Vincent Vanzetti’s notes told me that I could find V.J. Parks at the Riverside boxing gym, a graffiti-sprayed, decrepit, crumbling shack of a building with a corrugated iron roof and wire mesh on its grimy windows. So I drove to the Riverside gym, beside the River Taff, in a rundown area of the city.
I parked my car on a patch of waste ground then ducked my head to avoid the long arm of a JCB as it swooped to clear away some rubble. I had to tiptoe through the rumble, climbing over fallen masonry, thankful that today I was wearing training shoes and not high heels. I was also dressed in jeans and a short leather jacket, maybe a subconscious reaction to Catrin Vanzetti’s mild criticism of my trench coat.
The gym door was open, so I entered to find three sweaty men pursuing pugilistic activities. One of the men, little more than a teenager, was punching the living daylights out of a punchbag, which was suspended from the ceiling. Even to my untutored eye, it was plain to see that this boxer relied purely on aggression, not finesse or style. The way he thumped the punchbag suggested that it hung there to release his frustration.
The second man, in his early thirties, was on a rowing machine, easing the oars back and forth, as though travelling through still waters. Meanwhile, the third man was standing beside the boxing ring, skipping. His languid, natural movements marked him out as a professional. From newspaper photographs and Vanzetti’s file, I could tell that this man was V.J. Parks.
Parks moved with grace and style, ignoring the grunts and groans of his companions. A middleweight and southpaw, he was in his mid-twenties. He had short, black hair, neatly trimmed, dark, smouldering eyes and a handsome, Mediterranean face. I noticed an area of scar tissue around his eyes and recalled that some experts believed that cuts around his eyes were his only obstacle to greatness. Needless to say, he possessed a lean, muscular body; toned, trimmed, athletic.
As the boxers went about their training, I recalled the beatings, dished out by my mother and ex-husband. Alan wasn’t like Dan; I repeated that mantra to myself daily. I understood that Alan was a different type of man, not violent or aggressive. Yet, the past is like an anchor, and it can hold you in one place, if you’re not careful. Step by step, I was walking away from my past, creating a new life for myself, and new memories. However, the black cloud remained and, maybe, that had a bearing on my reluctance to commit to marriage.
“The ladies’ gym is down the road,” Parks said. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow then walked towards me.
“I’m not here to box,” I said. “I’m working for Vincent Vanzetti, looking for Vittoria.”
Parks nodded, slowly. He flashed a brief, tight smile; true, his eyes were scarred, but his teeth were in great shape. “You’re Sam.”
I nodded.
“Mr Vanzetti mentioned you. You found Vittoria yet?”
Sadly, I shook my head.
“Got a lead?”
“Not yet,” I confessed. “I was hoping to talk with you.”
“Sure,” Parks said. Once again, he removed a towel from around his shoulders and mopped the perspiration from his brow. “Let me freshen up first. Be with you in a tick.”
While V.J. Parks showered, I wandered outside. I stood on the embankment and gazed at the river. Apparently, as a small child, I fell into the Taff. As usual, my mother was drunk in charge of a toddler. Over the years, that story varied in the telling: sometimes my mother would insist that she rescued me, or a passing policeman saved me, or a handsome man dived in, then instantly proposed marriage to my mother. In all probability, I had to scramble out myself; I did a hell of a lot of scrambling of one sort or another throughout my childhood. Nevertheless, maybe this hazy memory helped to explain my mild fear of water.
V.J. Parks walked into the spring sunshine wearing a smart sports jacket, a trim pair of slacks, a white shirt and a navy tie with a boxing emblem emblazoned on its large Windsor knot. We fell into step and strolled along the embankment.
“Do you get on well with Mr Vanzetti?” I asked after some preliminary banter about the weather and the changing face of the city.
“Sure, he’s a good man.”
“And you get on well with Vittoria.”
Parks thrust out his chin. He hitched up his shoulders and seemed to grow taller, with pride. “She’s my girl. I love her.”
“Then why has she run out on you, on everyone?”
“I don’t know.” His shoulders sagged. He slumped into his powerful frame, his face morose. “And not knowing, not knowing where she is, is like taking a low blow, you know.”
I nodded and we walked on in silence.
We were strolling south, towards a salubrious neighbourhood, a series of modern tower blocks, living accommodation, with balconies leaning towards the river. I could picture my mother dangling a naughty Samantha from a balcony, threatening to drop her into the river. I could hear my screams of protest. I felt like screaming now. Good job my mother brought me up in a simple Victorian slum; poverty has its advantages.
While pausing under a balcony, I said, “You’re in line for a shot at the world title.”
“Yeah. If I win my next fight, I’ll be up for the crown.”
“Do you think you’ll win?”
“I wouldn’t step into the ring if I thought I’d lose,” Parks said with an air of confidence, but with no arrogance.
“Why do you train here,” I asked, “there must be better facilities?”
“Oh, yeah, I use other gyms as well. I call at the Riverside when I want to put in some extra training. Also, it keeps me in touch with my roots, with my dad, my first trainer. I guess I still train here to honour his memory.” Parks crossed himself and glanced up to the sky. “The extra work I put in here will make me world champion.”
“How does Vittoria feel about your boxing?”
“She’s thrilled. She supports me. We’re real close.”
“But not at the moment,” I said.
“No.” Parks paused. He hung his head, pursed his lips and kicked at a loose stone.
“Any idea where Vittoria might be?”
He shook his head. “I gave Mr Vanzetti my suggestions. He wrote a list.”
“I’ve checked those locations. No one’s seen Vittoria for the past ten days.”
While we reflected on that sombre fact, a young man rode past on a bicycle. He recognised V.J. Parks and yelled, “Give him hell, V.J.!”
Parks raised his left fist and smiled in acknowledgment. The smile was genuine, but it failed to touch his eyes.
“What do you do outside boxing?” I asked after the cyclist had disappeared.
“Nothing really. I watch a bit of football; have a kick around with the lads. But my life is Vittoria and boxing, and that’s all I want.” He clenched his left fist, grimaced, and threatened to punch a hole into a nearby tree. “I miss her,” he sniffed. He appeared close to tears. “I’m worried about her. Where can she be?”
I gazed at the river, at the dirty Taff, abused for generations. One day, the river would fight back; it would flood its banks. Then all the people in the luxury homes and fancy apartments would cry out, ‘how can this be?’ We reap what we sow; we abuse the planet at our peril.
However, I sensed that V.J. Parks was genuine, that he was telling the truth. To him, I said, “You just concentrate on your boxing; I’ll keep looking for Vittoria; I’ll be in touch, soon.”
Parks nodded. He pressed his fist against the tree; through his shirt and jacket, his biceps bulged with latent power. Parks had won the vast majority of his fights with knockouts, many within the first three rounds. Boxing was a brutal profession, yet many of its heroes were men of honour. Parks struck me as a man of honour, which begged the question: why would Vittoria run and abandon him? If I found the answer to that question maybe I’d locate the lady herself.