King of the Outback (Fight Card Book 6) Read online

  KING OF THE OUTBACK

  JACK TUNNEY

  ANOTHER HARD PUNCHING FIGHT CARD THRILLER

  FIGHT CARD

  Created by Paul Bishop and Mel Odom

  OTHER TITLES IN THE FIGHT CARD SERIES

  FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS

  FIGHT CARD: THE CUTMAN

  FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION

  FIGHT CARD: COUNTERPUNCH

  FIGHT CARD: HARD ROAD

  FIGHT CARD: KING OF THE OUTBACK

  e-Book Edition – first published May 2012

  Copyright © 2012 David James Foster

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.

  The author would like to acknowledge the Bunurong people, the Traditional Custodians of the land on which this story was written. They are connected to this land, have walked upon it, and continue to care for it and nurture it for future generations.

  Cover design by Keith Birdsong

  Cover Photo by Gary Radler

  AUTHOR'S NOTE:

  Australia, like so many countries, has a language that changes with the fads and fashions of the time. Many terms that were used in the 1950s through to the 1970s have either disappeared or had their meanings changed. And that is on top of the usual, somewhat confusing , idiosyncrasies of the Australian language. You will note many Australian words and phrases have dual meanings, depending on the fashion they are used. The most offensive and derogatory terms, when used with humor in Australia, are actually terms of affection.

  Since the 1980s, and I don't know whether this is due to gigantic leaps in telecommunications or other factors, the rough edges of Australian language, or 'ockerism' have been chipped away. Even the accent has changed. But as they say, 'All things must pass.'

  As this tale is set in the 1950s, I have incorporated some of the more colorful Australian colloquialisms of the time. As a brief guide, on the following page is a glossary of terms used throughout this story (with apologies to John O'Grady – author of Aussie English and Aussie Etiket – the definitive guides on Australian language and behavior).

  GLOSSARY

  ANZAC: Australian and New Zealand Army Corp. ANZAC Day is the 25th of April every year, where surviving Diggers (soldiers) usually hold a parade and a ceremony in every town or city throughout the country.

  Arnhem Land: Top End of Australia, where many aboriginals reside.

  Bastard: Put simply, any man. In Australia it can be used in an offensive, derogatory fashion, or strangely, as a term of affection, as in 'How you going, you old bastard?'

  Bloody: A word that has been described as the 'great Australian adjective.' But can also be used as an adverb, where it means 'extremely' – something that is bloody fast, is 'extremely fast.' If used to describe a person as an adjective, then it generally has a negative meaning. A bloody referee would be a referee not performing to expectations. See also: Bloomin' and Flamin'.

  Bloody hell: Very surprised.

  Bloomin': Has two usages. As an adverb, it means 'extremely' – something that is bloomin' fast, is 'extremely fast.' If used to describe a person as an adjective, then it has a negative meaning. A bloomin' referee would be a referee not performing to expectations. See also: Bloody and Flamin'.

  Blowie: A blow fly. A very large and persistent fly.

  Boong: An extremely offensive and derogatory term for an Australian Aborigine.

  Bottlo: A Bottle shop, where alcoholic beverages can be purchased.

  Come a gutser: To fall down, face first. To fall on your guts, or stomach.

  Doin' your block: Or 'to do your block', means to lose your temper.

  Flamin': Has two usages. As an adverb, it means 'extremely' – something that is flamin' fast, is 'extremely fast.' If used to describe a person as an adjective, then it has a negative meaning. A flamin' referee would be a referee not performing to expectations. See also: Bloody and Bloomin'.

  Florin: An Australian coin, worth two shilling (twenty-four pence).

  Fly off the handle: To lose your temper.

  Gawper: Someone who attempts to watch a show for free.

  Gee-Man: A man employed be a tent boxing troupe to work up the crowd, and on occasion, fight in the ring himself, when there are no challengers.

  Gheeger Gheeger: The west wind, according to Aboriginal legend.

  Hard yakka: Hard work.

  I'll be blowed: Caught by surprise. A variation on 'well blow me down.' Or, alternatively, having to be knocked down to stop a person from achieving a goal. As in, 'I'll be blowed if I am going to let that happen.'

  Licorice: A derogatory term for an Australian Aborigine, especially a tent boxer.

  Lingo: Language.

  Mate: People. Everybody is a mate, although some men stop short of calling a woman 'mate', as it can seem too familiar.

  Mongrel: A person of low character.

  Noggin: Head

  Pitenjarra: A nomadic aboriginal tribe, that roam Australia's Top End.

  Punter: A patron. People attending an event of any sort. Most commonly, it is used to describe somebody gambling or placing a bet. But gambling does not necessarily have to be involved.

  Quid: An Australian Pound. Australia changed currency in the mid-1960s, and now uses dollars.

  Shilling: An Australian coin, worth twelve pence.

  Six o'clock swill: Pubs in Australia used to close at 6:00 pm at night, so after work, men would wash away their troubles in a ceaseless and immoderate fashion until closing time.

  Stone the crows: To be very surprised at a turn of events.

  Stunned mullet: Inaction, due to shock. To do nothing; as in 'Don't just stand there like a stunned mullet.'

