The Black Prince

by Peter Corris

  A batch of large, athletic attendants appeared and began handing out sheets detailing the night’s entertainment. There were five fights only, two four-rounders, two six-rounders and a main event described as a ‘KO contest’—only to be concluded by one of the fighters being unable to continue. The weight divisions were ignored in favour of ‘catch weights’, meaning that lightweights could be fighting middleweights and middleweights heavyweights and everything in between. The preliminaries were glove fights, the main event was almost a throwback to the nineteenth century—the fighters would have taped hands but no gloves. It was all totally illegal and I could understand the rigmarole of the password, the ban on mobile phones and the breadth of shoulder on the attendants.

  In the old days, betting on the fights was an impromptu business organised by the spectators themselves. Not so here. Before the first fight the attendants worked the aisles, accepting and rejecting bets proposed by the punters. The fight card showed how many smokos the fighters had participated in and their win/loss record. Just to be in the swim, I bet ten dollars on Mario (no surnames were given), in the red corner to beat Paddy in the blue at even money. The redhead bet on Paddy with some of Fatty’s money.

  The preliminaries were unremarkable except for the lack of skill of the fighters, the ruthless urging of their seconds, the laxity of the referee and the bloodlust and ignorance of the crowd. None of the fights went the distance and most of them would have been stopped earlier due to blatant fouls—eye gouging, low blows and use of the elbows—in a legitimate contest. The referee’s job seemed to be limited to seeing that the fighters didn’t kick each other in the balls and the seconds didn’t belt their man’s opponent with the stool.

  The attendants took orders for drinks and delivered them and most of the crowd was pretty well stoked by the time of the main event. Fatty had slipped out, maybe to drain the dragon, and the Champ had his hand up under the redhead’s dress—not a very hard thing to do. I’d lost both bets and was disinclined to throw more money away. It was hard to tell in mayhem like this, but I had a distinct feeling that the results had been orchestrated well in advance of the event. I got another beer and settled back to watch what was the business end of the evening for the fighters, the punters and especially for me.

  18

  Tank Turkowitz appeared at ringside with his fighter, who was named Kito, and a couple of handlers. Kito was a Maori heavyweight, liberally tattooed and decked out in very flashy boxing gear—tasselled boots, knee-high socks, silk shorts, satin robe. His opponent was Albie, a pale freckled character with wide shoulders and stick-thin legs. When he took off his towelling robe you could see the good muscle definition in his arms and on his chest, but he had to be giving away twenty kilos and fifteen centimetres. He wore plain black boots without socks, black shorts and his taped hands were big, out of proportion to the rest of him. Kito looked to be in his twenties; Albie was thirty if he was a day, with a battered face and going thin on top.

  The redhead laughed when she saw him move to the centre of the ring. ‘I could beat him,’ she said.

  I noted Albie’s economy of movement, good balance and battle-scarred face and doubted it. Albie had only two attendants, a middle-aged, fortyish man with a hawk face and a hard body, probably Stan Morris, and an Aborigine who was almost as big as Kito. He had a flattened nose, an earring and dreadlocks. He tried to keep his belly pulled in but it was getting away from him fast.

  According to the card, Kito had had ten fights for ten wins. Albie’s record was eight fights, six wins, a loss and a draw, but if he hadn’t had at least fifty fights in the legitimate ring and some in the tents I was no judge. I signalled to an attendant and put fifty dollars on Albie to win inside five rounds. I got odds of three to one and was happy. The redhead turned to look and listen.

  ‘You think that ugly bugger’ll win?’ she said to me.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Huh. The strong, silent type. Okay, I say the coconut’ll cream him.’

  She laughed at her own joke and so did Champ. Fatty, who was back in his seat, didn’t react. I thought it was worth a smile. ‘I’m betting a hundred on the coconut.’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s your money.’

  She giggled. Fatty turned and the look he gave me wasn’t a pleasant sight, but he forked over the money. Champ lit a cigar and added to the fug.

