On Tuesday morning, I dropped past Big Oakie’s house before going to the races at Cranbourne. Oakie was going to lend me a spare laptop and charger that we could plug into the car’s lighter, just in case anything failed with mine. This time, we had a lot more notice to plan things and I was determined the D Tracker wouldn’t fail when it came to following cars.
I pulled up in the driveway behind Oakie’s big truck of a four-wheel-drive. Michelle’s little red car was in the driveway too, on the other side of Oakie’s. When I knocked on the door she opened it and smiled. She was dressed to go out and had a tote bag over her shoulder, keys in her hand. A good-looking guy, fit and about twenty-something, stood beside her, a hand placed protectively on her back. The new boyfriend, obviously.
‘Hi, Punter, come in. Dad’s in the kitchen.’ She called out to him; heard Oakie yell something back in reply.
‘This is Steven,’ she said, introducing me to her friend. Steven nodded at me, unsure where I fitted in. ‘Punter’s one of Dad’s best clients,’ she explained.
‘I heard you two met on holidays,’ I said.
They grinned fondly at each other. ‘Um, we met up at the beach one day,’ said Steven.
‘Really?’ I teased. ‘Short odds that happening on the Gold Coast.’
Michelle laughed, then excused herself. ‘We’re just about to head off now. Bye, Dad,’ she yelled out.
Oakie came out into the hallway, a cup of coffee buried in his hand. ‘Hey, Punter, come in. Lemme make you a coffee. You meet Steven? Course you did. You two have a great time now,’ he said, kissing Michelle and slapping Steven’s shoulder as they walked out.
‘Bye, Punter,’ Michelle called over her shoulder.
‘Goin’ shoppin’,’ Oakie said to me, ‘with the new boyfriend.’
‘Seems a nice guy.’
‘He is. A young lawyer, works for a large firm in town. Just what she needs, after all she’s been through.’
We watched them drive out, Michelle behind the wheel and Steven’s arm affectionately behind her neck.
‘It’s good she’s found someone.’
‘Too right. Her counsellor said she’s had a pretty traumatic time of it, but the best thing is to get her back to her normal life as quickly as possible. I’ve got her back in the workforce from next Saturday. She’ll be clerking for me three days a week. That’ll keep her occupied.’ Oakie smiled good-naturedly at me. ‘Come through and I’ll give you that gear.’
I followed him into the kitchen and he poured me a cup of coffee from the percolator.
‘The stuff’s on the dining table,’ he said, pointing to a laptop and charger. ‘I like your idea of a test run. Kevin should be here any tick of the clock.’
I’d floated the idea of another practice session of the D Tracker before Saturday night. Kevin was going to drive to the races with Oakie and track me in the car, just to make sure there were no hiccups.
‘Well, that way I’ll feel a lot more confident knowing you guys are following my movements.’
‘Just the same, you be careful, Punter. We’ll be tagging you, but we lost ’em once before.’
Kevin dropped by a few moments later and Oakie let him in and offered him a coffee. While he poured him a cup, I went over the gear with him again.
‘Same go as last time,’ I said, ‘except this time I’ll carry the tracker and you monitor it on the laptop. We’ll take a portable charger, just in case.’
‘No worries. We’ll follow you all the way to Cranbourne.’
‘And through the week too. I’ll get you to track my movements every day to see that it’s working properly.’
As it turned out, the D Tracker worked fine. Oakie and Kevin tracked me down the South Gippsland highway and all the way to Cranbourne races. During the week, Kevin kept it up and phoned me several times confirming my whereabouts. I went to the Sandown meeting on the Wednesday and Kevin called me unexpectedly when I was driving past the Chadstone shopping centre.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘heading south-east along Dandenong Road, my guess is you’re making for Sandown.’
I laughed. ‘My life is reduced to a little red dot blipping along a computer screen. Where are you?’
‘At home in St Kilda. Tell you what,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘I’m feeling a lot better about Saturday night with this thing. It picks up your whereabouts anywhere, so we’ll be able to sit a ways off you without getting noticed.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
The rest of the week slipped by quickly. I caught up with Billy on Thursday morning at Gino’s. A minor problem with one of the dishwashers had turned sour; we now needed a new one. Always another expense when you think you’ve got everything bedded down. But the past month had been our best yet in sales, so Billy was chuffed about that. I told him to buy a new dishwasher, something heavy-duty that we would get at least five years out of. O’Reilly rang me on Thursday afternoon and said Romaro Boy seemed back to his best and he was looking to start him the following weekend. He’d been reluctant to run any of his horses since he’d found out what Frank had been up to. He reasoned he’d give all his nobbled horses extra time to recover from their unscheduled track work before racing them again. I was looking forward to the day; O’Reilly would have three or four top chances and they’d all be good odds after their previous poor performances.
