Davo's Little Something (23 page)

Davo stood outside the lift for a while surveying the scene then moved towards the fellow he thought was the instructor; a neat fair-haired guy in his mid-twenties, about an inch taller but a little narrower across the shoulders than Davo, with long sinewy arms and the mandatory broken nose of a boxer. Davo watched him from behind for a moment or two then walked up to him.

‘Excuse me, mate, are you in charge?'

The instructor turned to Davo and smiled. ‘That's right, mate. What can I do for you?' He sounded pleasant enough but Davo could sense by the way he looked at him that he was slightly curious as to why a man obviously a lot older than the other kids in the gym would want to take up boxing.

‘I'd like some lessons if I could, mate. I've got a chance
of doing some movie stunt work through a mate of mine and I need to know the basics.' It was the same line Davo had given the bloke at the martial arts store and it sounded believable. ‘I did a bit years ago when I was at school, but it was nothing really. Do you think you could show us a few things?'

The instructor smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don't see why not. What's your name?'

‘Ah . . . Brian,' replied Davo.

‘Okay, Brian, I'm Ken.' They shook hands briefly. ‘Leave your gear over there somewhere and come back and have a tap on one of these bags for a while then I might get in the ring with you. There's a pair of bag mitts on that table over there.'

‘Thanks, Ken.'

Davo walked over and placed his bag on the wooden bench running round the wall, checking out the mitts Ken had referred to on the way: they sat on a table next to some old boxing gloves and a couple of skipping ropes. Apart from being almost worn out and filthy dirty they stunk of old sweat and liniment and were probably crawling with germs; Davo was glad he'd decided to bring his own with him. He left his tracksuit pants on and a T-shirt and walked back to where Ken was standing next to a vacant punching bag.

‘This one okay?' asked Davo, nodding at the vacant bag.

‘Yeah. Just do a couple of rounds on it, take it easy, and I'll keep an eye on you.'

Davo nodded and began circling the bag slowly poking out lefts and rights. He deliberately made mistakes and only threw the punches at about a quarter the speed and power he could have, if that, but it still showed that he at least knew the basics. He didn't feel selfconscious or embarrassed with Ken and the others watching him, Davo knew exactly what he was doing.

Ken on the other hand was reasonably pleased, at least Brian seemed to have half an idea what he was doing so he wouldn't have to be teaching a complete dodo.

‘Just keep your right up under your chin and your elbow over your ribs a bit more Brian. And throw those lefts out straight from your shoulder. Here I'll show you.'

Davo stood aside while Ken moved around the bag and tossed out several straight lefts and one or two rights. Davo smiled to himself as he nodded in acknowledgement, then did as Ken told him.

‘Yeah that's better. Much better. Do another round or so and we'll get in the ring.'

Davo finished another two three-minute rounds on the bag and hadn't even raised his heartbeat or a sweat; after doing five-minute rounds at the furious pace he was used to, this was like an old time waltz. He finished his workout and put his mitts back in his overnight bag then walked back to Ken who told him to have a rest for a minute or two while he finished putting one of the young blokes through his paces. When he'd finished Ken got four large crinkled boxing gloves off the table and they gloved up ready to have a spar.

‘You done much boxing, have you Ken?' asked Davo, as one of the young blokes helped him lace up the gloves.

‘Ohh yeah, I did a bit,' replied Ken evenly. ‘I was amateur light-heavyweight champion of New South Wales for three years. I drew for the Australian title once. I was metropolitan heavyweight champion for two years.

‘Yeah? How many fights've you had?'

Ken gave his shoulders a bit of a shrug. ‘Over a hundred.'

‘You never turned pro?'

The tall instructor smiled briefly and shook his head. ‘Not really worth it. I could handle most of the pros alright, s'pose I should've . . . But . . .' He punched the gloves together and moved towards the ring.

‘Hey ah . . . shouldn't you be wearing headgear?'

Ken shook his head again. ‘We'll only be going easy. There's some there if you want it.'

Davo reflected on the filthy bag mitts he'd been offered and figured the headgear would be in about the same condition. ‘No it don't matter.'

As they climbed into the ring Ken turned to a young red-headed kid and nodded to a large timing clock on the wall above the ring. ‘Jimmy, give us three minutes off the top will you.'

They stood there for a few seconds till the single hand moved
around then Jimmy called out ‘righto' and Ken and Davo began circling each other.

