’s going on in here.” I rapped my bleeding knuckles against the side of my head.
Sunday looked at my fist and took a long pull on his beer. “Silly bastard Tommy,” he said. “I told him you were alright.”
“You’re a fuckin’ Uncle Tom, Jimmy,” Jerome rasped out from his position against the wall. “Always were.”
“Will you knock it off,” I snarled. “Jimmy, can you tell me what all this heavy stuff is in aid of?”
Sunday mused for a second, then lifted his hand. “Sadie, four beers and a drink for yourself. You’ve got a say in this. Come on over here.” He reached into his pocket. The barmaid got the drinks and carried them over on a tin tray. She asked Jerome if he could get up.
“Yeah, if I have to.” He pulled himself up from the wall and eased his bulk into a chair. I reached down for the schooner and put it on the table. He drained it in a gulp. He still hadn’t spoken to me. Sadie distributed the drinks and Sunday roiled a cigarette from my makings.
“Ever heard of a bloke named Coluzzi?” he asked me.
“Heard of him and met him,” I said.
“Doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Jerome muttered. Sadie hushed him. “Let him talk.”
Sunday drew in smoke and gagged on it. “Shit, this stuff’s terrible. Well, this Coluzzi’s trying to take over the fights. Reckons he can get boxing back on
TV. Whole thing’s been very quiet lately.”
“Yes,” I said, “since that Yank was killed.”
Sunday nodded. “Right, well we’re all for more fights, but we hear this dago wants to set it up all his way.”
“He told me he wanted to match Italians and Aborigines. Good for the gate.”
“Yeah,” Jerome snorted, “how many do you reckon the Kooris’d win?”
“He was vague on that point,” I admitted.
“I’ll bet he was,” Sadie spat. “I’ve got a son, he’s just starting in clubs, they tell me he’s good.”
Jerome and Sunday nodded solemnly.
“I hate bloody boxing,” Sadie went on. “I reckon it’s ruined more good men than anything except the war. Still, my Chris’s dead keen on it and I want him to get a fair go. He’ll have to lose more’n he’ll win if this Coluzzi gets hold of it.”
“It’s nothin’ new,” Jerome said bitterly. “Everyone has to throw a few on the way up . . . used to, anyway. I threw ‘em on the way down.”
“That’s right Tommy,” Sunday said soothingly. “That’s why it’s got to change, especially now.”
“Jacko Moody,” I said.
They nodded and everyone drank. It was like a salute but not a cheerful one.
“Jacko’s a champion for sure,” Sunday said. “You’d agree with that?”
“With luck and good management, yes.”
“He’s fucked before he starts if Coluzzi gets him,” Jerome said.
“He hasn’t got a contract has he? He’s barely out of the prelims.”
“He’s barely out of the bush too,” Sunday spoke slowly. “He’s got a sort of contract with Trueman, he signed something. He was so anxious to get into the game he did what Trueman told him. He doesn’t know exactly what he agreed to. What’s sure is that Trueman’s in with Coluzzi and he’ll do a deal on Jacko if the money’s right.”
“So will this bastard,” Jerome grunted.
I slammed my glass onto the table top. “Well let’s talk about that! What brought you down on me Jerome?”
Jerome knocked back some of his beer and scowled at me across the table. Physically he was almost a monster but his brain appeared to be working well enough. He held up thick fingers with enormously broad nails as he made the points.
“You were at Trueman’s gym when Coluzzi was there and you stopped a row. You lied about who you were to Ted here and one of Coluzzi’s boys escorted you out of Redfern. Then you fuckin’ come down here pokin’ around and looking for Ricky. I didn’t trust him either. That was enough for me. You admit you know Coluzzi.”
“I can explain it,” I said, “but it’s a long story and not much of it is to do with what we’re talking about now.”
“Double bloody Dutch,” Jerome growled.
“Easy Tommy,” Sunday said, “I told you this Hardy was alright, you didn’t need to bash him.”
“You wouldn’t take me like that again Hardy.”
“I know I wouldn’t Jerome. But if we can get over all that we could do something useful about this fight business.” I could feel the racial disharmony mounting and the need for some practical, immediate proposal to deflate it. I’d been ready to sell Coluzzi out the minute I was sure I could get away from him alive. This was a bit earlier than I’d have chosen and it was hard work dealing with a hot-head like Jerome. Sunday was in better control of himself though and I felt I could work something out with him.
“We can do our own planning,” Jerome said.
“Sure you can, but could you get Coluzzi and his mob in a particular place at a particular time?”
“No way,” Sadie put in. “Those dagoes are dead scared of our boys. They carry guns, too.”
“OK, OK,” Sunday said impatiently. “We’d have trouble getting close enough to Coluzzi to smell the garlic. What’s your idea?”
“I’ll look into Trueman’s connections with Coluzzi and if there’s anything in that I’ll give it to Tickener. He’ll screw them in the paper. And I’ll set up a meeting with Coluzzi and have Jerome and a few others along, that should be fun.”
“It sounds a bit fancy to me,” Jerome said.
“Yeah, it’s fancier than hitting people over the head with boomerangs, but where did that ever get anyone?”
