King of the Outback (Fight Card Book 6)

by Jack Tunney

  I was fighting back the tears. I refused to cry in front of everyone. At that moment, I wanted to give up boxing.

  “I don't wanna,” I said.

  “You don't want to what?” he asked.

  “Box no more.”

  “And why is that, Mr. McCann?”

  “Because I can't win.”

  “No, Mr. McCann, you don't want to win.”

  “I do. But how can I? You're bigger and stronger.”

  “Size has nothing to do with it. It's about attitude, skill and brains.”

  “I don't know what you mean.”

  “If you were fighting young Mickey Flynn,” Father Tim pointed at one of the younger boys, who was watching outside the ring, “would you step away from him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he's smaller than me.”

  “What if he had you in the corner?”

  “No way.”

  “Why not? What would you do?”

  “I'd fight my way out.”

  “How?”

  “I'd move forward...and...”

  And somehow I found myself doing it. Father Tim raised his gloves and I started swingin’ again. He threw a jab at me, but I worked my way inside and tied him up. I threw a few jabs at his midsection and started forcing him back.

  Now as an adult, I could see he let me win. It was a lesson. He was building up my confidence and teaching me to nut out a solution to my problem. I was now trying to pass on the same lesson to Tommy.

  When he fought Iron Bar, Tommy had allowed himself to get trapped and intimidated. Now I had to teach him to nut it out on his feet. It was a boxing lesson, but not necessarily one about speed or strength. It was about brains and heart – possibly two of the most under-rated organs in a boxer. Tommy had both, and I had to teach him how to use them.

  Tiny was banging away at Tommy, but despite his size he was still no real match for him. He wasn't quick enough. Tommy could slip the punches with a few quick moves, and duck and weave under Tiny's arms. Next thing you know, Tiny was turned inside out, and up against the ropes while Tommy banged away at him. For the usual bums Tommy came up against, this would have sufficed, but I suspected, not against Douglas.

  Iron Bar was watching on from the sidelines and could see Tommy had it too easy, and wasn't learning the lessons I was trying to teach.

  “Oy, Yack.”

  I turned and looked across at Iron Bar, leaning on the ropes.

  “What is it? I'm kinda busy right now.”

  “And I know it. Do you mind if I slip on the gloves and go a few rounds with Tommy? I think I can show him a thing or two.”

  I had to think about it for a second. Now, I didn't hold a grudge against Iron Bar for his first fight with Tommy. He fought honest, clean and hard. But he had still worked for Sanderson, and was tarred with the brush, as they say. He may have proved himself in the skirmish with Sanderson's boys, but this was different. I had been training most of these boys for five years or so and knew each of them inside out. But Iron Bar was something and someone new. I didn't know if I could trust him. But a gut instinct had me throw caution to the wind.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Within ten minutes, Iron Bar was gloved up, and I told Tiny to take a break. Then I explained to Iron Bar what I was trying to do.

  Iron Bar set to work with Tommy, and I hate to admit it, but it was almost beautiful to watch. The intensity level went up a few notches and Iron Bar really worked Tommy hard. He would corner him, forcing Tommy to outthink and outbox his way free. And if Tommy was slow about it, Iron Bar would give him a tap on the noggin to wake him up.

  The boys went at it for a good thirty minutes, which might not seem long unless you have done it. But when you were in a ring and someone was punching away at you, thirty minutes stretched in your mind to three hours. When you threw in the Outback heat, those hours become days. Bloody hard work.

  I was happy with the first workout, and I'd get the guys to go at it again later in the day, in the cool of the evening. And in Iron Bar, maybe I had found the perfect sparring partner. Someone who could get Tommy's brain operating like a real fighter, and not just some fighter in a traveling sideshow who whacked out bums for a living.

  * * * * *

  Next morning we were up early. Iron Bar had a hot brew in his hand, and was standing near the practice ring watching the sun come up. The sky was a garish slash of orange. It was already kinda of hot and humid.

  “Mornin',” I said as I sidled up with my own cup of coffee. Limehouse might have got himself busted up, but he could still make a decent brew.

