‘Most of ‘em are good fighters but some are dead average. They’re just desperate for the money.’ He shrugs. ‘Y’ never know. The kid might win a few.’

‘What are the other dangers?’

‘In general?’

‘Yes.’

‘They’re these.’ He makes the list. ‘Rough guys watch the fights and if you back out of a bout they might kill y’. Some nice girls come along with these guys and if you touch ‘em those guys might kill y’. Last year, some cops were getting close to raiding an old factory we were using in Petersham. If they catch y’, they’ll kill y’. So if that happens, run.’ He’s pretty happy with himself, especially for the last one: ‘The biggest danger though, is leaving me in the lurch. If you do it, I’ll kill y’, and that’s worse than all the others put together.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘You wanna think about it?’

‘Yeah.’

To me: ‘How ‘bout you?’

‘Me too.’

‘Right,’ and he stands up, handing us his phone number. It’s written on a piece of torn cardboard. ‘You’ve got four days. Ring me on Monday night at seven sharp. I’ll be home.’

Rube has two more questions.

The first: ‘What if we join and then wanna quit?’

‘Up until August, you have to give me two weeks’ notice or find someone to take your place. That’s all. People quit all the time because it’s a rough game. I understand. Just two weeks’ notice or three legitimate names of blokes that can fight well. They’re everywhere. No one’s irreplaceable. If you make it to August, you’ve gotta finish the season, into September, when the semi-finals are on. See, we do a draw, a competition ladder, the lot. We have finals and everything, with more money in ‘em.’

The second question: ‘What weight divisions will we fight in?’

‘You’ll both be in lightweight.’

This triggers a question in me.

‘Will we ever fight each other?’

‘Maybe, but the chance is pretty slight. Once in a while, fighters from the same team have to fight each other. It does happen. You got a problem with that?’

‘Not really.’ It’s Rube who says it.

‘Me neither.’

‘Well why’d y’ ask?’

‘Just curious.’

‘Any more questions?’

We think.

‘No.’

‘Good,’ and we see Perry Cole out of our house. On the front porch, he reminds us. ‘Remember, you’ve got four days. Ring me Monday night at seven with yes or no. I’ll be unhappy if you don’t ring — and I’m not someone you want unhappy with you.’

‘All right.’

He leaves.

We watch him get into his car. It’s an old Holden, done up well, and it must be worth a bit. He must be rolling in money to have both his van and this car. It’s money earned off desperates like us.