  Wirrarri: An aboriginal tribe, that live in the Simpson Desert.

  Yakka: Work. See also: Hard Yakka.

  PROLOGUE

  I shoulda known the ref was in Sanderson's pocket. There was too much at stake for him to have played it fair and square. When his boy, Jumpin' Jack Douglas, came out for the fifth round, his cornermen had pushed two carpet tacks into the knuckles of his left glove. Small enough not to be seen by anyone outside the ring, but sharp enough to do a considerable amount of damage.

  The bell rang and both fighters rushed out to meet each other. Douglas started jabbing with his nailed glove. His first few jabs were deflected away easily enough. Then he threw a big right at Tommy's midsection, and Tommy closed up bringing his elbows in tight. This gave Douglas the opportunity to throw a big roundhouse left. The nailed glove tore a nasty chunk out of Tommy's right cheek. The blood flowed freely from the wound. The ref had to have seen it, and knew what was going on, but he turned a blind eye.

  From my position at the corner of the apron, I twigged to what I had just seen, and started yelling at the ref. Maybe he heard me, maybe he didn't. Either way, he didn't do anythin' about it.

  “Mongrel,” I cursed.

  The huge crowd loved it. This was one of the biggest tent fights ever seen in Outback Australia. People had come from miles around to see the spectacle, and were now jammed in like sheep. The lucky ones were seated in the bleachers, but many more were jammed shoulder to shoulder around the ring. But no matter whether they were seated or standing, the sight of blood being drawn whipped them into a frenzy. What they didn't know was that thi
s was no longer a fight. War had been declared!

  Beside me was Walter Wheeler, and he had a lot invested on the outcome of this fight. He owned our little boxing troupe, and had bet all our futures on Tommy winning. As Douglas took another cheap shot at Tommy, Wheeler flared up.

  “Did you see that, Yack?” he bellowed over the crowd noise.

  Yack! That's what they call me, but my name is Laurie McCann. I am an American, and down under they call us Americans Yanks. But on top of that, it’s no secret that I like to talk. Aussie slang for talking is yacking. So I got lumbered with the nickname, the Yacking Yank, which over time has been shortened down to simple ‘Yack’. I can live with it. I’ve been called worse.

  The round continued and I didn't like what I saw, and it was making my leg ache. I crooked my leg, and rubbed at the knee joint with my hand, kneading the scar tissue. In `44, I was on a destroyer, the USS Hammerhead, and we were coming in to Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea, when a Jap fighter, a Zero I guess, but I didn’t get a good look at it, strafed the ship. I was in the wrong spot at the wrong time, and the Jap stitched me up the left leg. Three shots. When it's cold or if I am angry, the pain flares up. And watching this fight was making me very angry.

  After I had been shot they shipped me off to Australia to get patched up properly and recuperate, and I guess I just never went home. What was there to go home to? Before the war I had been a boxer in Chicago and doin’ pretty well at it. Ranked about twentieth in my weight division, and climbing. But with a bung leg, those days were behind me. So I chose to stay. Ten years. After all that time, I was finally getting the hang of the lingo. They speak different Down Under. Sure it's English, but it's a language all its own too. Especially out here in the Outback. Out here, it's so darn hot, nobody is gonna repeat themselves if you don't understand. You have to take time to learn.

  I was still in the fight game. I was a trainer now, and Tommy, the kid who was getting cut up in the ring, was one of my boys. We belonged to a tent boxing troupe that had been travelling around the country. I watched him out there bleeding, and I couldn't help but wonder which misstep I'd made that led us to this punch drunk situation.

  ROUND ONE

  THREE WEEKS EARLIER...

  The tent was set up at the edge of Barter Town in Outback Australia. The local council wouldn't give us permission to set up in the centrally located park across the road from the hotel. That would have been ideal, but people like us are not always welcome. The tent was a good size, with twelve poles; four twenty-foot central supports, which also provided the corners for our boxing ring, and another eight poles around the outside, creating enough room for about sixty people. Standing room only, of course. The tent wasn't much to look at, with her faded and frayed red and yellow striping, but she did the job.

  A tent boxing show was different than a match set up by the boxing commission. It was more akin to a carnival, than traditional boxing. I was working for a guy named Walter Wheeler, at least that's what he called himself. He was really a Hungarian named Ivars Gorchek, but that didn’t sell tickets. So he named his enterprise Walter Wheeler’s Boxing Sideshow. What we did was travel around Australia from town to town, often following a circus or a carnival, and we would set up a boxing tent. Inside, we held some bouts and gave the locals a chance at fame and glory. If they had the guts, and some pennies in their pocket, they got to have a shot at a real boxer and prove they were men. They got their chance to be a champion for a day! That's the shill, but it didn't happen often.

  Old Man Wheeler wasn’t very hands on with the day to day running of the tent. He left that to me. But he was very hands on when it came to the money that was raked in. He was a shrewd old guy, and he didn’t give nobody nothing for nothing. You had to earn it, and he worked us hard.

