One Fight at a Time

by Jeff Dowson

  “We failed with Nicholas,” he said finally. “Nothing we did seemed to work. As he grew older, he became more and more adept at making things difficult. He played truant from school. After he had been found two or three times, he began running away. The police kept bringing him back. We thought we were making progress when he stopped doing that. But he simply transferred his energy into running around the home, shouting and making life as difficult as he could for everybody else.”

  “He kept that up did he?”

  “He stopped doing it suddenly. Not long after his fourteenth birthday. He found an interest. Boxing. It was great relief to all of us. He managed to get through his last year at school. Mr Bevan, the owner of a gymnasium in St Philips, gave him a job and found somewhere for him to stay.” He took a deep breath and finished with a flourish. “I have to tell you Mr Grover, the boy’s departure from this place was mourned by no one.”

  Having got all that off his chest, Baines moved back to his desk and sat down again. Grover remained in his chair, waiting to see if he had anything else to say. Baines looked at him steadfastly. Apparently not.

  Grover got up out of the chair. “Thank you for your time.”

  Baines cheered up at the prospect of Grover leaving, and for the first time during the encounter, tried to frame a smile. It was a grim, Wackford Squeers rictus, but apparently the best he could do.

  “Mrs Holland will show you out,” he said.

  The caretaker was still in the yard. No longer wielding his mop and bucket, he had taken an interest in Salome.

  “Might you consider selling the jeep?” he asked.

  “Not mine to sell,” Grover said. “She still belongs to the US Army.”

  “Are you going to be around for a while?”

  “I’m on a twelve day pass.”

  “Well, if the situation changes...”

  Grover nodded at him and got into Salome. He fished the street map from the shelf under the dashboard in front of the passenger seat and worked out how to get to St Philips.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A big man, almost as wide as he was long, knocked on the door of Roly Bevan’s office and walked straight in. Bevan was sitting behind his desk, looking down at the poster for a boxing night he was promoting.

  “I didn’t hear myself bidding you to enter,” he said. “In fact I –”

  He looked up from his poster and the rest of the sentence froze on his lips. The man looked like everybody’s idea of the ghost of Jacob Marley. He had a crepe bandage wrapped around his head, all the way around it, helping to support his wired up jaw. His eyes were blood shot and bruised and edged like piss-holes in the snow. He said something unintelligible. Bevan continued to stare at him. The man said the same thing again. And Bevan found his voice.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The man did not look as if he was capable of answering that coherently. So Bevan went on.

  “I told you to lie low and keep out of the way.”

  “I waaa me mu ey,” the man growled.

  “You what?”

  The man repeated what he had said, only this time louder. And the sentence ended in a yell of pain.

  “Jesus Christ,” Bevan said. “Go back home.”

  The man looked wildly about him. Saw a ring-bound writing pad to Bevan’s right. Reached down and dragged it across the desk. Opened it and found a blank page. Grabbed a biro from a pot of pens and pencils and began to scribble on it. When he finished, he swivelled the page so that Bevan could read it.

  In shaky capital letters it said I WANT MY MONEY.

  Bevan looked up at the man.

  “For what?” he asked.

  “Ghn o vv nn”, the man said.

  “What?...” Bevan knew exactly what he was talking about, but he could not resist. “Or should I ask who?”

  The man pulled the notebook back across the desk and wrote again. He passed it back in Bevan’s direction. Bevan read THE YANK. He leant back in his chair.

  “Tell me again,” he said. “What did you actually do to him? I mean it’s all too obvious what he did to you.”

  The man slammed his right fist down on the desk. Which sent shock waves along his arm and into his neck. It hurt. He yelled out something that could have been “Fuuuuck.”

  Bevan tried to keep his face straight. He opened a desk drawer and took out half a dozen five pound notes.

  “Take this, until we can de-brief properly.”

  “D waaa?”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake... Just go home... Now... Please.”

