‘Had you then, brother,’ he said thickly through the mouthguard.
Warner grinned and threw the towel into the ring. Everyone laughed except Jack Spargo.
Spargo, who was never loquacious, was quieter than ever on the drive north. We were near Woy Woy when he snapped his fingers. ‘Knew I’d seen that bloke before,’ he said. ‘He was riding in Sydney in 1980 and got rubbed out for ten years. Don’t think his name was Johnson though.’
I grunted and moved out around a semi. ‘What’s the betting on the fight, Jack?’
‘Varies. I got threes.’
‘Who on?’
He almost dislocated his neck turning it to look at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What I said.’
‘I never bet against one a me own fighters in me life. Well, only once.’
‘How was that?’
‘Clever bastard, thought he was. I knew he was gonna dive and he didn’t know I knew. I did it to teach him a lesson.’
‘Did he learn it?’
‘No, he didn’t. Roy’s straight, Cliff. You know that.’
‘Yeah. So where does this Johnson fit in?’
‘Search me. All I know is, Roy’ll be trying like he always has.’
‘I’ll worry about Johnson then,’ I said. ‘You can tell Roy what to do about those rips when he’s on the ropes.’
Spargo didn’t say anything but his face set into lines of concentration like a chess master’s.
Roy had three more days to train, then he’d ease up and just keep loose for twenty-four hours before the fight. In the closing days he took care to run on flat surfaces, avoiding the cambered beach or anything else that might injure his ankles; Spargo was specially careful with the hand bandages and the adjustment of the headgear. The caution irritated the risk-taker in Belfast, but the accountant in him saw the necessity.
Rhys Dixon had some acting talent, like a lot of Welshmen, and he could play Tikopia’s part in the ring well enough. Spargo worked out a manoeuvre whereby Roy, as soon as he felt the ropes at his back, side-stepped fast away from a left rip, claimed and threw a jolting left into Rhys’ unprotected ribs. After a few sessions Dixon’s side was sore and bruised. He wore the bruise like a medal. ‘That’s a sweet move,’ he said.
A few reporters showed up, more than I expected. It was a dull time in the sports calendar so interest in the fight was unnaturally high. Roy picked up a few bucks doing a photo ad for a light beer. Spargo fretted at the amount of time he had to spend standing still but Belfast took it with good humour. I intercepted a phone call from Johnson.
‘He’s in the middle of a couple of hundred pushups,’ I said. ‘It’s not convenient’
‘You’re a smart-arse,’ Johnson said. ‘I hope he isn’t.’
I was being well paid to get a suntan, lose weight, put a double nelson on a jockey and be a smart arse.
Belfast was booked into a motel near Hyde Park. On the drive down I asked him if there was anything special he wanted me to do. He glanced at Spargo who was asleep in the back seat; Roy had slept like a child the night before, Spargo hardly at all.
‘You’ll be in the corner. Just do everything Jack says then and stick close to me after the finish.’ He blinked a few times and rubbed his hand over his gingery three-day growth. ‘You talk to Tikopia at all?’
‘No. Got a good look at him though.’
‘What sort of a bloke is he, d’you reckon?’
I remembered the broad, brown face topped by crinkling hair and the good-natured way he held his opponent’s head after he’d pulled the punch that could have torn it off.
‘Looked to have a sense of humour.’
Roy smiled and relaxed. ‘Good,’ he said.
I walked down towards the ring behind Roy Belfast and Jack Spargo. I was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, sneakers. I carried a towel. Jack carried a bucket in which he had a bottle of distilled water, some condiment for cut eyes, petroleum jelly, a sponge, tape and other tools of the trade. I had my gun under the towel. Roy did some of the obligatory weaving and shadow boxing down the aisle; his back looked huge in the dressing gown; the towel draped around his neck made it look as if a massive head sat directly on massive shoulders.
The house was full and noisily enthusiastic after a better than usual preliminary card. People reached out to shake Roy’s hand and shout encouragement. Five metres behind me I could hear the same people saying the same things to Tikopia. A big difference in the atmosphere from the old-time fight nights struck me immediately-no smoke. Smoke used to hang around the ring like a grey mist. All the old-time boxers were involuntary smokers, but when they fought fifteen and twenty rounds with light gloves and no eight count that was the least of their worries. Now we had two doctors in attendance and you couldn’t be saved by the bell, but their brain sacks were going to bounce off the walls of their skulls just the same.
Jack got into the ring with Roy after laying out his equipment. All he wanted me to do was hand him things and not knock over the water bottle. Roy and Tikopia bounced and pounded the air, shrugging their shoulders and loosening their necks. The announcer put a little Chicago into his voice as he proclaimed Tikopia ‘the champeen of the South Pacific Commonwealth’ which was scrambling it a bit. The crowd as a whole cheered loudest for Roy but. some Maoris grouped together in a couple of rows at ringside helped to even things up. A two-metre blonde in spike heels and a flesh-coloured body stocking walked around the ring holding up a board with ‘1’ printed on it. I helped her out through the ropes and she kissed me. Roy and Tikopia touched gloves and then Roy hit the spread brown nose with a sharp left and the cheers for sex turned into cheers for blood.
They felt each other out in the early rounds but, like old pros, they managed to put a good bit of work into it-jabs from Roy, rushes from Tikopia and ducking and weaving from both. In the corner Spargo kept up a constant stream of advice: Don’t drop your right, you’re dropping your right. Watch his head in close, he’s looking to butt you. Keep outa his corner; try ‘im downstairs…
The crowd was happy with what it was getting; yells went up when Roy took a hard punch on his gloves or when the referee bullocked the fighters apart and when the blonde walked around in her body stocking. I located Lofty at ringside, behind Tikopia’s corner and a few rows back. Johnson sat immediately behind the corner and leaned forward occasionally to talk to one of the Maori’s handlers. Warner was like Spargo-transported to that place where only wounds and water and towels and the pummelling of muscles mattered.
By the middle of the fight the pattern was clear; Tikopia was the organiser. He dictated the pace and movement around the ring. To the uninitiated he would have looked a winner, but Roy took many of his punches on his arms and gloves and his counter-punching was effective. He scored cleanly several times and I had it all even going after the seventh which was a good round for Roy.
Johnson was looking worried. He turned around to speak to Lofty and he continued his conversations with the cornerman. The betting fluctuated around me and I had to assume it did the same around Johnson.
In the eighth Belfast took a hard right to the head and sagged. He covered up but he was negative and it was Tikopia’s round. In the ninth Tikopia tried a rush, bullocking Roy across to the ropes. As soon as he hit them Roy performed the manoeuvre he’d worked on with Dixon. He performed it perfectly from instinct and with impeccable timing. He sidestepped away from the rip and put all his weight into the punch he landed under Tikopia’s armpit. I thought I heard the ribs crack. Roy hit him there again and followed with a straight right that caused Tikopia to drop his hands. The crowd saw the opening and screamed. Roy scored with some classic punches before Tikopia retreated, covering up. He was tough and weathered the round but it was clearly Roy’s stanza.
I forgot about the brain sacks and the threatened retinas and roared encouragement to Roy. The blonde was wide-eyed and screaming. She waved her clenched fists and looked as if she wanted to mix it with them in the ring instead of strutting around with her number ‘10’ board.