Sadie laughed. “Drink up and I’ll shout. I reckon it sounds alright. Jimmy?”
Sunday and I drained our glasses. Sadie and Williams did the same. Sadie put them on the tin tray.
“I’m on,” Sunday said quietly. “Ted?”
“Me too. I’ll go and see Jacko and word him up a bit. He’s a nervy bastard Jacko and he’s worried about this Rosso.”
“Why?” I asked. “He can beat him.”
“I reckon, but he says Trueman’s teaching him some trick or something.” Williams’ voice trailed off vaguely.
“Sounds fishy,” Sunday muttered. “Jacko wouldn’t need any tricks to take the Italian.”
Sadie came back with the drinks. Jerome grabbed his and downed it in two swallows.
“It’ll be the death of you Tommy,” Sadie said.
Jerome wiped his mouth. “Yeah, what a pity. Well, I gotta go.”
With a little imagination I could include myself in the farewell. I decided to and to follow it up.
“Before you go, can you tell me why you don’t trust Ricky Simmonds?”
“Don’t?”
“Slip of the tongue. Didn’t, then?”
Jerome looked at our faces in turn and let his eyes rest on mine. Then he shook his head. “I’m not talking personal about one of ours to you Hardy. You might be alright like Jimmy says — we’ll see.” Pain shot through him and he winced as he stood up. He kept himself straight though and walked out of the pub. The door slammed behind him and Sunday let out a long, relieved breath.
“It’s lucky you’re a good talker Hardy,” he said. “Wouldn’t have fancied your chances in a re-match.”
“You’re so right.” We drank and didn’t say anything for a few minutes. The door opened and two men came in brushing water off their clothes and swearing about the weather. Sadie got up and went behind the bar to serve them. I could hear the swish of tyres on the road outside. The fine day had caved in, the way it can in Sydney, in a few minutes, without warning.
14
I signalled to Sadie for another round. “This’ll do me,” I said. “I’ve got things on tonight, I can’t be pissed.”
Sunday nodded, then he tapped himself on the forehead.
“Got a message for you. Forgot with all this boxin’ business going on. From Fenny. She wanted to get in touch with you. Reckoned she saw Noni.”
“Where?”
“I dunno. Not around here. Penny moved out the other night and went into town somewhere. She phoned me and wanted to talk to you. She’d forgotten your last name. I said you’d be in the book. Are you?”
I didn’t answer. Sadie came with the beer and I drank automatically although thirst had long since been defeated. It sounded odd, help from an unexpected quarter at this stage of the game. Again I got the feeling that events were being stage-managed, directed from on high but why and by whom I didn’t know. Noni on the loose fitted in with the feeling I had that she wasn’t in direct danger, but the further involvement of Penny I hadn’t anticipated. Images of the two girls, black and white, formed in my mind. The black girl, young and clean, nursing a corroding hate of the white girl with the murky past. Sunday snapped his fingers in front of my face.
“Hey! Hey Hardy! You there man?”
I came out of it. “Yes. Just thinking. Did she say where she’d seen her? Noni?”
“No, we didn’t chat. Seemed like it was just then, this morning about ten, but that was just a feeling. Listen, you’ve got to take it easy with Penny, Hardy.”
“What do you mean?”
He drank some beer and pulled on his thin cigarette. It burned fiercely and unevenly down one side and he flicked the ash off into a beer puddle. Williams was sitt
ing massive and still beside him. I thought I had never seen a man so passive but it was a menacing passivity, like a reservoir of emotion, dammed up, able to be burst.
“Penny’s got a lot of guts, you know?” Sunday said jerkily. “She’s real determined. Anything she wants she goes after and nothin’ stops her. Some people down here say she’s a bit cracked.”
“I could see she was out of the ordinary. Why cracked though?”
He leaned back in his chair and expelled smoke through the battered gristle and bone that had once been a nose. My feeling was that Sunday saw himself as a leader, a wise and respected man, and was building up that role little by little every day. That was the way it was done and one mistake could ruin it all. He knew me for what I was, a functionary, a weapon of white society and he wanted to keep me trained on my own kind, but he needed to reveal a little of what he knew to hold me that way.
“Down here there’s three kinds, much the same as up in town. There’s the ones that don’t give shit. Just get pissed, do what they have to do and die. There’s the whingers and bludgers who moan about bein’ black and disadvantaged and do fuck all about it. Then there’s the goers who try to change things, don’t piss their brains away, don’t whinge.”
“You’re a goer?”
“Bloody oath I am. Penny is too, but in a different way. She’s a bit of a loner, reckoned she wouldn’t take any government money. Make it on her own then hit the whites for everything she could, that was her idea. She was starting to study law. Get the idea?”
“I think so. Why do you talk as if this was all in the past?”
“Well, that’s the trouble. She used to go on with all this stuff, get people’s backs up too, but a lot knew she was talking sense. Then she fell for Ricky . . . bad — you know? And Ricky’s nothing special, bit of a no-hoper like his Dad. Penny reckoned she could reform him but he didn’t pay any attention, and people laughed at her then. I mean Ricky just didn’t fit in with Penny’s ideas about life. That made Penny crazy on the subject of Noni. You probably saw that yourself?”