  The man picked up the fivers, straightened, swayed on his feet, lurched back to the office door, stumbled through the doorway and slammed the door behind him.

  Bevan picked up the phone receiver and dialled 9. Waited.

  “Pat,” he said. “See that Benny gets home will you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is Mac down there?”

  “No Boss. He’s not in.”

  “Let me know when he comes in. I’ve been re-thinking. There’s space on the bottom of the card, at the regional lightweight championships in three weeks. Work him hard and it may be a bout he can win.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Salome swung into the Mighty Albion car park as Halloran and Benny stepped out of the back door of the pub. Benny stared at the jeep, shook off the attendance of Halloran and staggered across the concrete. He squared up to an astonished Grover.

  “Yu ju fuuhnnn way, yu fuhhhrr”

  Halloran arrived and grabbed him from behind.

  “Come on Benny. Time for this later.”

  He hauled Benny away to his car.

  Grover walked across the car park.

  In the gym, Leroy Winston, hands bandaged and fists balled, was working on the heavy speedball. A sustained effort. Left right left right left right... His arms and shoulders providing the weight, the speed and the rhythm. The ball slammed back and forth with metronomic accuracy.

  Bevan paused in the doorway of the gym. Winston was beautiful to watch. Lithe and strong; a natural welterweight, with all the grace of Sugar Ray Robinson. Bevan moved across the gym floor. Winston ended with a hard right and stepped back. The ball rocked on its spring a couple of times and stopped. He turned to pick up a skipping rope and saw Bevan approaching.

  “That’s good work Leroy,” Bevan said. “I think it’s time we got you a fight.”

  Winston picked up the rope, prepared to go on with his exercise routine. Bevan threw a towel at him.

  “Towel down,” he said.

  Winston sat down on a bench and began to wipe his face. Bevan sat down next to him.

  “I have a proposition for you. Jimmy Wilson in four weeks’ time. Second on the card, at the Drill Hall.”

  Winston wiped his neck and draped the towel across his shoulder.

  “Wilson?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean the ex-regional welterweight champion. That Wilson?”

  “Yes. He’s pissed off at losing to Adam Langley. Langley won’t give him a re-match. At least not in the foreseeable future. But he needs to get back in the ring. Preferably with someone he thinks he can knock out.”

  Winston put the towel down on the bench.

  “Now then,” Bevan went on. “We both know how good you are shaping up to be. Wilson’s people don’t know you from a hole in the ground. They’ll figure this match is a piece of cake. But you’ll despatch him in three rounds.”

  Winston allows all this to sink in. Then Bevan went on.

  “You’re younger, faster and better than he was, even in the good times.”

  “Wilson’s management will take this will they?”

  “I’ve already talked with them. They think I’m desperate to get my new boy his first bout, offering someone Wilson can put on the canvas from the bell. We both know better. You’ll get your first bout and your first win. Not much of a purse. But anyone who puts money on you, will
get great odds. And if he happens to be an associate of ours, we’ll clean up. And you will be on the way.”

  Winston picked up the towel and wiped his forehead again. He grinned and held out his right hand. Bevan shook it and held on. Winston stared at him, then down at their conjoined hands. Bevan let go. Winston half decided this was the moment to speak up.

  “Er Boss...” he began.

  Roly gave him his complete and undivided attention. And Winston found he could not say anything. Bevan waited.

  A voice floated across the gym. “Am I interrupting something?”

  Bevan swung round. Grover was standing in the doorway.

  “Not at all. We’ve just finished. Leroy has his first bout on the way.”

  Grover smiled. “Congratulations.”

  “We’ll talk upstairs,” Bevan said

  He led the way to his office, ushered Grover inside and closed the door.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  Grover sat down in an old fashioned, English crafted, bespoke armchair. Light years away from the chair he had recently vacated.

  “Well well well,” Bevan began. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Isn’t it though,” Grover said.