Jim Beering had left a message on my voicemail. Said that he’d met with the City West detectives, the ongoing inquiries concerning Frank were progressing nicely, and the mallet and shoe were with the Coroner’s Office awaiting tests. I might be needed to answer some further questions. That was Beering’s way of saying don’t leave town. As if.
Kate called me up on Friday morning, wanted to know if her contact, Ian Patterson, had come good with the information about cock fights. I told her I’d had a drink with him and he’d given me a heap of information and left it at that. I didn’t want to go into the pros and cons of me attending a cock fight tomorrow night. She’d only tell me it was a stupid and dangerous idea, and she was probably right. I changed the conversation around to Romaro Boy, telling her that O’Reilly was looking to start the horse the following Saturday.
‘Oh goody!’ she said. ‘I’ll tell the girls to get ready. That’ll be the first week in September. I’ll need a new outfit, dress and shoes. Maybe a hat.’
I laughed.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘You girls. Any excuse to go shopping. Owning a horse is expensive enough, but for women it’s twice as bad, because you buy a new outfit every time they run.’
‘Nonsense, Punter. Besides, O’Reilly’s not charging us a training fee now, you told me. That means I can actually buy two outfits a month now because of the money I’m saving.’
I couldn’t argue with that logic, and rang off saying I’d probably see her tomorrow at the track.
After I’d done some form I called Alan around lunchtime, wanting to confirm that everything was still on for tomorrow. He answered the phone sounding suspicious.
‘Alan?’
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, John. Mate, just wanted to check we’re still on for Saturday night?’
‘Yep. It’s a goer.’
‘Those birds of mine still okay?’
‘Yeah, they’re fightin’ fit. When you gonna come pick them up?’
‘Sunday still okay? I can come around then, pick them up and pay you the rest of what’s owing.’
‘Make it after lunch, it’ll be a big night Saturday.’
‘Sure. Hey, I’ve got a good feeling about your birds; reckon you and I will make some good money tomorrow.’
I could picture Alan thinking of the roll I’d held up in front of him. He wanted that roll. He’d gotten some of it already, but he wanted more, he wanted the lot.
‘You be there at eleven,’ he said, ‘by yourself.’
I could hardly remember the races that Saturday afternoon other than they were at the Valley. I had one bet, which lost, but I didn’t really care as I was thinking ahead to that night. I probably shouldn’t have come with my mind not properly on the job, but I would only have been stamping around at home with one eye on Sky Channel and the other in a formguide.
I wasn’t the only one who looked distracted. Big Oakie was standing on his bookie’s stand, all one hundred and forty kilos of him, like a giant polar bear. Michelle was there clerking for him, but she was on the members’ side of the stand and had her back to us both. He was gazing into the crowd, a slight frown on his massive forehead, a pen in one hand and a sheath of form pages in another. When he saw me he smiled and winked.
‘Think I’m gonna get more action tonight than I am at this meeting,’ he said quietly. ‘Can’t help thinking that those bastards might be there.’
‘Me too. We’ll find out soon enough.’
‘Well, we’re all set, me and Kevin and Tiny. We’ll be close by when you meet up with that cock-breeder guy tonight.’
‘Don’t get too close.’
‘Don’t worry. And be careful. Any trouble, you get the hell outta there and on the phone, we’ll come and lend a hand.’
It was reassuring to know I had Oakie and the boys as back-up because come eleven o’clock that night, I was starting to have second thoughts about the whole thing. I was parked in an all-night truck stop in an industrial wasteland at the back of Keysborough. The place had warning signs up everywhere saying ‘No more than fifty dollars kept on premises’ and ‘Failing to pay for fuel is an offence.’ The place reeked of hold-ups and petrol thieves. An Indian guy behind the counter asked me if I’d bought petrol, and would I like to purchase the one-litre Diet Coke on special. I said no to both and gave him a hundred-dollar note to change. That made a mockery of his signage. I went back out and sat in my van, sipping coffee and waiting for Alan. Maybe I should have taken the guy’s special offer; the coffee was about as watery as a flat Coke.
