The Brave Page 10

  “Hey, Tonto, I’m on the warpath.” Hicks did a clumsy imitation of an Indian in an old-time cowboy movie. The men around him whooped and slapped fives.

  “Just look at me, Sonny,” said Johnson. “Hands!” He taped Sonny’s hands. “If Kwame got to try to upset you in here, he can’t be too confident for out there. How you feel?”

  “Okay.”

  “Hey, Injun, any squaws back home looking for a real man?”

  Johnson turned to one of the older men around Kwame. “Can’t you keep that silly boy quiet? Ain’t you got no pride?”

  “Pride? Why ain’t you training a brother, ’stead of some half-breed honky Redskin?”

  A new voice said, “Because this young gentleman’s going to be heavyweight champion of the world.”

  Brooks looked tired, his eyes were ringed with black circles and his clothes were wrinkled, but his voice had a cutting edge.

  “Maybe if you brothers”—he drew out the word sarcastically—“concentrated on training Kwame to be a boxer instead of a motor-mouth fool, he wouldn’t have to try to win his fight in the locker room.” Brooks dropped a hand on Sonny’s shoulder. “How you feeling?”

  “Good.” It was true. Brooks made him feel stronger, surer. And the monster bubbling up was part of it. Control the monster, use the monster, the fire was his partner.

  The door banged open and a bloody-nosed fighter swaggered in, surrounded by grinning men. “U-nan-ee-muss,” one of them said.

  The man with the clipboard barked, “Bear-Hicks on deck.”

  “Just decide what you want to do and do it,” said Brooks. “Take control. Of yourself. Of the fight.”

  Take control. Of yourself. Of the fight. He felt the monster, wings beating in his chest. Let’s do it. Together.

  At the bell, Sonny hurled himself across the ring before Kwame could get his hands up and nailed him with a hook to the chin. He pivoted to throw a right but never got the chance. Kwame fell over like a tree.

  Johnson screaming, “Corner, corner,” reminded him to get to a neutral corner while the ref counted to ten. Might as well have counted to twenty. Kwame managed to get to his knees, but was stuck there.

  Martin was in the ring, hugging him. “Hook…one.” And Johnson was saying, “This is a record, must be some kind of a record.”

  Sonny looked for Brooks.

  “Had to get back to the stake-out,” said Johnson.

  Strobe lights popped during the fight with Traynor, a tall kid with wraparound arms. Every time Sonny moved inside to hammer his body, Traynor tied him up. His ropy arms were hard as cables, and they squeezed the energy out of Sonny’s arms.

  “On your horse,” said Johnson. “Hit and run, don’t let him tie you up.”

  He tried. But Traynor was an octopus, and there was no way he could get close enough to hit him without being trapped in his tentacles. Sonny felt his power ooze away. He was pushing his fists, not firing them. The velocity was gone.

  “Don’t give up,” said Brooks between rounds. “You can win this one if you just keep going.”

  It was a slow, grinding fight, the crowd booing all the way. He won the decision because he landed more effective punches than Traynor did, but there was no pleasure in the victory.

  “Stunk,” he said on the way to the dressing room.

  “Got you to the semis,” said Martin.

  “Experience,” said Johnson. “A hundred different styles, you got to see them all. Next time you fight a octopus, you know what to do.”

  “That was control, too,” said Brooks. “You just hung in there, didn’t quit, didn’t go crazy.”

  Jake was waiting in the dressing room with a thick envelope. “She sent a plane ticket. Wants you in Phoenix this weekend.”

  “Got a fight.”

  Jake shrugged, stuffed the envelope into his trunks and pushed him out to arms’ length. “You lookin’ good, Sonny. Startin’ to look like a Brave.”

  19

  BROOKS AND JOHNSON plowed a path for Sonny through the fans and reporters packed in the corridor leading to the dressing room. “Son-nee, puh-leese.” A hand shoved an autograph book in his face. Brooks brushed it away. Martin and Jake struggled to stay close behind.

  “Sonny Bear.” A young man wearing a press badge around his neck tugged Sonny’s sleeve. “How do you feel about Indian rights?”

  Brooks pushed in between them. “Ask him about Indian lefts. He’s here to fight, not talk politics.”