  “Did you come in from the car park?”

  Grover nodded.

  “Then, you must have seen the man whose jaw you broke two nights ago. He’s a bit of a mess. Did you really have to go to town?”

  “He’s over-weight and over-confident and moves too slowly. Not built for a street fight.”

  “Then on your recommendation, I’ll review his CV.”

  “You did send him and his buddies to work me over?”

  Bevan said nothing.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?

  Bevan still said nothing.

  Grover went on.

  “You sent the wrong men, Roly. Your guy out in the yard is too big, the guy with the iron bar was too predictable and the guy who ran away wasn’t up to the job.”

  He watched Bevan thinking, trying to assess how well this was going. Grover sensed Bevan had imagined him as a tired remnant of a conflict he had managed to avoid. Just a foreigner, anxious to get home. And three heavies in a park should have been enough to put him in traction and temper his ambitions. Bevan was coming to the conclusion that he had seriously under-estimated this American.

  “Why haven’t you gone home?” Bevan asked.

  Grover ignored the question.

  “Tell me about Nick Hope,” he said.

  Bevan answered the question simply.

  “He worked for me and he lived in a flat I own.”

  “And?...”

  “You will have to be more specific.”

  “Okay,” Grover said. “What did he do for you?”

  “Jobs I chose for him.”

  “Such as?”

  “That’s my business.”

  Grover raised his right hand in acknowledgement and changed tack.

  “Harry Morrison. Has he been here?”

  “Yes. A few times.”

  “Working with Nick?”

  “I don’t know. You should ask Harry that question.”

  Grover bowled him one on the stumps.

  “Harry has now been charged with Nick’s murder.”

  He looked straight into Bevan’s eyes. Bevan stared back at him. Then he shook his head gently. His eyes executed a series of blinks.

  “No,” he said. “No. Harry didn’t do it. He’s not capable of murder.”

  Grover kept his eyes glued on Bevan’s face, trying to assess if the reaction was one of genuine concern. It was difficult to tell.

  “Are you sure?” Grover asked.

  “From what I know of Harry I’d say he didn’t have a malicious bone in his body.”

  “Will you say that in court?”

  Bevan considered the proposition. Then shook his head.

  “No. I’m not going into a court room. Any courtroom.”

  “You mean you’re taking the fifth?”

  Bevan was puzzled for a moment, then realised what Grover meant.

  “Oh the Fifth Amendment. Er... I refuse to answer, on the grounds that it might tend to incriminate me... I guess so. Something like that.”

  Grover looked at Bevan in silence, for ages. Bevan looked at Grover and let the silence go on. He had all the time in the world. Finally, Grover got to his feet.

  “You should know that I am working for Fincher Reade and Holborne. A barrister in their chambers is conducting Harry’s defence.”

  “A most respected law firm.” Bevan said. “Harry should be alright.”

  “Do you mind telling me where you were last Saturday night?”

  “Not at all. I was at home.”

  “Alone?”

  “Unhappily.”

  In his chair, Bevan sat back, folded his arms and smiled again. Grover decided this was round one lost to Roly. But if he could stay in the ring long enough, the good guys could still win on points. He turned and moved towards the door.

  “Come back any time you want some exercise,” Bevan said. “I’ll arrange for you to spar with Leroy. That will be a good workout.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Grover said. “And yes, I will come back.”

  He left the office and closed the door behind him.

  In the yard, he climbed into the jeep and thumped the steering wheel in frustration. Bevan was a practiced deceiver. An experienced operator who could play several ends against a pile of middles any day. The rules had been laid down. A knockout would put an end to the bout. But this one was likely to go the distance. There was a lot of floating and ducking and dancing and weaving to go through first.

  He drove out of the Mighty Albion car park and headed back to Gladstone Street.