Cars and trucks went by. Some came in and filled up with fuel. I’d backed in and parked to the side of the shop doors so I could see the road. I wished I knew where Oakie and the crew were; I thought I saw his big Land Rover cruising past, but I couldn’t be sure. We’d agreed not to talk on the mobile unless it was urgent. I didn’t want to spook Alan if he saw me on a phone, he might be watching me right now, scoping the place to see if I was on my own.
At ten past eleven, a dirty white Toyota HiAce van drove in. It cruised to a stop next to me and the tinted window rolled down to reveal the ugly little face with a three-day growth and the greasy pudding-bowl haircut. It was Alan.
‘Too right,’ I said, patting my shirt pocket. Greedy little bastard. ‘Bring your birds?’
He thumbed his hand towards the back of his van. ‘Follow me and stick close.’
Now that I knew he was going to make me follow him in my van, I took the D Tracker software card out of my wallet and placed it securely in the console. Then I started the ignition and followed him out. He took the road back towards town and that surprised me. But then, a couple of kilometres or so later, he pulled a left down some dirt side-road. We were heading past nurseries and vacant land. Most of Keysborough and Dandenong had been well and truly developed, but the southern side hadn’t changed in a hundred years. It was still occupied by paddocks and windswept floodplains, a rural oasis in the heart of suburbia. We passed some poultry farms; was that an omen? Took another left down an unsealed road that crossed a creek. I was totally lost now. I hoped that Oakie and the boys weren’t following too close behind to be seen, but I couldn’t see their headlights.
We were running along adjacent to electricity lines when Alan swung a sudden right into what looked like another dirt laneway blocked by a double steel gate. It wasn’t locked and Alan jumped down, pushed it open and drove through, waiting for me. He closed the gate behind me and I rolled down the window.
‘Far now?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Bit further, we’re nearly there.’
Alan got back into his van and I followed him down the laneway. It went under the powerlines, across another creek crossing, before swinging left and following the creek again. We were probably no more than four or five kilometres from the nearest house, but it was pitch black and we could have been in the middle of nowhere for all I knew.
Soon we came to a line of trees, their tall shadows looming to our right. Alan seemed to know the way well enough; it was clear he’d been here before. He pulled off again to his right and took a driveway which had appeared between the tree line. We came to a gate and I could see our headlights light up two guys manning the fence. One of them had a guard dog, a mean-looking brute. Looked a dead ringer for his handler, who appeared at Alan’s window checking him out. I heard him say, ‘He’s all right, he’s with me.’
They walked down to my van and checked me out anyway. Two big Maoris, leather jackets buttoned high on their necks to keep out the cold. They shone a torch in my face and into the back of my van.
‘You’ll need a nip or two of Scotch to keep you warm tonight,’ I joked. They looked at me blandly, not a ghost of a smile. The dog gave a growl. His handler spat on the ground. Memo to self: Don’t come around here and say Joe sent you.
The one without the dog jerked his head at me like I was dismissed and I drove off again behind Alan, who’d started back down the lane. We drove on another two hundred metres or so and finally came to the place. Ironically, it was a disused chicken farm, a huge shed that had a hundred-odd cars and vans parked under the trees outside. They’d picked the location well – you couldn’t see a thing from the road – and I saw why. The whole shed was surrounded by trees, tall pines that acted as a windbreak and shielded its lights from passers-by. Not that I noticed many people passing by. You’d want a good reason to be driving around here at this time of the night.
‘Here, grab this,’ said Alan, thrusting a cage at me from the back of his van. I glimpsed a flash of tail feathers and a darting beak. ‘I’ll take the other two.’
Alan had brought along three birds to fight tonight, and he also pulled out a little backpack from the van as well.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
He touched his nose slyly. ‘My little bag of tricks. Wait till we get inside, I’ll show you.’
Alan led us up to the entrance. As with the front gates, there were a couple of burly-looking bouncers minding the door.
‘How many fighting?’ one of them asked Alan, jutting his chin at the cages.
‘That’ll be a hundred a bird, mate.’
‘I got it, Alan,’ I said, pulling out some money and paying the guy. ‘They always charge per bird?’
‘That’s the take for the house, and some goes to the winning owners. You wanna just watch, they’ll sting you seventy-five.’
I did the maths; not a bad take. Probably half the people here would be fighting with two or three birds. Fifteen to twenty grand just in admission fees, and that wasn’t counting their percentage from the betting.