Davo was a little worried at first that he might get all agitated and excited and do something foolish but instead he was completely calm, cool and collected and as unruffled as if he were just standing there waiting for a bus. Ken would poke out a couple of straight lefts or a right and Davo would keep his guard up and poke a couple of lefts back. It seemed easy. The slight shock of Ken's punches landing twigged his headache a little but happily nowhere near enough to worry him. The instructor moved around the ring on his toes flicking fairly light punches from all directions; he wasn't trying to put Davo on show or show everyone how good he was, he was just being tradesman like. Davo knew Ken was taking it easy but somehow it all looked like it was in slow motion. Whether the brain damage Davo suffered had something to do with his reflexes Davo wasn't sure but every time Ken threw a punch Davo felt like he could have read a book while it was coming; he had to forcibly restrain himself from letting go about a dozen punches at a time. Davo felt like they'd only been going at it for a few seconds when the kid yelled out ‘righto' again and they stopped for minute's rest.

‘You're going pretty good,' said Ken. ‘You sure you haven't been doing a bit of training?'

Davo gave his shoulders a bit of a shrug. ‘Only a little bit over the last couple of weeks with that mate of mine I was telling you about.'

The tall instructor nodded his head.

‘You can go a bit quicker this round—if you want to, Ken.'

Ken looked at Davo for a moment. ‘Okay. Suit yourself.'

The kid yelled ‘righto' and they began moving around the ring again.

Davo could feel the increased speed and intensity of Ken's punches now but apart from the slightest twinge and a bit of a ring when they hit his head they still didn't hurt and they still all seemed to be in slow motion. Davo deliberately dropped his guard on a couple of occasions to absorb some solid blows and they still didn't trouble him. He flicked several lefts into Ken's face and a few rights into his mid-section, still only at
around a third normal strength but even these managed to stop Ken momentarily. If Davo had followed up he probably would have had him.

Ken by now wasn't frustrated or annoyed, he was more surprised than anything else; he'd certainly never fought anyone like Davo before. It was like fighting a robot one minute, then a rank amateur, then a top-ranking professional: it was mystifying to say the least. Whatever it was it sure wasn't easy.

Next thing the kid yelled out ‘righto' again and they stopped. Davo noticed as they stood there that this time Ken's chest and shoulders were rising noticeably as he got his breath back, yet Davo wasn't even puffing.

‘You want to have one more, Ken, then we'll turn it up. I'm starting to get a bit buggered.'

‘Yeah alright. You're going okay though, Brian.'

Davo smiled. ‘Well this time, go a bit harder will you. If I'm going to do this stunt work I may as well get used to copping a few hard knocks.'

‘Alright. But if I hurt you at all you yell out and I'll stop. Okay?'

‘Righto.'

The kid yelled ‘righto' and they got stuck into it again. By now the rest of the kids in the gym had stopped training and moved closer to the ring to watch.

Ken was starting to let them go now, Davo let a couple land but they still didn't seem to hurt him. Those he didn't want to land he either caught on his elbows or slipped: any time he wanted to hit Ken he could. It was easy, too easy and Davo wasn't even trying: he could hardly believe it. Then Davo decided he'd learnt all he could from Ken and had used him enough and now it was time to put an end to it. As calculating and methodical as if he'd programmed himself to do it; as if Ken—good bloke and all that he was—wasn't a human being but a unit that was to be disposed of because it was of no further use.

He shuffled slightly away from Ken and to his right then moved back in; Ken threw a straight left that Davo saw coming as soon as Ken's glove moved. Like he had all the time in the world Davo ducked underneath it and drove a withering short right straight into Ken's heart with all his power. Ken's
eyes closed as he let out an audible gasp of pain and shock and froze in his tracks. Just as quickly, Davo brought another short right over Ken's shoulder and crashed it straight onto his jaw making his eyes flutter open as he dropped his guard and began to totter forward. Davo then bent slightly at the knees and hit Ken with a brutal left hook that slewed his head around and sent him crashing against the ropes, he made a desperate grab for the top strand but his knees buckled and as his hand slipped from the ropes he crashed down heavily onto his right elbow, looked up at Davo in glazed disbelief for a second then pitched forward onto his face, out cold.

