Davo's Little Something Read online

  This time Davo could sense and feel the difference. Even though Vittor wasn’t quite putting everything into it he was throwing plenty of kicks and punches hard enough to have knocked Davo down or hurt him if they had landed. However Davo was ducking and slipping the blows easily, quite enjoying himself, and he could sense the annoyance in Vittor and see it in his eyes through the headgear. Every now and again he would lazily poke his left into Vittor’s face or give him a short right to the ribs to anger him some more. Suddenly, in what he judged to be the last few seconds of the round, Davo slipped to Vittor’s left and gave him a hefty Thai kick right across his thigh which stopped him dead in his tracks. As the student called out time Davo could see Vittor’s eyes glaring at him from behind the headgear like two red-hot coals.

  ‘You say you’ve never done this?’ said Vittor as he stood near the ropes while they had a breather. There was more than just a hint of both suspicion and anger in his voice.

  ‘Did a bit of boxing when I was a kid,’ replied Davo casually. ‘That’s probably why I can handle you alright.’

  ‘Boxing? Boxing is a woman’s sport,’ retorted Vittor.

  ‘Yeah? A lot of blokes I know reckon half you karate experts are full of shit. You get a decent smack in the mouth and you crap your pants. You pose more than you can fight.’

  Vittor took in a deep breath and you could see him tense at Davo’s remark; it was more than his ego could bear and it was time for him to squash this cockroach. ‘You think so do you?’ he said slowly.

  Davo shrugged. ‘I dunno. I’m only going on what these blokes told me. I’m only new to this caper.’ He smiled to himself—the bait had been set.

  ‘What say we have one more round,’ said Vittor, a sinister smile appearing through the headgear.

  ‘Yeah, why not,’ shrugged Davo again.

  No sooner had the student yelled ‘go’ than Vittor sprang at Davo like a tiger. Punches and kicks of all description whistled towards his head and body that would more than likely have knocked him unconscious or broken his ribs if they’d landed. However, as soon as Davo’s subconscious noticed that extra tension his reflexes zoomed into top gear again and Vittor looked like he was going in slow motion, the same as Ken. Davo easily dodged everything Vittor threw at him, while continuing to jab his left into Vittor’s face and slam rights into his ribs.

  Vittor tried every trick he knew. Reverse punch combinations, spinning hell kicks, front snap kicks that would have taken Davo’s head off if they’d landed, but Davo just kept dancing around him, jabbing, dodging and making him seethe with indignation and hatred at being forced to look like a novice. The students had stopped their training, some were standing where they were, others had moved closer to the ring for a better view, none was quite certain of what they were seeing. Lee, who was still sitting at his desk sipping a second cup of coffee, suddenly noticed the unusual quietness in the gym and looked up to see what was going on. He was just in time to see Vittor throw a full-blooded left snap kick at Davo’s head and then watched mesmerised as Davo skipped to the side, grabbed Vittor behind the knee, pushed his leg up over his head and then effortlessly kicked his other leg away causing him to crash heavily onto his back. Vittor swore loudly and bounced back up to face Davo standing there grinning at him. With a roar of anger he tore off his sparring gloves and flung them out of the ring; Davo quickly did the same thing just as Vittor came at him with a flurry of deadly punches and kicks. Davo skipped easily to the side of the ring as they sailed past his head then, coldly, methodically, decided this had gone on long enough and it was time to take Vittor out: like he was nothing more than a pawn in a game of chess.

  Davo balanced lightly on his toes in centre ring, watching as Vittor went to throw a powerful roundhouse kick with his right leg. His foot had no sooner left the floor than Davo moved forward slightly on his right foot and fired his left leg out at a slight angle catching Vittor right in the solar plexus. Davo could feel the muscles part as the toe of his gym boot sank into Vittor’s stomach to almost halfway up his foot. Vittor gave a strangled gasp of pain as his eyes and tongue bulged out and he was instantly paralysed. No sooner was his foot back on the floor than Davo swung his right leg, slamming the instep against Vittor’s thigh, giving him the best corked leg he’d ever had in over fifteen years of martial arts. Vittor just had time to let out another agonised grunt before Davo followed up with a right back fist that split his mouth open and rattled every filling in his head. He cannoned against the ropes and swayed there, half-crouched over, immobilised, clutching desperately at the top strand for support as his mind swam and everything went out of focus.