Alan led us inside, where activity was already well underway. There seemed to be a fair crowd in attendance. I had a quick scan around and noticed a mainly male crowd, drinking stubbies and smoking. Some were eating fast food; they must have had a stall out the back. It was well set up.
Alan took us to the fighting pit, a large circular area fenced off about a metre high from the ground. At the back of the pit he spoke to a marshall or judge, or whatever the hell they called them. They certainly weren’t racing stewards, I could vouch for that. Alan waved for me to follow and we were shown to an area behind the pits where we could put our cages down. Alan slid the backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it.
‘Here, ’ave a go at this,’ he said cunningly, laying open the merchandise.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
Inside was a collection of weapons a martial arts expert would have been proud of. Several sets of cock-fighting spurs, all wickedly curved and two inches long with a steel gaff at the ends. He had other weapons too, including a variety of razor-sharp stirrup knives up to several centimetres long.
‘Jesus, Alan, what are they? What the hell you do with those?’
He looked at me like I was an idiot. ‘They’re for mountin’ on their legs. The knives are best. Kill faster than the gaffs,’ he explained, ‘cause they pierce as well as cut. You can’t be goin’ into a bout with less gear than the other bird’s got. Else they’ll rip you to shreds.’
The fucking sick hillbilly. I hated any sort of cruelty to animals and this bogan was carrying on like his treatment of birds was the most natural thing in the world. I had to force myself to look impressed. What I’d like to have done is taken him outside and thumped some sense into him.
Alan put his gear back into his pack and slung it over his shoulder.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said. ‘Those things go walkabout round ’ere. C’mon, I’ll show you around.’
I wasn’t surprised that things might go missing. The crowd consisted of the greatest bunch of misfits, criminals, itinerant no-hopers and druggies I’d ever had the misfortune to be under the one roof with. There were bikies in there too. A dozen or so were standing around in their leathers, drinking Jack Daniels neat from the bottle. No pub rules here about glasses only. They had a couple of women in tow with the gang’s colours on. I actually noticed there were quite a few more women here than I’d realised. Most were standing up the back a little away from the action. Some had even brought their kids along for God’s sake. I couldn’t believe it. Saturday night entertainment for the whole family. I heard one kid whining to his mother. Didn’t do him any good.
‘Shuddup, you little brat,’ she hissed at him, ‘or you’ll spend the rest of the night out in the car!’
Someone said g’day to Alan as we walked along. Wanted to know whether to back his birds tonight or not. He shook his head, said he wasn’t real confident.
‘They’re slaughtermen from the abattoirs, those guys,’ he said, tilting his head back at three wild-looking guys. ‘They all go crazy after a while. It’s the constant stabbing and killing they do with cattle and sheep. Makes ’em immune to death. They bet on cock fights like you wouldn’t believe.’
We made our way out to the back of the stadium, if you could call it that, and got ourselves a beer. There were only two varieties. VB on ice in large plastic tubs and VB not on ice, still in their cartons stacked on the ground. You could buy bourbon by the bottle, and Scotch too, which they charged you an arm and a leg for. Christ, talk about a Wild West show. We grabbed a beer each and Alan led me back to the pit. ‘Let’s go, they’re gonna start the fights soon.’
It makes me sick to my stomach to see animals mistreated. But in spite of the obvious suffering that was going to take place tonight, I can’t say I wasn’t fascinated in a bizarre sort of way by what I saw. Alan explained how it worked as the contestants came out for the first of the fights. Two owners brought their cocks over to the judge, who weighed them on a scale and examined them.
‘The black one, he’ll start favourite,’ said Alan. ‘He’s got the advantage, he’s heavier.’
I thought the fight had started when the birds were thrown at each other. But I was mistaken, as their owners quickly gathered them up again after a brief flurry of wings and feet.
‘That’s only a trial run,’ explained Alan. ‘Gets ’em warmed up and also gives the punters an idea of what to bet on.’
‘Oh, sort of like a canter down the straight before a horse race?’
‘Something like that.’
The owners were bringing the birds back to the judges’ tables again and seemed to be attaching gear to them. ‘See, they’re putting the spurs and knives on ’em now,’ said Alan. ‘Watch the judges. They’re lookin’ for any poison and shit that some of ’em try to sneak in.’
‘They’ll do that?’
‘They’ll try on anything what’ll give ’em an advantage.’
A couple of bookies shouted the odds; there was a generous throng of people around their stands. They were betting freely amongst themselves too, all of it cash. I took the opportunity to see if I could see Ronnie or his brother about. No sign of them yet, so I switched my attention back to the fight.