  The hall had a wooden floor and there was possibly some light padding under the ring canvas, but it couldn’t have been much. The canvas was old and stained with blood and sweat. The ropes were frayed where they met the posts and sagged in the middle of each section. No money spent on frills here. The only touch of glamour was provided by the blonde who held up the card to signal the beginning of round one. She wore pasties over her nipples, a g-string and very high heels. She attempted to kiss everyone in the ring except Albie. Kito gave her bum a good feel. That didn’t go down too well with some of the less racially tolerant punters.

  In the first round nothing much happened. Kito swung and Albie ducked. That was about all you could say. The crowd was unhappy and only Morris and the big Aborigine in Albie’s corner looked reasonably satisfied. Albie had no expression at all, just a blank stare over a mouthguard that looked to be too big for him. In the second round Kito connected with a wild swing and Albie shrugged it off and hit him hard in the guts. Kito sagged and Albie waded in, throwing punches. Kito survived the attack and I knew why, even if the screaming crowd didn’t. Albie pulled every punch he threw.

  Kito certainly was unaware of this and came out in the third with his guard down, swinging from the hip. Albie jabbed him into total confusion, throwing him off balance. Near the end of the round Kito caught Albie in a clinch. This was the only thing I was worried about. The referee would probably have let Kito use his knees, thumbs and head but Albie had the answers. He pounded the Maori’s kidneys with bruising short punches that had him gasping for breath and backing away. At that point I was sure Albie could have knocked Kito out and, again, he made a show of it by swinging and upper-cutting. It looked good but the punches mostly landed on Kito’s well-padded shoulders. In a nice flourish in the last seconds, Albie turned his opponent like a bullfighter with a bull and then had to steer him back to the right corner. Enraged, Kito swung and landed a heavy punch on the half-turned-away Albie well after the bell. Albie sagged to one knee. The crowd roared. The referee did nothing. The Aborigine jumped into the ring and dragged Albie to the stool.

  Tank Turkowitz leaned forward from his seat to talk to Kito’s corner man. Both looked happy.

  The redhead turned around in my direction. ‘Last chance for you.’

  I nodded. I was surprised that she could count. The noise level was high and most of the crowd was drunk and watching the blonde. I saw Champ place a bet on Albie to finish inside two rounds. He got better odds than I had and I began to worry that the fix was in. Morris and the other second worked hard on their man—smelling salts, a water spray, slaps and the water bottle. Harry Grebb, one of the wildest fighters who ever lived, used to swig French champagne between rounds. I doubted that was what Albie was getting, but it was bound to be an illegal stimulant of some kind.

  Despite all that, Albie looked shaky when he came out for the fourth. His thin legs wobbled and his probing left looked ineffective as Kito lumbered forward ready to let go a haymaker. It was all a fake. Kito’s swing missed and Albie hit him right on the button with a left hook that couldn’t have travelled twenty centimetres. The Maori’s head had continued moving forward and it stopped abruptly. His brain would have bounced against his skull and the blood supply been cut off. He was unconscious before he went down, and the impact of the back of his head against the thinly padded floor would have intensified the concussion.

  The crowd screamed. Tank Turkowitz yelled for his man to get up and the corner boys did the same. The referee waved Albie to a neutral corner, the first time this nicety had been observed, and slowly bent over the comatose fighter. He raised his arm and t
he count he gave must have extended to at least twenty seconds. It was no use. Kito had met his first defeat. The redhead had lost Fatty’s money and Champ and I had won.

  I collected my winnings and kept a close eye on Albie and his entourage. They disappeared into a changing room at the back of the hall and I hung around outside waiting for them to emerge. The grog was still flowing but I passed. The redhead had got hold of a bottle of champagne and looked set to drink the lot. Fatty and Champ were arguing over something, possibly her. I kept out of sight as Turkowitz and the others bustled Kito into a car. He still looked shaky and I hoped they were taking him to a hospital. Unlikely.