For a brief instant Davo felt a twinge of remorse for Ken as he stood over him; he was an honest, straightforward good bloke, whose main concern was that he didn't hurt Davo. But bad luck. Then he noticed all the kids staring at him with their mouths wide open. Without saying a word he climbed from the ring, pulled his hands straight out of the gloves and tossed them on the table, then picked up his overnight bag and left. He didn't wait for the lift but ran straight down the stairs getting into his tracksuit top when he got out the front. The next thing he knew he was sitting in his car staring out the window in slightly amused disbelief, still not quite sure what had happened and although there was half a smile on his face at the same time he felt, if anything, a little frightened.

He'd just knocked out, demolished would be a better description, the ex-amateur light-heavyweight champion of Australia. A boxer who had had over a hundred fights and he'd done it easy. Fair enough he was a good bloke and all that and maybe he had taken him just a little by surprise but with all that experience he should have been able to handle it; it wasn't Davo's fault if he didn't know how powerful he was getting. And what about his reflexes—they were something else again. As soon as they shaped up and that air of tension was there it was as if everything slowed down around him, he was in top gear and everything else was jammed in first; Davo wondered just what had happened to his brain when he got that kicking. One thing was certain though: it was going to be an unbelievable asset when the time came for him to actually go out and do some street-fighting. So any anxious
thoughts or feelings of remorse he had for Ken soon disappeared. He gave a sinister chuckle and that same maleficent gleam appeared once more in his eyes.

He started the car and was still thinking heavily as he drove towards Central Railway; confident as he was there was still one more thing he had to prove to himself. As he pulled up for a set of lights near Haymarket he glanced up at a sign on a window he'd noticed on a trip into town earlier. Academy of Advanced Tae-Kwon-Do. That'll do he thought. Tae-Kwon-Do. Karate, Hapkido. Same bloody thing. I'll give them a ring when I get home. He scribbled the number down while he waited for the lights to change and rang it not long after he got cleaned up and had had a cup of tea and a bite to eat.

‘Hello Chee-Do-Kai Academy.'

‘Yeah. I'm enquiring about doing a course there. How do I go about it?'

‘Well, you'll have to come down here and join up. It's $30 a year membership and $30 a month for the lessons. You'll need a martial arts uniform, they're $50 each, we've got them here. You can train seven days a week if you want to and gradings are twice a year.

‘What time are you open?'

‘Three till ten.'

‘I might come down tomorrow afternoon. Who do I ask for?'

‘Ask for Lee.'

‘Righto. Thanks, mate.'

‘You're welcome.'

So, thought Davo, a sort of half smile on his face as he replaced the receiver. I wonder what will happen this time? Martial arts was a lot different to boxing, a lot more things could happen while bouncing around in the ring and he doubted if he'd come across another instructor as goodnatured as Ken was. But Davo wasn't unduly worried about what would happen at the Academy of Advanced Tae-Kwon-Do—as he sat there staring absently at the phone, the half smile still on his face. If anything he was looking forward to it.

Davo was up at six the following morning and trained like a man possessed for three hours; with that extra boost to his
confidence there was no stopping him now. He shuffled down to the Junction on his walking stick at lunchtime to pick a few things up and cash his social security cheque, then after a light workout in the afternoon and a bit of a rest afterwards he drove down to the Haymarket just after four. He found a parking spot behind the old Capitol Theatre. Wearing the same gear as the previous evening and with his overnight bag in his hand he locked the car and walked around to the gymnasium.

A dingy open doorway with a couple of signs on it written in English and some Asian language and with a painting of a fist above it fronted a set of creaky wooden stairs that led the one flight up to the gymnasium. As he climbed the stairs Davo could hear the thumps and shouts of the people in there working out and when he reached the top he was confronted by a sight somewhat different to the gym at the YMCA. There was the usual boxing ring at one end but a lot more punching bags of different sizes plus some floor to ceiling bags and a strange-looking object with wooden arms sticking out of it that Davo recognised from one of the books as a Mok-Jong. One wall was nearly all mirrors and the others were plastered with martial arts movie posters, other posters and various sets of photo instructions on karate plus a rack full of exotic-looking knives and axes; the mandatory blow-up photos of Mass Oyama and Bruce Lee were hung next to each other above these. Another wall was set with a number of opened cooper-louvred windows which let in a bit of fresh air and through which the odd traffic noise managed to drift up over the sounds of the men training.