Free Faded Glory by David Essex

kind of fight Anderson had wanted and beating him, Danny had been cheated.
    The travesty of justice left a bad taste in his mouth.
    *
    “We should demand a return match,” Albert said, angrily pacing in the changing rooms as the officials did their best to reassemble the ring for the rest of the bill.
    “Cheating bastards,” said Lenny.
    “Told you this was a piss hole,” Patsy said.
    “Next time you’ll beat him,” Albert swore, lifting Danny’s chin up to look the dejected boy in the eye. “Don’t worry, son, you’ll get your revenge.”
    As a semblance of calm began to settle, the door was suddenly pushed open and the smell of aftershave lotion wafted in. Albert narrowed his eyes at the two well-groomed newcomers in mohair suits who had waltzed in unannounced.
    “Who the bloody ’ell are you?” he said.
    The men looked around the changing room like they owned the place.
    “The name’s Costa,” said the taller of the two, producing a business card. No one moved to take it. “Tommy Costa. And this here is my business partner Jack Cohen.”
    “No one asked you in here,” said Albert.
    “Steady, old fella,” Costa replied. “You don’t want to have a heart attack. Who are you anyway?”
    “This man is the ex-army middleweight champion, Albert Kemp,” Lenny bit out, “and you need to show some bloody respect.”
    “What do you two want?” Albert said bluntly.
    Cohen looked at Albert with a slightly patronising smile. “Nice fighter you have there Albie boy,” he said.
    “Good-looking boy too,” said Costa, his eyes lingering on Danny. “We’ve been keeping an eye on him.”
    Cohen smiled, showing sharp little teeth. “Now, I’m sure you want the best for the boy,” he said.
    “The best for the boy,” echoed Costa.
    “He needs proper management,” Cohen continued.
    “Someone to nurture, to care,” added Costa.
    Albert was reminded of a comedy double act, but not a very funny one.
    “Someone to open doors,” Cohen went on.
    “Get him the right fights,” Costa put in.
    Costa’s eyes glinted. “Perhaps get him a shot at a professional title.”
    “And is that you, Albert?” said Cohen, a little too close to Albert’s face for comfort.
    Cohen was wearing a grey well-tailored suit, pink tie, striped shirt and what seemed to be a gold ring on every finger. The straight man, serious, perpetually glum, with very black hair, greased and swept severely back.
    He spoke quickly and sharply with an almost middle-class accent. Tommy Costa looked like a Greek Cypriot, with a five o’clock shadow, long curly brown hair, bushy eyebrows and big brown eyes. His black mohair suit would have fitted fine, if Tommy had not put on a few pounds living the good life. More casual than Cohen, he wore an open-neck white shirt and a pair of very shiny Cuban-heel boots.
    “Why don’t you call him over,” suggested Costa now, his eyes flicking towards Danny. “So we can have a little chat?”
    “Go get changed, Danny,” said Albert, not taking his eyes off Costa and Cohen. “Len? Patsy? Look after the boy.”
    “It’s all about you, ain’t it Albie?” said Costa.
    “Standing in the way of a young man’s dream,” said Cohen.
    The men pushed past Albert and headed for Danny. Lenny and Patsy hovered uncertainly.
    “Danny boy,” said Cohen. “Allow me to present my card.”
    Albert gritted his teeth as a bewildered Danny took the business card from Cohen’s fingers.
    “He did well Tony, didn’t he?” said Cohen. “Came back strong.”
    “Yes Jack, a brave boy,” confirmed Costa.
    “We have been watching you, Danny,” said Cohen.
    “Like a hawk,” Costa put in. “We think, if you have the right people around you, you could have a future.”
    Danny glanced at Albert. “Thank you,” he said. “But I’ve already got the right people around me.”
    Patsy stepped up to Cohen, nose to nose.
    “I think you should leave now,” he said. “The boy’s tired. Leave it to another