  “Mornin',” Iron Bar said.

  “Gonna be a hot one.”

  “Sure is.”

  “I've been meanin' to have a chat with you.”

  “Sure. What about?”

  “You was with Sanderson a while, wasn't you?”

  “About two years. Why?”

  “What'd'ya know about this fella Jack Douglas, that Tommy's gonna fight?”

  “Not too much. He's known as Jumpin' Jack Douglas. Big guy.”

  “I thought he was one of Sanderson's fighters?”

  “He is.”

  “Then why don't you know him?”

  “He ain't one of the tent fighters. He's based in Sydney. I am guessing that's why Sanderson gave us two weeks. It wasn't so Tommy could get in shape, but it was so he could get his boy out here.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “See, out here, Sanderson may act like some big shot, but back in Sydney, he's just another second tier operator for the Society.”

  “The Society?”

  “They are this organized crime syndicate. They reckon Freddy Cumberland is the brains behind it all. They got their fingers in all sorts of pies. And I could be wrong, but I heard that they want to control all the tent boxing troupes too, so they have control of all the fighters and boxing in the country. As it stands, you old timers are all over the place and so damn obstinate that they figured it was easier to run you out of business.”

  I hated to admit it, but it sorta made sense. It had been Sanderson's game all along to bust up the boxing tent circuit. And if that was true, then there was more to this fight than just a boxing tent and a kangaroo. He had to crush Old Man Wheeler, and run him out of business.

  “But where does this Jack Douglas come into it?” I asked.

  “Sanderson also has a stable of professional fighters in Sydney. But he does what the Society tell him. If they tell him his boy has got to take a dive, he takes a dive. Douglas is supposed to be his best. And by best, I mean 'meanest'.”

  “I thought you were his meanest,” I joked.

  “Yeah right.” He smiled. “Na, see I actually believe in the sport. I'll get into a ring with anyone, and I'll give as good as I've got. That's all. I won't take a dive, and I won't take any cheap shots. But from what I hear, this Douglas is bad news. Bad as they come.”

  “Sanderson is a second-rate mongrel. It doesn't surprise me that he'd call in a ringer, but what I don't get is the kangaroo. Why is it so damn important to Sanderson?”

  Iron Bar half smirked as he downed the last of his brew.

  “Look, I dunno if this is true, but this is the story as I know it. Do you remember Oscar and Gwen Reardon?”

  “Yeah, the Reardons. I remember them. Old Oscar used to run a boxing troupe along the North of New South. Retired about three years ago when his wife, Gwen, took crook. Her hip went and she couldn't walk.”

  “Yep. That's him. Did you ever catch his show?”

  “No. Why?”

  “They had this kangaroo that was like their mascot. They found her about five years ago, when she was just a joey. The story goes that a dead kangaroo was beside the road as they drove into Tamworth. Gwen made Old Oscar pull over the truck so she could check the dead ’roo's pouch. Inside was the joey. She was too small to release into the wild, so Gwen brought her along and cared for her.

&nbs
p; “Anyway, a couple of years go by and then Gwen's hip goes on her. Oscar looks to sell up, but Gwen won't do it, because she is worried about the bloody kangaroo. So what Old Oscar does, is make a deal with Freddy Cumblerland. Cumberland buys Oscar's operation ’cos the Society is looking to regulate the fight game, and he agrees to keep and care for the kangaroo as a sweetner. So Sanderson's operation is what's left of Old Oscar's tent. Now as corrupt as Cumberland is, he prides himself on being a man of his word. So, he takes over Oscar's tent, and hands over control to Sanderson for the day to day running, on the proviso that the kangaroo is kept and looked after. Cumberland used to turn up to a show every now and then to make sure Sanderson was keeping his word. I reckon Sanderson's life wouldn't be worth living if word got out the kangaroo had been stolen, released, or killed. It would be like Cumberland not keeping his word to Old Oscar, if that makes sense.”

  “If that's all true, then Sanderson is in deep trouble while we've got that ’roo.”