‘You betting on this, Alan?’ I asked.
‘No. These are for first-time fighters, younger birds. They got no track record. They’re still learning what it’s all about.’
‘I see.’
A bell sounded and the judge signalled a start. Nothing much happened at first. Just two roosters facing off and seeming to puff out their feathers. Then they went for each other. I couldn’t believe the ferocity with which they attacked one another. They literally flew at each other with stabbing beaks and slashing claws. The smaller one rolled over and seemed a goner when the bigger one jumped on him and went to work. But somehow the smaller one revived and lashed out with one of his razor-sharp blades, spearing the other’s chest. It was all over after a minute. One down, one victorious. The owners came and reclaimed their birds. The dead one went into a special bin, and the winner was quickly carted away before the next bout commenced.
‘That was a shit fight, wasn’t it?’ said one of the bikies who had drifted down to where we were standing.
‘Fuckin’ did my arse on the big one,’ said another. ‘He was bloody useless.’
He glared at me like I should know. ‘Yeah,’ I said knowledgeably, ‘bloody useless.’
We watched a couple more fights, then it was time to prepare the first of Alan’s birds. I went back to help him get it ready.
‘You want to bet on this?’ I asked him.
‘Nah. This one’s a first starter. Don’t know enough about him.’ He nodded at the far cage. ‘That’s the one we want. He’ll be on a little later.’
I left Alan to it as they only allowed one owner in the ring with a bird. It gave me a chance to circulate and watch for Ronnie and Craig. Over the last half-hour the crowd had built up. There must have been twice as many people now as when we’d first come, at least a couple of hundred. This time I stood on the other side of the pit and mingled in with a group of knockabout punters. They didn’t seem to mind me joining in and one of them asked me what I thought. I told him what Alan had said, they were both first starters and it was an even money bet.
‘Yeah, you’re like me, mate. Like to see a bit of form before you put the readies down.’
I watched the fight. Alan’s bird, although making a go of it, was gradually overcome by its opponent. Then it did something unusual. It refused to fight and kept running off to the safety of the pit wall, to jeers and insults from the crowd. The judge directed Alan to set it breast to breast with the other bird in the middle of the pit. He did that, but it still did the same again, and the judge signalled a win to the other bird.
Back behind the pit wall I asked Alan what had happened.
‘It’s gutless, won’t fight. Got no heart,’ he said disgustedly.
‘What’ll you do with it then?’
‘Do with it?’ he said, puzzled by my question. ‘There’s only one thing you can do.’ He reached down quickly, gathered up the poor cock and broke its neck with an expert snap. Without batting an eyelid he tossed the still twitching carcass into the bin behind the judges’ stand.
I went back to the bar area and got Alan and myself another round of drinks. A fight had broken out between a couple of guys who’d bet amongst themselves and couldn’t seem to agree on who had won. The bouncers settled it pretty smartly. They came running in and belted them both about the head with a flurry of punches, pulled them apart and threw them outside. Most of the other punters didn’t seem to notice or care. I zigzagged through the crowd on the way back to Alan, looking for any sign of Ronnie and Craig. Still no go, and I was starting to lose hope they would show, although I hadn’t checked out the opposite side of the ring yet.
There was a large and vocal group of punters down that end and I couldn’t see them properly from where I was. I dropped the beer around to Alan first and was surprised to see him handing over one of his cages to another guy. I must have looked puzzled because he gave me one of his sly looks and explained.
‘That’s one less cock we’ll be fightin’ tonight. I just sold it.’
‘Not our good bet?’
‘Nah, another first-timer. Bloke’s looking for a good first starter. I told him it was a good thing to win first up.’ He flashed a roll of hundreds in front of me. ‘Bird in the hand is worth a dead bird.’ He laughed cruelly. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll back this little beauty, ’ow much did ya bring?’
‘Right, we’re on in twenty minutes, so be around when I weigh up and I’ll tell yer what to do.’
Leaving Alan, I walked back around to the mob of punters at the far end whom I hadn’t checked out. There was another cock fight starting and it was fairly easy for me to walk around the fringes of the group, mingling in to get a better view. This bunch seemed to be a couple of groups of cock breeders; they knew what they were talking about and were betting with gusto amongst themselves. No Davis brothers in that lot. I’d now been here an hour and a half and I couldn’t see any sign of them. I was starting to feel despondent. Maybe Beering was right, it was just a one-off occurrence they’d attended a fight.
