“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 rolled 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 stuffs 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.