Detective Inspector Jack Lisbon charged down the cobblestone alleyway, his bootsteps echoed in the still London night air. The DI’s destination – McNair’s Boxing Club. He looked up at a cracked and blinking neon sign at the end of the lane, half the letters blanked out. Just like a year ago. Jack gripped the handle of a heavy wooden door, shouldered it open.
The place buzzed with activity. The rhythmic whir and splutter of an old generator provided a weird ambience to the dilapidated gymnasium, a stark counterpoint to the grunting and huffing of sweaty boxers. Black, brown, white men of various builds and ages jumped rope, squatted weights, sparred with each other. All keen to show the trainer they were better, tougher, hungrier than the next guy.
The satisfying thwack of leather gloves pounding skin was music to Jack’s ears. Oof sounded when a solid punch snuck under a fighter’s guard and struck the mark. Ribs, jaw, solar plexus. The acrid scents of disinfectant, sweat, coppery old blood, and liniment assailed Jack’s nostrils, set off memories in the recesses of his brain.
McNair’s would always feel like home to the DI, but today he was visiting for professional reasons. The grungy gym had been Jack’s stomping ground as a young up-and-coming fighter. A home away from home. He’d spent many a sleepless night here. Preferable to going home to his abusive father, an immigrant mechanic from Portugal, and couldn’t-give-a-toss mother, daughter of a cockney welder. Proud working class stock, but without the dignity.
He cast his mind back to the golden days, the mid 90’s. Back then, many in the know had tipped young Jack Lisbon to reach the very top as a professional pugilist. Lightning-fast reflexes, able to take punches to all parts of the body, hit like a sledge hammer. But niggling injuries, brain fades in the middle of bouts, and a warehouse full of other excuses kept that predicted success away.
The tipping point came when he reached the championship bout for the United Kingdom under-20 middleweight belt. A moment of hesitation cost him dearly. At a crucial moment in the second-last round, well ahead on points, Jack dropped his guard. Overconfident or plain stupid. In an instant, his snarling opponent connected with a meteoric right cross. Jack was unconscious before he hit the canvas. And just like that, his mojo for the sport vanished. Even now, nearing 41 years of age, he had nightmares about the defeat. Boxing greatness, immortality the trainer said, was an opportunity he’d let slip. This was the gym where it all started.
He should have hated the place. Instead, he nursed a grudging affection for the old dump.
Jack eyeballed a pair of youngsters slugging it out in the ring. Overweight and out of condition as he was, he could handle either or both of them if push came to shove. His crooked nose, cauliflower ears and facial scars bore testimony to painful experience. Not just in boxing, but in street fighting with villains, pub brawls with strangers who’d ticked him off. Despite his battle wounds, some described Jack as ruggedly handsome. At least, that’s what they told him to his face.
Jack strode to the edge of the ring, rested meaty forearms on a turnbuckle. The two rookies sparred away with unbridled enthusiasm. Two more youths worked the heavy bags and speed ball in the far corner of the gym. The man Jack had come to see, Alex Gallagher, watched over the scene from his position near a weight bench at the far end of the hall. Gallagher turned his attention to the action in the ring, clocked Jack leaning on the ropes and gave a start. The copper could see the wily trainer’s eyes narrow, the head tilt, trying to gauge what kind of mood Jack was in. Jack bunched his fists, set his jaw. He wasn’t here for a chat about the weather.
‘Jack,’ the trainer nodded with a faint smile as he approached. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while. What can I do you for?’
‘Cut the bullshit, Alex,’ Jack spat. ‘Where’s my fucking money?’
Gallagher looked around nervously, ushered Jack towards his office. ‘Let’s continue this in a more private location, shall we?’
‘I’m done with private,’ said Jack. He turned around and blocked the entrance to Gallagher’s office by placing a hand either side of the door frame. ‘And I’m done with you dodging your obligations.’
‘It’s going to be like that is it, Jack? Is that the way to talk to an old mate?’
Jack laughed. ‘Mate? I don’t think we’ve ever been that. All I know is I provided a service and you’ve yet to make good with the payment…mate.’
Gallagher drew in a deep breath. ‘I’ve told you already, Jack. You’ll get your money in good time. Let’s not be having any aggro.’ He held out his hands, all conciliation. ‘How’s about some Jaffa cakes and a nice cup of tea?’