I went back to help Alan and he already had his bird out, getting it ready. It was the Roundhead with the fiery mane and orange feathers that I’d seen the Sunday before.
‘The threshing machine?’
Alan grinned, nodded. ‘Wait around the front of the pit and I’ll speak to you after they weigh in.’
I walked around and watched as Alan and his opponent took their birds to the judges’ table. They looked evenly matched to my untrained eye. The same size and approximate weight, they were even the same breed. After the judges had examined the birds, they let them go at each other for a trial bout. Alan’s bird appeared to be out-muscled by his opponent and conceded ground, back-pedalling as they pecked and scraped at each other. Alan didn’t seem too concerned. He walked over while this was going on and gave me my betting instructions. ‘You’ll get the better odds on my bird, he never tries hard in the trials. Saves himself for the fight. Claim the bookies for all you can get set.’
I waded into the main ring where the two bookies were. How different it was from the genteel rails ring at Flemington. Here, there were no odds displayed on electronic screens, no suit-and-tie member apologising if he accidentally pushed past you. It was every man for himself, and you had to shove your way in to get close to the action. Alan’s cock was evens and the other bird was odds on. I claimed one guy for an even thousand and he snapped it up like it was confetti. They weren’t frightened of taking your money at this place. The other guy was calling him evens as well, so I pushed through and thrust the rest of my money at him. Before he could take it, some loser elbowed me to the side and moved in front of me. All I could see was the back of the rude bastard’s jacket. If it had been at the races, I’d have been tempted to have words with him. But here I didn’t want any trouble, so I let it go. I heard the guy call out his bet, a cocky-sounding voice, and he backed the other bird for plenty. As he finished placing his bet, he spun around and we locked eyes. It was Ronnie Davis. He must have recognised me – impossible not to at that distance. But if he did, he didn’t show it. Instead, he walked around me and disappeared into the crowd.
The cock fight started and the birds flew at one another in a ripping, tearing frenzy. This was the first fight of the night between two experienced birds and the spectators were wound up, shouting encouragement to the birds they had backed. The noise didn’t seem to stop the birds from their sole objective of trying to kill each other. They backed off for a moment, like two boxers warily circling each other, trying to find an opening. Punters were still frenetically yelling out bets amongst each other as they fought. I’d given up on trying to get the rest of my money on and was watching the fight by the front of the pit rail. I could almost feel Ronnie Davis’s eyes boring a hole through the back of my head like a laser. Felt him staring at me, he must be, but I daren’t turn around.
The birds charged at each other again and met breast to breast, at head height off the ground. Alan’s cock grabbed the other’s beak, its hackles flaring like the quills on an echidna, then they broke free and circled each other again. They were both tiring, but there was no backing down, no raising the white flag in this contest. The one that wilted was the one that would die. Alan’s bird feinted and parried, then released a flurry of kicks and slashes with its feet. The wicked-looking spurs and blades found their mark and a spurt of blood erupted from the other bird’s insides as the spectators let out a roar. Egged on by the noise, Alan’s bird went in for the kill, and amidst a slashing of beak and claws left its opponent bloodied and spent on the floor of the pit. The crowd erupted, those who’d backed the winner cheering and the losers cursing. The judge awarded Alan’s bird the fight and it was all over. The beaten bird was picked up by its trainer and, still quivering, was thrown into the carcass bin to join the other night’s losers. The punters slowly drifted away from the pit to collect their winnings or buy another drink.
Before I collected my bet, I decided to call up Oakie and the guys, let them know I’d seen Ronnie. My plan was to leave before the fights ended and wait outside in my van where I could see which car he left in. Then I could tell the others what he was driving and hopefully we could double tag him without getting too close for him to notice. I walked outside to make the call, nodding at the two bouncers minding the front door. They were a bit more relaxed now than when we had first come in. Their night was half over and they joked with me as I walked out, asking if I’d won.
It was bloody freezing outside and I could hardly see a damn thing in the dark.
I spotted the shadowed outline of another smaller shed to the side of the main building; as good a place as any for a private call. There was a line of parked cars adjoining the smaller shed and I stumbled past those as I pulled my mobile from my pocket. I nearly dropped the damn thing in the dark whilst fumbling for the keypad.
That’s when he hit me. Belted me with something heavy and lethal, crashing over the back of my head like a wave breaking on a reef. I dropped like I was shot and looked up to see Ronnie Davis standing over me.
‘That’s for stickin’ yer fuckin’ nose in where it’s not wanted,’ he said.