  “I'd say so.”

  Iron Bar smirked again. It didn't reassure me.

  My coffee had gone cold, but I still raised it to my lips and finished the last few gulps of the strong black brew while I mulled over what Iron Bar had said. It all made sense. But not in a good way.

  ROUND NINE

  The routine was the same day after day. We'd get up early and Limehouse would cook up some bacon and eggs for Tommy to give him energy. And then we'd go to work.

  Being camped at a sports field was great, because it was the perfect environment outside of a gym to train a fighter. I had Tommy run two laps of the field in the morning to loosen up. And then we'd hit the bags, heavy and speed. Later we'd do some sparring, with Iron Bar doing most of sessions, although I threw Killer Ken and Rusty Morris into the mix a couple of time, so things wouldn't get stale.

  During the heat of the day, we'd take a break. We had to. The Australian sun could suck the juice out of any man. As it was, Tommy could sweat off three to five pounds every day. It was up to Limehouse to keep Tommy strong, and he made sure he got the best meals.

  In the cool of the evening, as the sun went down, we'd get back to it. More bag work, skipping rope and a little something I invented. I had Tommy run around the outside of the sports field, ducking back and forth under the outside fencing rail. It sounded simple, but threading your way around a quarter mile circuit, constantly ducking and weaving could really sort the men from the boys. Tommy would always come back drenched in sweat, with a squadron of flies buzzing around his back.

  During a workout, it wasn't unusual to see fifty flies camped on Tommy's back. And he couldn't shake 'em off either. And the harder he'd work, and the more sweaty he'd become, the more flies that buzzed around. It's not bloody easy to work a speed ball, when you've got two blowies buzzin' round your forehead and into your eyes. But that was Australia.

  * * * * *

  It was two days before the fight, and I was exhausted, and I had it easy. Tommy's heart and fitness levels were beyond question. If you could stand up to the pace we set, then you could stand up to anything.

  It was the middle of the day, the hottest part, and I was taking a break from Tommy's training routine. I was seated in a folding canvas chair, under an awning, beside my trailer, hoping for some shade. The mercury was clocking in at 107º F (42º C) and I was sweatin’ like a pig and swatting flies.

  Ginny walked up with the kangaroo beside her. She been out picking wild flowers and had one in her hair. Ginny had really bonded with that ’roo, and had named her Jemima. Jemima didn't even need to be tethered when Ginny was around. She'd hop along beside her like some faithful hound.

  “Hi, Yack,” she said casually as she stopped beside me. I could see she had something on her mind, because she was chewin' on her bottom lip. She always did that when she was nervous.

  “What's on your mind, Ginny?” I asked.

  She must have thought I was some kinda mind reader to have known she was troubled. She sat down on the ground in front of me, throwing back her hair.

  In this heat, Jemima was a bit more choosy about where she sat. She came towards me slowly. She wanted to sit down in the shade, but wasn't sure if she could trust me. She took a few more tentative steps into the edge of the shaded area. She watched me cautiously, seeing if I'd react to her being in my space. I didn't. She took one more step, then sat down, still watching me. I tried not to laugh.

  Ginny had a big smile watching the ’roo. But then she thought about what she wanted to talk about. She started chewing on her lip again.

  “What is it, Ginny?” I asked again.

  “Do you think Tommy likes me?”

  I almost burst out laughing.

  “Of course he does,” I responded, swatting away a fly from my face.

  “He never says anything.”

  Now, I wasn't no expert on women or relationships. I'd been alone for so long now I couldn't remember the last time I went to bed with a beautiful woman beside me. But one thing I did know, was Tommy and Ginny belonged together.

  “Ginny, back in Chicago, we say that 'you can't beat Aces'. And Ginny, you're an Ace. Tommy's not silly. He knows. He just ain't too good stringin’ them words together.”

  Ginny smiled again. She had a great smile.

  “Do you think he will marry me some day?”