‘I’d rather drink poison.’ Jack squinted, tightened his lips. ‘I’m here to collect.’
A maniacal glint appeared in the old trainer’s eye. He took a step closer. ‘Now listen here, you washed-up plod, I think it’s about time you buggered off back to the hole you crawled out of.’
The old bastard would never have adopted the aggressive tone had he been alone in the gym. The belligerence was for the benefit of the other men; Gallagher demonstrating what a big pair of balls he had.
None of the boxers were actively watching the bubbling conversation, but Jack sensed them taking in the action through their peripherals. Monitoring. If they wanted a show, he sure as hell wouldn’t disappoint. Time to step it up. ‘Do I have to remind you of the shitstorm I saved you from?’ He spoke loud enough for all to hear.
‘No, you don’t.’ Gallagher remained aloof. ‘And I’m grateful, but…’
‘No buts, Alex. I ain’t leaving this gym until the cash is in my pocket.’
‘I’ve already given you a healthy advance. You think I’m dripping in money? This is a small-time gym with fighters scratching for pennies.’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s. Plus I’m calling bullshit on that. This joint launders more money than a casino. You don’t fix the lights outside so people thing the joint’s struggling to make ends meet.’
The beginnings of a smirk on Gallagher’s mug said Jack wasn’t far off the mark.
‘I put my arse on the line for you.’ Jack increased the volume. ‘You promised me £50,000 to keep you out of jail. So far I’ve only seen a tenth of that. And that was,’ he made exaggerated counting motions on his fingers, ‘three months ago. Not good enough, sunshine.’
Gallagher’s face went blank. The scumbag’s got no comeback, Jack thought. He’d given the trainer ample time to come up with the readies, but the grace period couldn’t go on forever. How he’d love to rearrange Gallagher’s face. His acolytes would come to his rescue, sure, but not before Jack had done some real damage.
An evil smile crept across Gallagher’s face.
‘Sheehan’s almost fully recovered. Already back in training. I’ve got him lined up for a lucrative bout next month against the district champ. Me and him have patched things up.’
‘Fuck off, Alex. You nearly killed the bloke. He must hate your guts.’
Gallagher shook his head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, clever dick. What I done was teach the lad about loyalty. Right and wrong. Most of all, not to be a cunt to your kind employer and try to cheat him.’
A ball of bile formed in Jack’s guts. ‘You’re a class act, that’s for sure. You couldn’t teach a cat to shit in a box.’
‘Your sarcasm’s off the mark, son. I’m giving Paddy a chance to redeem himself. If he wins – and there’s a good chance he will – we stand to collect enough money to pay you out, plus plenty left over to refurbish the gym. Surely you’d like to see resources put back into the community.’
‘You just said your blokes were scratching for pennies. You must think I’m a total fool.’
Gallagher shrugged. Jack’s hatred for the man was nudging the line where talk ends and violence begins. It was a last resort, but he’d back up his words with his fists if Gallagher pushed too far.
A loud smack echoed in the gym from a sickening blow landed in the ring. The sordid details of this stinking affair came flooding back. The suspicion of Sheehan throwing fights for money. Gallagher’s vicious reaction.
The initial investigation revealed that, yes, Sheehan had been taking dives in return for backhanders. One night about seven months ago, fighting the undercard before a feature bout starring a popular heavyweight legend, Paddy disgraced himself. A playful jab from his opponent missed by inches and Paddy dropped to the canvas. Jack knew the punch never connected because he was at the fight, seated in the third row. And he wasn’t the only one to see it.
Gallagher folded sinewy arms across a barrel chest. He may have been in his early sixties, but the man took care of himself.
‘And what about the stable of champions I’ve trained over the years, huh?’ He stabbed a finger at Jack’s misaligned nose. ‘And you. What a joke. You could have been my best ever, but your problem’s up here, mate.’ Gallagher tapped his temple. ‘Not smart enough to defend yourself at the critical moment.’
Blood rushed to Jack’s face, a feverish heat coursed through in his entire body. His hands quivered by his sides.
‘You don’t exactly possess the coolest head in a crisis either, you muppet.’
‘Whaddaya mean?’