  Davo stood there grinning at him for a moment, a little unnerved, not only by what he’d just done but also by finding out that he got a strange new kick out of watching someone else suffer.

  ‘So, Vittor,’ he said moving towards him. ‘Boxing is a sport for women is it. Well try this on your girlfriend.’ He bent slightly at the knees and swung a thundering left hook, worse than the one he’d hit Ken with, straight into Vittor’s face. In a spray of blood he smashed his nose and sent him straight over the ropes to crash heavily onto the parquet floor at the edge of the ring.

  As he stood there looking down at him, Davo was surprised to find that although his adrenalin was racing he was as calm as could be and, again, not puffing in the slightest; he was suddenly startled however by the way everyone in the gym was staring up at him.

  He tore off his headgear and dropped it in the ring, climbed out and quickly walked through the parting students to pick up his overnight bag near Lee’s desk. Lee was glaring at him with a mixture of outrage and disbelief; he was about to say something when Davo cut him off.

  ‘Hey that was alright, Lee. Tell Vegemite, or what ever his name is, I’ll be down again tomorrow for another spar. I reckon I might’ve learnt something here this arvo.’ He started down the stairs then stopped about four steps down and grinned back up at Lee. ‘I’ll fix you up with that thirty bucks when I come in too. See ya—me old China.’

  Within ten minutes he was sitting behind the wheel of his car heading back towards Bondi; thirty minutes later his adrenalin had settled down and he was sitting in his loungeroom, sipping a cup of coffee and thinking about what he’d just done. Again he couldn’t quite believe it; and although he had a smile on his face as he looked down into his coffee he was at the same time apprehensive: frightened almost.

  He’d just knocked out, battered, a black belt martial arts instructor. A man with years of training and experience who had himself knocked out his last fifteen opponents. It wasn’t as if he’d taken him by surprise during a friendly spar either—he’d deliberately goaded Vittor into going flat out and using every skill and trick he knew to put Davo away; even to the extent of ripping off his gloves in frustration. And Davo had put him away easily—just as easily as Ken. The only difference between the two was that he felt a little remorse for Ken—he wasn’t a bad bloke—but Vittor was just an arrogant bullying prick, he’d enjoyed belting him; especially when his face burst open. That was the other thing that worried Davo, or at least made him ponder. He honestly got a kick now out of watching the suffering of others and it was new, completely alien to him. In fact he not only got a kick out of it, he relished it. He pondered heavily on it. Shit! Was he turning into a sadist? He thought on it for a few more moments then shrugged his shoulders and resumed smiling into his coffee. Well, if he was—they ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

  Which brought him round to the reason he’d started all this in the first place; it was now time to make a move. He’d just about reached the peak of his training and he doubted if he could get much fitter. He took the empty cup into the kitchen then went into his bedroom, stripped to the waist and stood in front of the mirror. The Bob Davis of months ago was lost and gone forever. His arms, especially his forearms, were thick and sinewy and bulging with veins like whipcord. His chest looked like it was carved out of marble and the muscles in his neck and shoul
ders were bursting out of all his shirts. His stomach was hard and flat and rippled with muscles and looked like you could have scrubbed his butcher’s aprons on it. He shaped up to the mirror and threw a couple of quick punches, even his fists looked bigger. Then on top of that there was his phenomenal, even freakish, reflexes.

  So now it was time and the time had come round quicker than he’d thought. But although he felt great after those two victories and his confidence was soaring, something else still nagged at him. Fighting and beating those two men in the ring was in itself no mean accomplishment, however taking on several at a time in a back alley or a darkened street was going to be a different thing altogether. He was still going to need that edge, that little something in his favour, and it concerned him.