  “Who are you?” asked the reporter, but Brooks had already pulled Sonny away.

  The guard at the dressing room barred Martin and Jake. “Only two handlers per fighter for the semifinals. Commission rules.”

  Martin shook his hand and said, “Jab…seven…five.”

  Jake raised the Running Brave fist.

  In the dressing room, TV cameras poked glass snouts at Sonny undressing, and fuzzy gray microphones on six-foot poles wormed their way between him and Brooks.

  “Get used to this, Sonny,” said Brooks. “Gonna get worse.”

  “We hope.” Johnson laughed and slapped Brooks’ palms.

  Johnson took his time taping Sonny’s hands and kneading the muscles of his back and arms. Brooks stood in front of Sonny to block his view of the door. It swung open every few minutes with a blast of crowd noise to let a fighter in or out. They all bounded out into the arena, psyched for battle, but only half of them bounded back in, high on the adrenalin of victory. Some were helped back to the dressing room, weeping and bloody. One was carried in.

  “Don’t look,” said Brooks. “Talk to him, Henry.”

  “Keep your mind on Velez, he’s a banger, but you can take him.” Johnson’s voice was steady, low. “Big, not as strong as he looks, but he can absorb punishment.”

  “A catcher,” said Brooks.

  “He’s willing to take three to hit you once,” said Johnson. “He’ll keep coming, boring in, trying to get you to stand and slug, toe to toe. Macho man. I seen this before.”

  “Don’t fight his fight,” said Brooks. “Fight your fight.”

  “Fight smart,” said Johnson. “Stick and move. Wear him down. If he gets inside, you tie him up.”

  “Like the octopus did you,” said Brooks.

  He knew they were talking to keep him focused on the fight, but loose, and he felt strong and confident. If Brooks and Johnson thought he could take Velez, he could think so, too.

  “Sometimes you can learn more from a lousy fighter like Traynor,” Johnson was saying, “than a real good fighter.”

  “I must of been a helluva teacher,” said Brooks.

  “Your problem, Alfred, you had a lousy assistant trainer.” They slapped palms again.

  “Bear-Velez, on deck.”

  “How do you feel?” asked Brooks.

  His mouth was dry and his stomach was queasy. “Ready.” He jogged in place and shook his arms.

  Johnson said, “Let’s rumble.”

  The door banged open to a blast of crowd noise, boos laced with jeering whistles.

  “They’ll want blood,” said Brooks. “Don’t listen.”

  “Bear. Go.”

  They went down the aisle three abreast, Brooks and Johnson moving him along with their shoulders, through a tunnel of sound into the glare of the ring lights. Velez was waiting for him, tall and massive, grinning down. “Indian boy, where’s your tomahawk?”

  Sonny raised his left glove. “Here.”

  They glared at each other during the referee’s instructions. Velez’ eyes were small and deeply set in his flat face. His nose had been mashed to a twisted button, his eyebrows were white braids of scar tissue. He must have fought a lot for an amateur, thought Sonny. Got hit a lot, whispered the monster. Imagine him with numbered squares. A punching bag for us. We’ll give him some punishment to absorb.

  Velez marched out at the bell and presented his flat face as a target too tempting to resist.

  Jab…five…seven rocked Valez back on his heels. This is goi
ng to be a short night, dish face. Right…eight turned his head into the flight plan of hook…one, on the chin, a short sweet tomahawk that would have rattled his teeth and crossed his eyes and knocked him flat if it ever landed, but it was still in the air when a concrete block slammed into Sonny’s face and a battering ram smashed into his gut.

  Sonny fell backward against the ring ropes. They held him up. He would have fallen without the three velvet-covered cables that sagged against his weight, then burned across his calves and back and shoulders as Velez pumped sledgehammers at his chest and arms, looming over him, silhouetted in the blazing ring lights, a grotesque shadow thrown up on the gym ceiling, drawn on a page in the sketchbook, a strange nightmare beast pounding him against the ropes that held him in place for the dark shape to punish.

  His feet began to slide forward as his body was forced almost horizontal on the ropes. Hot sweat sprayed off Velez and burned his chest.

  “Sonny. Sonny.”