It was Jack’s turn to poke a finger at a chest. ‘We know what happened to Paddy in the dressing room after the fight. You threw a haymaker, knocked the smaller man down with one cowardly blow.’
‘Says who? He fell down the stairs, and no one said otherwise.’
‘Yes they did. And it’s down to me it went no further. One of your boys blabbed. Said you straddled over Paddy, pummelled him till his face was pulp.’
‘Which one?’ Muscles twitched along Gallagher’s jawline.
‘Not saying. But there were plenty of witnesses, he tells me. I reckon for the right incentive I could get one or two more to come forward, put the record straight.’
Jack smiled as furrows formed on Gallagher’s scarred eyebrows. Not so cocky now. The DI pursed his lips as he realised what a hideous specimen the trainer was. Not just his appearance, but his soul. Everything about the man was ugly.
‘Look. This is making no sense to me.’ Gallagher thrust out a chin that had copped hundreds of punches over the decades. ‘I reached out to you. You were only too willing to make this go away.’
‘Yes. Because you offered me fifty large. To be honest, I didn’t feel great about it when I saw Paddy eating through a straw in hospital.’
‘Like I said, the prat fell down the stairs.’
‘Piss off, Gallagher.’ Jack shifted his weight, like he was about to start a boxer’s dance. ‘Despite my better judgement, I called in a few favours at the station, greased the right palms. Made the necessary paperwork vanish.’
‘For which I’m grateful. Don’t get me wrong. I just don’t have any more to give you at this point in time.’
Jack’s fist itched to have a crack at Gallagher’s legendary steel jaw. Surely this time he could break it.
‘Bullshit. Listen. Pay me half now and the rest in 48 hours.’
‘Are you deaf as well as stupid, Jack? I said I don’t have it.’
Time to try another tack. ‘Do you realise how far I went to protect your arse? Putting mine in the firing line in the process, mind. I could easily request the case be re-opened on the basis of new evidence.’
‘There is none.’
‘Are you sure? No video footage from a mobile phone, for example? A short clip of you almost murdering Paddy?’
A look of doubt flashed across Gallagher’s eyes. There was no such video, but the threat of it was enough to put fear in the bastard’s mind. But then he shook his head. ‘No way. Kids these days post videos online before they even think about the consequences. Even my boys would do the same. So I’m calling bullshit on that one.’ Gallagher thrust out his chin, challenging. ‘In fact, your whole act is bluff. You’re a lame duck, pisshead detective. Probably broke. Why else would you be so desperate for the money?’
Jack had no more words. Despite his threats, Gallagher wouldn’t be parting with any money today.
‘Kindly step out of the way and let me go about my business.’ Gallagher thrust hands in his pockets.
Jack didn’t budge from the doorway. Let Gallagher sweat for one more minute. The two men eyed each other off, wild animals asserting dominance.
‘I’ve had enough of your crap, Lisbon,’ Gallagher seethed. He took a stride forward until the pair were toe to toe, nose to nose. ‘Get the hell out of my gym, filth!’ The trainer turned sideways, tried to force his way past Jack. Raised a hand to push the copper in the shoulder.
Big mistake.
Jack swatted Gallagher’s hand away, planted a cobra-strike jab to the bridge of his nose. A loud crunch. Bright red blood spurted across the man’s face. Gallagher dropped to the ground with a thud, his hand clasped his nose as he tried to stem the stream of claret gushing from both nostrils.
The sound of footsteps as the trainer’s lads came running to Gallagher’s defence.
Lucky for Jack, he and Gallagher had been standing in a narrow alcove in front of the main office. Which meant he couldn’t be surrounded on all sides by boxers eager to help their trainer. Still, it looked like the lads were going to try, even if it was one at a time.
The first boy, a black youth with the beginnings of an afro, squared up to Jack with a cocky swagger. Pulled out a mouthguard dripping with saliva. ‘That’s no way to treat your elders,’ he mumbled in a South London accent. ‘Who do you think you are?’
Jack held up his hands in a surrender motion. ‘I’m leaving. I’ve got no beef with you guys.’
‘Fuck you,’ the youth spat. ‘You been sniffin’ around, trying to fit up Mr Gallagher for what happened to that scumbag, Sheehan.’
The DI shook his head. ‘No, it’s not like that. I’ve been trying to help him. We just had a slight difference of opinion, that’s all.’