  He put his clothes back on then went into the bathroom, got a pair of scissors and an electric razor and removed his moustache. There was probably no real need to have grown it but without it he’d be a lot harder for those two to recognise—if it ever came to that. He rubbed a little Vaseline over the pinky, slightly raw skin, then combed his hair forward and put the part back in the side. Only the bare remnants of his rat’s tail were still there—they’d certainly given that and the rest of his hair a serve at the hospital when they’d stitched his head—but it had grown back and looked okay now. He gave a grunt of satisfaction, turned out the light then went back into the loungeroom and turned on the TV, staring absently at it with the volume down low. He sat there thinking till 10.30 then went to bed; although he should have been elated, he found he was still troubled.

  Davo trained harder than usual—if it was possible—the rest of the week and through the weekend. By Sunday he was literally jumping out of his skin and shuffling around on the walking stick was almost getting to be an impossibility. He was having a bite to eat after training on the Saturday when the phone rang. He sat there in the kitchen staring resentfully at it for a few moments, then reluctantly reached over and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘G’day, mate—how are you? It’s Colin.’

  Davo paused for a moment. ‘Ohh hello Colin. How’s things?’

  ‘Alright. Jesus, mate, I’ve been trying to ring you for ages. I was gonna call over but after that message I didn’t know whether to or not. Shit, you’ve had me worried.’

  Colin didn’t add that he was completely shitted off having to live at home. His sex life had diminished horribly since he’d lost his number one running partner with his unit and anything he did happen to get his hands on had to be thrown up in the air either in his car or back at their place and invariably the girlfriends or whatever were home and cruelled him. He was that desperate he’d even booked into a motel one night with some soapy brunette from Engadine. It cost him $60 and just as he was about to get into some much-needed fornication she started to have her period—he could’ve strangled her. It just about made Colin weep every time he thought of Davo’s well appointed home unit with the stereo, the liquor supply and the spare bedroom not even a kilometre from all the action in Bondi Junction. Shit, it’d been almost two months, surely Davo was up and about by now. He crossed his fingers on the end of the line.

  ‘So how are you anyway mate?’ he said, sounding all concerned.

  Davo paused again for a moment before answering. ‘I’m still pretty laid up to tell you the truth Colin. I’m still not the best.’

  Colin uncrossed his fingers as his hopes suddenly took a nosedive. ‘Oh, shit, that’s no good. I was hoping you might be getting better. I was gonna call over and maybe we could go out for a bit of a drink or something one night . . . Just a quiet drink and a mag, that’s all,’ he added.

  Davo smiled into the phone. He could read Colin’s mind like a twenty-cent comic. ‘I’m still getting physiotherapy every day Colin—and I’m still taking a lot of medication for the brain damage. The doctor told me to get a lot of rest. I’ve still got these unbelievable headaches.’

  ‘Fair dinkum? Shit, that’s no good, mate.’

  ‘Yeah. It’ll be a while yet before I can start going out again. Maybe in another four or five weeks.’

  Colin sucked his breath in through his teeth. ‘That long eh.’

  Davo smiled again. ‘Ohh yeah. At least.’

  They chatted away for a few more minutes, about nothing much in particular, till Davo finally said he’d have to hang up as even talking on the telephone gave him a headache and he’d just taken some painkillers which made him awfully drowsy and he needed to lie down; he said goodbye, adding that he’d ring Colin back in a couple of weeks.

  As he replaced the receiver the cynical smile on his face almost turned into a grin. For all his chicanery and subterfuge you couldn’t help but like Colin, he was a good mate, and Davo would almost be glad when he’d sorted this thing out within himself and they could get out on the run together somewhere and have a few drinks again. Then just as quickly the smile disappeared as Davo found himself thinking once more about his elusive edge.

  On the other end of the line Colin was staring morosely at the receiver. Another six bloody weeks. Christ, I’ll finish up in the rathouse if things don’t improve. His brooding train of thought was suddenly interrupted by his mother’s nasally voice whining down the corridor.

  ‘Honestly, Colin, this bedroom is a bloody disgrace. You’ve got it like a pigsty. Jesus, thirty years of bloody age and you’re still carrying on like a bloody teenager. It’s about time you woke up to yourself and started to show a bit of maturity. No wonder Jo-Anne left you.’ There was silence for a second or two followed by a muttered curse. ‘And stop blowing your nose on the sheets too—you filthy bastard.’