  The crowd was thinning and I was beginning to feel conspicuous, alone and sober, when Albie emerged with his handlers. They passed close to me and I heard Morris address the other man as Bindi as he tossed him the keys. Albie was wearing an old tracksuit and sneakers and moved with the same ease he’d shown in the ring. You would have said he was unmarked except that he’d been marked so much so many times before.

  Keeping a discreet distance away, I followed them to a silver Tarago parked not far from my car. I noted the licence number and the rip in the cover of the spare wheel at the back. They climbed in and started off, Bindi driving; I let another car get in front of me and fell in behind. Taillights up ahead and headlights behind. The night was over.

  It started to rain while we were still on the dirt roads. The rain laid the dust and I took it as a good omen. It’s easier to follow someone in the rain—if they have any sense, they pay close attention to the road and drive more slowly. A couple of cowboys passed me, veering close to the trees and the ditch, but the Tarago maintained a sensible speed.

  We reached the bitumen and headed towards Sydney. The other cars in front peeled off and I was left to follow the Tarago as carefully as I could. We picked up the Hume Highway in Liverpool and followed it to Bankstown. The traffic was thin at this time of night and I hung back a bit and waited to make the turns. I was equally anxious that the Tarago would get away from me as I was that they’d spot me. Tricky, but it’s the only way to do it if you haven’t got TV-show things like direction finders and homing devices.

  The Tarago pulled up in front of a nondescript block of flats near the station. Albie climbed out, conferred at the passenger-side window for a minute and then loped off towards the flats.

  You’ll be somewhere flasher, Stan, I thought as we started up again. Wonder where Bindi kips? It was really risky now. The street was dark and long and I couldn’t show my lights while we were on the same stretch. I breathed a sigh of relief as the Tarago turned right into a thin stream of traffic. I realised that I hadn’t eaten anything for twelve hours and the pangs were strong. Although I had a strong bladder I was feeling a bit of pressure down there and debated whether a can of beer was a good idea. Pissing in the car is never a pleasant experience. The emptiness won and I cracked a can and drank it warm, trying to ignore the bodily signals.

  In increasing discomfort, I followed the Tarago up the Concord Road across the river at Rhodes into Ryde. Bindi was a good driver, good in traffic, good positioning on the road. I hung back and it was easier to keep them in sight from a distance in the well-lit streets. The Tarago turned into a road with broad nature strips, big shady trees and houses on big blocks with deep gardens. The house they stopped at was on a bigger than normal corner block where a narrow side street cut in. It was new and two-storeyed with a large expanse of concrete inside a gate that opened by remote control from the car. The gate was set in a high brick fence and floodlights came on when it opened.

  I was about sixty or seventy metres back and I killed my lights as I crawled up closer to get a good look at the place. It was a sure bet Stan wasn’t dropping Bindi off here, more likely the reverse, unless Bindi was some kind of live-in minder. He had that look. The Tarago cruised through the gates and I watched them shut behind it. I drew a deep breath, tried to ignore my bladder but couldn’t. All I could think of was getting somewhere I could have a piss and quickly. Then I realised I hadn’t noted the name of the street. I put the car in gear and was about to move off when the door was pulled open and a hand slammed into the gearstick and made the engine stall. ‘Get out!’

  It was Bindi. His breath smelled of beer and tobacco and his body smelled of sweat and poor hygiene. He must have moved incredibly quickly to get from where he’d been to where he was now. I started to climb out, simultaneously reaching for the cosh in my pocket. He chopped me hard enough on the side of the neck to half-paralyse me. I lost my grip on the cosh and felt him haul me out, using only one hand. I was a dead weight and a considerable one but it didn’t bother him. I got some feeling back as I propped myself up against the car and decided that a kick to the balls was my only hope. He hit me again and that was the end of that. My legs wobbled and my vision blurred. He held me up.

  ‘You followed us,’ he grated in the distinctive Aboriginal tone.

  ‘I want to talk to Stan Morris. This was the only way I knew how to find him.’