There was fire in the youth’s eyes. ‘You don’t king hit a geezer his age, I don’t care what you say. Now you’re gonna pay the price, fat man.’
‘Just let me pass and nobody else gets hurt.’ Even as he said it, Jack knew there was no turning back from this confrontation. Rolling shoulders and a bent posture told him the youth wasn’t going to observe Queensbury rules. Likely to chuck in a few wrestling and martial arts moves. The boy’s eyes were clear and bright, not a trace of fear. Naïve, perhaps, but brave. The lad shuffled his feet, feinted a right jab. He flicked an exploratory left that brushed past Jack’s ear. The DI easily ducked a follow-up right hook, pivoted forward and planted an uppercut on the boy’s jaw. The lad staggered against the wall, crumpled to the ground next to Gallagher.
Two down.
The second boy, a white kid with a spotty complexion and a greasy mullet, approached with more hesitation. Jack knew why. He was Micky, the lad who told Jack the truth about what happened with Sheehan. The two of them shared a look of understanding. Micky and Jack would make a show of it, make sure no suspicion attached to the lad. But it would have to be realistic. Jack threw a light left jab, before swivelling and planting a kick into the lad’s midriff. Not brutal, but enough to knock the air out of the kid’s lungs. Micky grabbed at his stomach, slid to the floor with his back to the wall. Exaggerated the pain with over-the-top winces and groans.
Three down, littering the entrance to Gallagher’s office.
Two remaining fighters stood hands on hips, glared from the safety of the rear section of the gym. They must have retreated when their friends starting hitting the deck. Jack stared back at them. ‘You chumps wanna have a go, too?’ He made a come-on gesture with curled fingers. They didn’t flinch. ‘Nah, didn’t think so.’
Sure that no one else was going to attack, Jack grabbed Gallagher by the collar, dragged him inside the office. The black lad was still snoring, Micky rolled about like an Italian soccer player felled in the goal square.
Jack liberated a bunch of tissues from a box on Gallagher’s desk, handed them over to him. The vanquished trainer dabbed his face, blotted away thick maroon blood.
‘Am I supposed to be impressed? Planting a sucker punch when I’m not ready and laying out two lads barely past puberty?’ Gallagher gave a forced laugh.
‘I’d be more than happy to go twelve rounds in the ring with you, Gallagher,’ Jack offered with a wry smile. ‘I’ll even wipe your debt clean if you beat me, how does that sound?’
‘That’s always been your problem, Jack. You think you’re a lot better than you are. You think you’re untouchable. No one is untouchable’.
‘So you’ll take me up on the offer then?’
‘I’m a businessman. Fighting a man who nearly went pro in the ring for 50 kay wouldn’t exactly be a smart business decision, now would it?’
Jack shrugged his shoulders, ‘Probably not smart, but it would sure as hell be a laugh for me.’
‘If it’s a laugh you want,’ Gallagher grunted. ‘How about I tell you right now that if you think you’re ever getting the rest of that money out of me, you’re bloody dreaming.’
Jack grinned. ‘And what happens when I have a word with the gym’s owners about that?’
‘About what? Do they even know about the payment you asked for? I never told ‘em because I respected you. As far as I’m concerned, you can go fuck yourself now,’ Gallagher laughed.
‘They wouldn’t let you get away with that. You and I shook hands on those repayments. You even hinted you were getting the dosh off them to pay me. To protect you and the reputation of McNair’s.’
‘That’s not how I recall it. Anyway, who do you think they’re going to back? The washed-up copper, or the gym manager who keeps the money rolling in and the lights on every week?’
‘Don’t do something you might regret.’
‘Me? Regret? You’re the one who did this mate.’ Gallagher pointed at his busted nose. ‘You’ll be lucky if I don’t press charges for assault. Coming here and throwing your weight around, what did you think was going to happen? I’d open the safe and hand you the contents?’
The bastard was right. Diplomacy was never Jack’s strong point.
‘So you’ve got the cash?’
‘I didn’t say that. But I am saying this. Leave my gym, Lisbon, and don’t fucking come back.’ Jack strode out of the office and slammed the door behind him. He turned for one last time to see the trainer pick up the phone and bark a few words into it. Time to come up with a better plan.