  He wondered if he was already unconscious, having hospital dreams of a smiling blond girl. He felt sad for himself. So helpless. Let everybody down. Brooks and Johnson and the Witherspoons thought he’d be heavyweight champion and Jake thought he’d be a Running Brave.

  He was nothing. He felt small and alone, a little boy in buckskin selling jewelry outside Sweet Bear’s Kiva.

  “Sonneeee.” It sounded like Doll. He must be unconscious.

  The referee was peering down at him, ready to stop the fight if Sonny looked helpless. He was shaking his head. Right thing. Am helpless.

  “Sonneee.” A piercing whistle, a needle of sound through the dizzying roar in his ears. Two pinkies in her mouth.

  Doll’s whistle.

  “Fight back, Sonneee. You can do it.”

  It was Doll.

  Somewhere out beyond the lights. Got to get up. See Doll.

  Help me, monster.

  Help you?

  You owe me one, all the trouble you put me through.

  You dumb Redskin, who do you think I am? A Hawk, an evil spirit, a passive-aggressive personality? I am you.

  I’m the monster, thought Sonny. It’s me. Control it. Fear and fury. Make it work for me.

  It started at his toes scraping for leverage on the canvas, a tingling strength that built speed as it rushed up his legs and into his stomach and chest, out his arms.

  He threw his arms around Velez, clamping the pumping arms to Velez’ sides. Like the octopus did to him.

  Velez struggled in his arms, then stepped back. Sonny held tight. Velez took two more backward steps, lifting Sonny off the ropes, up onto his feet.

  “Sonneee, way to go, Sonneee.”

  He was closer to Velez than he had ever been to her, chest to chest, jaw against jaw, in a fierce clinch, holding on until his eyes focused and the swirl in his brain slowed into thought.

  “Wanna fight or kiss?” snarled Velez.

  The referee thrust his arms between them and pried their bodies apart. Thousands of voices screamed for action. He tried to isolate hers. Could he have imagined it? The bell rang. He lurched to his corner.

  “Smart,” said Johnson, massaging his chest. “You got out of a real tight spot.”

  “Now you got to fight your fight,” said Brooks, dribbling water into his mouth.

  “Stick and move.”

  “Control, take control.”

  “He’ll be cocky now,” said Johnson. “Use that.”

  Velez came out grinning for the second round. He did a mocking little Latin dance step into the center of the ring and acknowledged his friends’ cheers with a wave. At the bell Sonny lunged forward, fired a stiff jab at the twisted button nose and jumped away. Velez shook his head and waited for the next punch, but Sonny was already circling behind him. Velez whirled and Sonny popped him again. Velez stopped and set himself for a barrage, but Sonny had reversed direction.

  “Go, Son-nee, go.”

  He had to force himself not to search for her. Chop wood. Concentrate. Take control. Fight your fight. Stick and move.

  Concentrate. Tune out everything else. Kick the stick and hold the tea in your mouth and breathe through your nose.

  One more time, a stinging jab that made Velez grunt, the first acknowledgment of pain. I’m getting to him. But don’t wait to be trapped again. Move. Leave him flat-footed. Make him turn to find me. Jab…three, dance away. He’s looking stupid. Jab…seven, sidestep. He can’t stand this. Jab…five…five. The crowd laughed at Velez.

  “Wake up, Chico.”

  He wanted to rush Velez, end the fight now with a whirlwind of combinations, pop-pop-right-pop-pop-BANG, that would drive him through the ropes, piercing whistle, where are you, Doll?

  NO. Control. Stick and move, jab and dance away. Velez’ nose was a bloody button and his lips were twisted with frustration and his eyes had disappeared into fleshy caves. He wasn’t hurt, but he was angry because he was looking bad.

  “Good job.” Brooks and Johnson swarmed over Sonny in the corner. “This is it. He’ll go nuts on you.”

  “Just stay cool. Wait for your time.”

  “Then give him the tomahawk.”

  Velez roared out for the third round on a thunder roll of crowd noise, and he threw up a windmill of punches. Sonny backed and circled, knocking the punches away, letting his arms and shoulders absorb the blows he couldn’t avoid. Velez was desperate to regain the crowd, to squash him. Sonny almost felt sorry for Velez, so out of control.