  ‘Yeah, you want to talk, brother? What’s the fuckin’ blackjack for?’

  ‘I saw you and got scared.’

  ‘Bullshit. You did a real dumb thing tonight. You forget all about it, right? You forget the van, the house, me, Stan, everything? Right?’

  I nodded. ‘Okay.’

  I didn’t see the punch coming but I felt and heard my jaw break as it landed. I was blacking out. Then there was a terrible pain in my side as I fell with my full weight against the kerb. I curled myself up, waiting for the kick that would finish me off. The act of curling sent waves of pain through me. The last thing I experienced was a warm rush and a feeling of shame as my bladder let go.

  19

  White sheets, soft lights, firm, narrow bed, polished floor, pale walls, Venetian blinds—all very unfamiliar. I turned my head to look towards the door and wished I hadn’t. My neck was rigid and my jaw felt as though a vice had been applied to it and screwed down tight. I tried to keep my head still and roll my body to the left and that hurt just as much. There was heavy strapping around the lower part of my torso and something inside that felt very loose. I was in a hospital sure enough, but I had no idea how I’d got there or how long I’d been in residence. Private room. Quite right, given the amount of health insurance I pay.

  I’d been hospitalised often enough to know how things work. I felt around the bedhead for the buzzer to call the nurse and pressed it. While I waited I tested a few things. Vision seemed all right, teeth intact, legs mobile. My nose has been broken so many times that breathing through it is difficult. There was a heavy dressing along the side of my jaw and I knew what that meant. With my jaw wired up, mouth breathing wasn’t easy either. I sucked in a deep breath and felt sharp, stabbing pains in my side and wondered how many ribs had been damaged and how badly. Cracked or broken? Still, it could’ve been worse. It wasn’t nearly as bad as being shot. Then I remembered how my bladder had let go and I was embarrassed to think of the state I must have been in when I reached the hospital.

  The door opened and a nurse came in. She seemed glad to see me awake if the wide smile on her pretty Asian face was anything to go on. It made me wonder how bad I’d been on arrival. Punctured lung? Cardiac arrest?

  ‘Good morning, Mr Hardy.’

  Was it? Of course, light showing around the edges of the blinds. My voice was a thin squeak through my clamped bones and I realised that my mouth was desert dry. ‘Good morning, nurse. Would you mind telling me where I am and how I got here?’

  She did nursely things to the bed and looked at the chart. ‘You’re in the Charlesworth Private Hospital.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘In Ryde. You were found in a car parked in the hospital entrance.’

  ‘With a broken jaw and ribs.’

  She nodded. ‘Your jaw was broken in two places. You have four cracked ribs but none broken. You were having breathing difficulties and they thought you might have a punctured lun
g, but you don’t. They also suspected a cracked vertebra but there isn’t, just compression of two vertebrae which is bad enough.’

  ‘Good news,’ I wheezed. ‘I . . . ah, must have been a mess.’

  ‘I wasn’t on duty. I gather your clothes have been sent to the laundry. Would you like some water?’

  ‘Please.’

  She poured water into a glass from a covered jug and inserted a straw. I tried to struggle up and gasped with the pain. She put a cool hand on my forehead.

  ‘Stay there. You can use the straw.’

  The water I sucked up tasted better than a cold beer on a hot day. But somehow the drink and the relief it afforded caused me to lose concentration. My eyes fluttered and I saw the nurse move away. I wanted to stop her. I had more questions, but I couldn’t summon the energy to speak. All the shapes I could see and everything I could feel seemed to soften and I felt the dope they must have given me kick in and I floated away.

  When I woke up again the attractive Asian nurse had been replaced by an older woman and a concerned-looking man in a suit. I kept my head very still but I moved my arms and legs, just to make sure I still could.

  ‘Mr Hardy, I’m Matron Costello and this is Mr Barnes, the administrator of the hospital.’

  ‘Forgive me for not shaking hands.’ It would have worked better if it hadn’t come out all squeaky.