One thing about the guy is that he doesn’t muck around. He talks to you and he isn’t afraid to lean close, even if his coffee breath reeks like hell. He explains everything straight out. He talks of steady violence, organised fights, raids from police and everything else that his business involves.

‘See,’ he explains with that succinct, violent voice of his, ‘I’m part of an organised boxing racket. All through winter, we have fights every Sunday afternoon at four different places in the city. One’s a warehouse out the back of Glebe, which is my home arena. One’s a meat factory over at Maroubra. One’s a warehouse in Ashfield, and there’s a pretty decent ring way down south on some guy’s farm at Helensburgh.’ When he speaks, spit fires from his tongue and sticks to the corner of his mouth. ‘Like I said — you get fifty dollars if you win a fight. You might get a tip if y’ lose. People pay in like you wouldn’t believe. I mean, you’d think they’d have better things to do on a Sunday arvo and evening, but they don’t. They’re sick of football and all that other garbage. They pay five bucks to get in and see up to six fights into the night. Five rounds each and we’ve had some good fights. We’re a few weeks into this season, but I reckon I’ve got room for you … If you feel like going to one of the other guys who run a team you’ll get the same deal. If you fight well, we’ll give you enough money to scrape by, and I myself get rich off the way you fight. That’s how it is. You wanna do it?’

Rube hasn’t shaved today so he rubs his spiky beard, in thought. ‘Well how the hell do I get to all the fights? How’m I gonna get back from Helensburgh on a Sunday night?’

‘I’ve got a van.’ Easy. ‘I got a van and I cram all my fighters in. If you get hurt I don’t take you to a doctor. That’s not in the service. If you get killed, your family buries you, not me.’

‘Ah, stop bein’ a tosser,’ Rube tells him, and we all laugh, especially Perry. He likes Rube. I can tell. People like someone who says what they think. ‘If you die …’ My brother imitates him.

‘One guy came close once,’ Perry assures him, ‘but it was a warmer than usual night. It was heat exhaustion and it was only a mild stroke. A heavyweight.’

‘Oh.’

‘So,’ Perry smiles. ‘You want in?’

‘I d’know. I’ve gotta discuss it with my management.’

‘Who’s your management?’ Perry smiles and motions to me with a nod. ‘It’s not this little pansy here is it?’