  There was a black two door Chevrolet Fleetline parked outside the shop. Grover climbed out of Salome and circled the car. It was beautiful. Chrome bumpers and eagle winged radiator grill. Over sixteen feet long and close to six feet wide. This was the car beloved of gangsters in Warner Brothers movies. Nobody in this neck of the woods could afford to run a three and a half litre motor, even if they could get the petrol. Nobody that is, who was God fearing, hard-working and law abiding. But somebody who wanted to demonstrate who was ‘The Man’...

  The ‘closed’ sign faced Grover as he stepped into the shop doorway. The noise of splintering glass reached him a second before he tried the door handle. He drew back a couple of feet, shifted his weight and slammed the heel of his right boot into the lock. It smashed inwards, the wood around it splintered, the door swung open and Grover moved into the shop.

  Ellie was standing behind the counter to his right, frozen and terrified. A man stood with a ball pin hammer in his right hand. In front of him, most of the glass from the display cabinet under the counter was in pieces on the floor. He swung to face Grover, as the shop door crashed inwards and bounced back on his hinges. Grover pointed to the hammer.

  “Give me that.”

  “Why don’t you try and take it?”

  Grover took his time. The man was well over six feet tall, slim but with the shoulders of a weight lifter. He looked like he took care of himself.

  “Go into the kitchen Ellie,” Grover said softly.

  He watched her leave. The man with the hammer, eyes glued to Grover, did not move. He was obviously much more capable of inflicting injury than the three guys in the park.

  “Nice car,” Grover said.

  The man acknowledged the compliment with a dip of his head.

  “I assume it’s not yours. So who do you work for?”

  “There’s no need for conversation,” the man said.

  Grover had worked out a long time ago that the guy who’s on the move has the advantage over the guy who’s waiting for him to arrive. There was little more than six feet between the two of them. The visitor stood with his feet comfortably apart, his shoulders relaxed. He adjusted the hammer in his right hand. Grover chose that moment to move. He droppe
d his head and launched himself at the man, before his reactions could tell his brain to tell his hammer arm to move. Grover’s head hit the man at the base of his sternum – the place where it really hurts, where it feels like your ribcage is about to shatter. The man was propelled backwards into the counter behind him, which he hit with the small of his back. And the pain from his spine made him forget the pain in his chest. The momentum dragged his feet off the floor and up into the air. His body straightened out, balanced on the edge of the counter like a sea saw plank on its fulcrum. Grover stepped back, grabbed the visitor’s ankles and hauled him, feet first, off the counter. His back slid across the surface and suddenly most of him was in mid-air. With Grover taking the weight of his feet, the man’s hips sank and his body dropped into a V shape. Grover let go. The visitor’s coccyx hit the oak floor first, then his head and finally his ankles. He lay still, groaning.

  Grover shouted to Ellie, to tell her he was okay. She materialised in the shop doorway. Looked nervously across the shop floor.

  “Is he alright?” she asked.

  “He will be, once we get him on his feet.”

  Grover went through Hammer Man’s coat pockets and found a set of car keys. He hauled him upright and let go of him. The man swayed on his feet.

  Grover grabbed him again. “Open the door Ellie,” he said.

  He handed her the car keys. They got Hammer Man out into the street. Ellie unlocked the Chevy. Grover manoeuvred Hammer Man into the driving seat where he slumped forward onto the steering wheel. He walked round to the other side of the car, opened the passenger door and dug into the glove compartment. All he found was a gun; a light load, short barrelled .32 revolver. Not a hard core, professional piece. Hammer Man was, at best, a part time gunman. Grover slammed the passenger door. The man jerked upright in his seat and yelled out in pain. He looked around him and tried to focus. Then he remembered what had just happened.

  Through the windscreen, he watched Grover walk back to the pavement. He looked down at the ignition switch. He began searching through his pockets for the Chevy car keys, slowly and painfully.

  A Morris Minor pulled up behind the Chevy. It was the colour of polished elephant hide. Mel got out of it. She moved to the shop door and examined the torn and splintered frame.