  One minute into the round, Velez dropped his hands for an instant to rest and grab air, and Sonny nailed him with a right that jerked his head back. Jab…five turned his face back into another right that left him open for the hook.

  Indian boy, where’s your tomahawk?

  Here.

  Everyone in the arena saw it coming, including Velez. No one moved. Including Velez.

  He was out before he hit the canvas.

  Sonny looked for Doll as the referee raised his arms in victory, but Martin was hugging him and Brooks was saying, “You did it, Sonny,” and then two new fighters were in the ring and Johnson was steering him back through a thicket of hands reaching out to him, “Attaboy, Sonny…. Way to go, champ…” and the guard at the door winked and let Jake and Martin into the dressing room packed with reporters and cameras. TV lights made the room as bright as the ring.

  20

  “WHERE YOU FROM, SONNY?”

  “You really an Indian?”

  Faces bobbed up in front of him, asked questions, disappeared.

  “What tribe?”

  “This your chief here?” A camera swung to Jake.

  “Sonny Bear your real name?”

  He couldn’t understand why anyone would be so interested in where he was born or the size of the Reservation or that his full name was George Harrison Bayer and that he’d been named for his mother’s favorite Beatle. They wrote down all his answers. Martin was giving an interview about the importance of their training on Rocky, and Jake was telling a camera that Moscondagas had fought in every American war since the French and Indian.

  “Brooksy Baby!” A bull with flashing diamond teeth barreled into the room.

  Brooks yelled, “Elston,” and they hugged.

  Reporters began interviewing each other. “That Elston Hubbard?”

  “When was he champ?”

  “Isn’t he on a TV series now?”

  “Yeah. Who’s Brooksy Baby?”

  The cameras turned on Hubbard and Brooks, the fuzzy gray mikes hovered above them. Reporters asked them questions. Sonny caught snatches of the story. Hubbard had beaten Brooks in Brooks’ last fight, twenty years ago, a slugfest people still talked about because Brooks refused to go down even though he was way overmatched. Hubbard’s son had just won his heavyweight semifinal. He’d be fighting Sonny for the Gotham Gloves title.

  The reporters seemed to love the story. Hubbard was loving the attention.

  “My boy versus Alfred’s boy,” boomed Hubbard, “the continuation of a quar
ter-century grudge match. Everybody write that down. Shoot it on tape. Two great kids for the title. That Sonny Bear is smart and tough. But is he smart and tough enough for Elston Hubbard Junior? Buy tickets and find out.”

  The photographers posed Brooks and Hubbard hands up, scowling, as if they were about to continue their old fight. Then Elston Junior was posed with Sonny. They were about the same size.

  Then Junior posed with Brooks, and Sonny posed with Hubbard, who whispered, “Never pass up publicity. Remember that.”

  Brooks winked at Sonny. He looked proud and happy.

  When the photographers finally left, Johnson untaped his hands. “This is really something, Sonny, really something. If only Mr. Donatelli could see this.”

  They left the locker room in a laughing, chattering clump, Jake and Martin and Brooks and Johnson around him. The corridor was still filled with fans.

  “You were wonderful, Sonny.”

  She looked thinner, blonder. Her face was bright with crimson lipstick and baby-blue eye shadow. His stomach turned over and his mouth went dry. Her red dress clung damply to her body.

  “I heard you out there,” he said. His tongue felt thick.

  “I know.”

  He felt as though everyone else had melted away. They were finally alone.

  Words began forming in his mouth. Doll, let’s go away. Together. Now.

  “Great fight, Sonny,” said Stick.

  “What are you doing here?” Brooks’ hand went to the small of his back.

  Stick raised the snake head. “Come to see the fights. Law against that?”

  “Stay away from Sonny,” said Brooks.

  “Does Sergeant Brooks tell you what to do?” asked Doll. “Or can you come out with us and celebrate?”

  “He’s got something else to do,” said Brooks.

  “That true, Sonny?” asked Doll. “Something else you want to do?”

  He lost his breath. Everyone was staring at him. He was frozen. He felt Doll willing him to break away, to leave with her. He found his voice. “Some other time, Doll.”