  “Yes, I do, Ginny. I think when the time is right he will ask you to marry him. But until then, I reckon we should rustle up a couple of bob and whack it on the fight. It might give you and Tommy a start. You know, a nest egg is what I think they call it. Yeah, a nest egg. With some money behind you, I think you two could do anything.”

  “Thanks, Yack,” she said as she stood up. She walked over and planted a small kiss on my cheek. “You're a good friend.” Then she walked off with Jemima lazily bounding behind her.

  * * * * *

  It was the day of the fight. I let Tommy off pretty easy, limiting his early session to just a few laps of the field. I didn't want to wear him out. I was pleased to see in the morning, he spent a bit of time with Ginny. I don't know what they talked about, but I could hear them laughing. Good. Those two deserved a break from the punch drunk situation we found ourselves in. Even if it was just for a few hours. Things would get wild again soon enough.

  Even though my attention had been on getting Tommy ready for his fight, I couldn't altogether neglect the other fighters. I was working with Rusty Morris, trying to get a bit of power behind that left jab of his, when Tommy and Ginny walked up behind me.

  “Can we have a word, Yack?” Tommy asked.

  I turned, and nodded.

  “Sure.” I turned back to Rusty. “Take five, mate.”

  Rusty stepped back from the heavy bag which he had been pounding with his left, and gave us some space.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  “We need the truck for a couple of hours,” Ginny said.

  “What for?”

  “I know this place,” she said.

  “Of course you do,” I responded. “With the troupe, we passed through Birdsville two years ago, remember? But what has that got to do with the truck?”

  “No, that's not what she means, Yack,” Tommy added. “This place! This is where she comes from.”

  “I thought you two came from a farm up north, in the Kimberlys?” I said, somewhat confused. I scratched my jaw.

  “That's where they took us. That's not where we're from. I'm from Arnhem Land, but Ginny here reckons that this is her home. She is Wirrarri.”

  “Wirrarri!” I repeated. “Well, I'll be!”

  I guess it was hard for a white-fella like me to understand how Ginny and Tommy had lived before joining the boxing troupe. Aboriginal children were routinely taken from their families and fostered out the white folks. It was intended to break the cycle of “black.” The children wouldn't know their family or community, and wouldn't know the ways of their people. It was supposed to make them fit into white-Australia better. I wasn't no politici
an but it seemed bloody stupid to me. How could taking kids from their parents make them better people?

  “So can we take the truck?” Ginny repeated.

  “Sure.” I reached into my trouser pocket and pulled out the keys, throwing them to Tommy. “Just make sure you're back in time for the fight.”

  “Will do,” Tommy said.

  ROUND TEN

  We didn't trust Sanderson enough to prepare for the fight at his tent, so we drove one of our caravans over and parked it out front. And I mean right in front of the tent entrance. We weren't there to go sneakin’ through the back.

  One of Sanderson's lackeys tried to make us move, but Wheeler directed a torrent of abuse at the fella that woulda turned Stilton a deeper shade of blue. The fella backed off, realizing we were a part of the main attraction that evening.

  Five of us were crowded into the caravan as Tommy got ready. There was me, Tommy, Old Man Wheeler, Jaffa Teasdale and Ginny. And of course, Jemima, who was sitting on the bed, with her long hind legs splayed out. We had to keep her hidden from Sanderson. If he had a chance to steal her back, he just might renege on the deal. Ginny and Jaffa were going to stay with her during the fight. However, the others from the troupe were all waiting for us inside Sanderson's tent.

  It was pretty strange after all these years of Tommy and me workin’ together that we had to prepare almost professional like. Sanderson had hired an allegedly impartial referee for the evening and he rapped on the caravan door. Wheeler let him inside and the ref checked Tommy's hands and my tape work to see that we weren't up to anything dishonest. Then he inspected the gloves. Happy that they hadn't been doctored, he then wished Tommy good luck and exited. Short and sweet. He wasn't there to make friends.

  * * * * *

  Because we were tied up in the preparations I didn't see everything that was going on at the time. Out the back of the tent, a big black limousine pulled up. Or at least it used to be black. Now it was caked in red dust. But still it was an impressive vehicle.