  Davo trained like a man possessed on Monday morning then at lunchtime did his best to limp down to Bondi Junction on his walking stick to cash his social security cheque and have a bit of a look around. He was sitting in the Plaza, not far from the escalators, having his usual coffee and donuts when he recognised a familiar bearded figure in overalls, carrying a small stepladder, come ambling towards him. It was Ray Roberts, the electrician.

  Ray—or ‘Robbo’ as just about everybody called him—was the foreman in charge of all the electrical maintenance for the Plaza and had been there since the place opened about six years previous. Davo had got to know Ray when he’d worked in one of the butcher shops in the Plaza and often joined him for a few beers and a mag after they’d finished work. Robbo had worked himself into a nice easy little number in his six years at the Plaza and it showed; he was at least thirty kilos overweight and had a stomach like a walrus. His hair and eyes were pretty much like Davo’s with a constantly smiling, always stirring people face, ringed by one of those bushy Quakertype beards tinged with grey. As his physique suggested, Robbo shunned any type of physical work at all so Davo was a little surprised to see him carrying a ladder; even if it was a small one and he wasn’t walking very fast.

  ‘G’day, Davo,’ grinned the beefy electrician, as he stood in front of him. ‘What are you doing down here? I thought you were half dead.’

  ‘I was for a while,’ replied Davo, looking up as he sipped his coffee. ‘I’m still pretty crook, but I’m better than I was. How are you going?’

  ‘Alright.’

  Robbo rested the step ladder on its end and sort of leant against it for support while he stood there. He gave Davo’s walking stick a nudge with his foot.

  ‘What’s this for,’ he said, with a sly smile. ‘Don’t try and tell me you’re a cripple.’ Robbo was awake-up to Davo’s form over the years and his naturally cynical nature told him it wouldn’t be beyond him to pull a bit of a scam.

  ‘I’m still not the best, Ray—fair dinkum. I need it to get around.’

  ‘Ohh yeah!’

  Robbo stood there having a few digs at Davo about whether he was faking or not with Davo casually doing his best to have a few digs back but he was squirming underneath at the same time. It was the first time anyone had challenged him about his injuries and he was finding it hard to
look Ray in the eye as he spoke, and Robbo, being a champion stirrer, seemed to sense this. Finally Davo gave Robbo’s step ladder a nudge with his foot in an effort to change the subject.

  ‘Anyway, what are you doing carrying a ladder around you fat heap? It’s not like you to get your hands dirty.’

  ‘Yeah I know—it’s awful. That’s why I’m wearing me new gloves.’

  Then Davo noticed the gloves Ray was wearing and stared at them for a moment. ‘Jesus, they’re a grouse pair of gloves,’ he said slowly. ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘They’re American.’ Robbo extended his arm and opened and closed his hand a few times in front of Davo’s face.

  ‘Alright if I have a look at one?’

  ‘Sure,’ Ray put his arm through the step ladder while he took off his left glove and handed it to Davo who looked at it for a few seconds then put it on.

  It was an unusual sort of glove. Black leather, not very thick but tough and flexible. It came up past his wrist with a small, neat zipper under the palm. A self-sticking, matching leather band, something like on a surfboard legrope, wrapped around the wrist giving support and a snug perfect fit. Davo opened and closed his fist a few times and the glove seemed to stick on his hand like a second skin.

  ‘Where’d you get them?’

  ‘That disposal store across the road from the carwash. They’re fifty bucks a pair.’

  ‘They got any left?’

  Ray shrugged his shoulders as Davo took the glove off and handed it back to him. ‘I dunno. They only had two pair left when I got these. They’re grouse though.’

  Davo stared at the gloves as Ray put the left one back on. Inside his head alarm bells were ringing and all sorts of crazy confused thoughts were swirling through his mind.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said vaguely. ‘You can say that again.’

  Davo finished his coffee while he talked to Ray but all the time his thoughts and eyes were focused on the unique gloves sitting snugly on Robbo’s hands. Finally Ray looked at his watch.