  I was training five young fellas in the noble art of boxing at the time. I taught them the skills that I learned a lifetime ago, in Chicago. The lessons I had punched into me were courtesy of Father Tim in the basement at St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys in Chicago, where I grew up. I guess all the boys at the Asylum had sad stories. But it was how you dealt with your lot in life that defined you. And that was the lesson Father Tim taught me. The nuns in the classrooms could never get through to me. They tried, but I guess I was just too thick to take that stuff in. For me, math and numberin' might as well be speaking another language. But Father Tim, in every three minute session in the boxing ring, could teach me more about life than any three days in a classroom.

  Boxing isn't just about two guys beating the tar out of each other. You've got your ups, you've got your downs. There's pride and pain. There's victory and defeat. And fights aren't always fair – not that Father Tim fought dirty, mind you. What I mean is, when I was nine, he put me in the ring with a bigger boy who was thirteen. I'd been lippy with a couple of the nuns, and needed to be knocked back a peg or two. He knew the other boy was bigger and stronger and would beat the tar out of me. He did too! Lesson learned – life isn't always fair. Sometimes you got knocked down. Crying about it never got anyone anywhere. You get up and move on. Everything I learned back there in the ring at St. Vincent’s, prepared me for life out on my own. Now I was trying to pass some of these lessons on to the boys in the troupe.

  Anyway, Barter Town was only a small town, so it wasn't far to walk to the local pub, which was a wide verandahed affair called the Royal. I had a snare drum strapped over my shoulder, which I used to attract attention. Drums of all shapes and sizes were used by boxing troupes to draw crowds to the shows that were put on. Some showmen used big bass drums and would march through town, pounding away calling out “Rally around the drum,” which was like a universal catch cry. I kept it simple, with an old battered snare drum. It was easy to carry, and easy to play.

  Walking beside me was Tommy King. We called him “King of the Ring” 'cos he was the best fighter in our troupe. Tommy was a good kid, in his early twenties. He didn't even know his age for sure. To look at him, casual like, he didn't look like much. But he was strong and wiry. His arms and legs were corded with hard muscle. And he was an aborigine. His skin was the color of a strong black coffee, and his hair, which was kept short, was wavy and black. Facially he had a broad forehead with a heavy brow, and a wide nose. His most electric feature was his smile. He had a spectacular set of “pearly whites” and he could light up a room with that smile of his.

  His boxing skills were formidable too. I reckoned Tommy could go professional if he wanted. But despite his skills, normally, in a place like this, they wouldn't let him in the front door of the pub. Aborigines in Australia like Indians and Negroes in America were treated as second-class citizens. But this time would be different.

  By 5:30 Friday afternoon, all the boys in the area had finished work for the day and were pissing a week’s worth of wages up against a brick wall. They call it the “six o'clock swill.” The pubs closed at six, in the early evening, so the workers would hit the pub as soon as they knocked off, and sink as much grog as they could in the short time before closing. That was why Australia had some of the longest bars in the world, and that was why the floors and walls were tiled. It could get pretty messy, and after closing, the publican could just hose the place out. As for the punter, well after he was kicked out, he grabbed a couple of “takeaways” from the bottlo, and returned home to his poor suffering family.

  At least that was the normal way of things. But I hoped not tonight. We had some entertainment lined up for these boys. Tommy opened the door for me, and I stepped into the bar lounge. The lounge was thick with smoke and patrons were lined up three deep at the counter. All men, of course, because ladies weren't allowed. Two barmen were frantically trying to keep up with the orders as they worked both sides of the large U-shaped bar. Half of the patrons were wearing battered wide brimmed hats that had seen better days, but still managed to keep the sun off their heads while they were working. Everyone was holding a middy glass of ale. On the walls were posters for Federal Ale, so I assumed tha
t the beer was trucked here from Mudgee.

  After I had taken in the scene and sized up my audience, I rattled out a cadence on the snare drum.

  “Rally around the drum, boys,” I called over the beat. “Rally around the drum!”

  The rowdy conversations taking place all stopped, and the punters turned and looked at me. Tommy walked into the lounge behind me, and now the punters were eying him with suspicion and open hostility. I kept tapping out my cadence.

  “What's that boong doing in here?” grumbled a glowering farm hand leaning against the bar. There was a part of me that always felt sorry for Tommy in situations like this. People just hated him for no good reason. Well, not just him. All black people. But then again, that was what we counted on. That was how we made our living. We wanted these guys to hate Tommy. We wanted them to want to fight.

  I stopped drumming. A semi-circle had formed around us.

  “Good evening, boys,” I announced. “I've come here this evening to invite you to a night of pugilistic thrills and to throw down a challenge to your best and strongest. The man standing behind me is the The King of the Ring – Tommy King.”

  As I said his surname, there was a chorus of laughter from the pub patrons.

  “King! Is that because he's been crowned so many times?” a wag at the bar yelled. I ignored his comment, continuing my sales pitch.

  “In my opinion, he's the greatest fighter this country has ever seen, and I should know, because I have seen them all come and go. Undefeated in three years and in one hundred ninety-six fights.”

  “Get offit!” the wag yelled.

  “I am as honest as the day is long,” I responded. “Only six days ago in Mildura, my boy took on three men twice his size. He took all their best punches, and then showed them where they went wrong!”