The Brave Read online

  Brooks and Johnson grabbed his arms and rushed him out of the arena. He knew she would be in his dreams tonight, and that he dared not look back.

  21

  HE WOKE UP TIRED and cranky all that week, hung over with fleeting, jagged dreams. To chase the dark shadows he ran hard in the mornings, pounding through the park until his mind cleared, shouting birds and squirrels out of his path, whirling to throw windmills of punches at trembling bushes, scaring the park people out of their cardboard homes.

  He battered Rocky in the afternoons, snarling at Martin to pick up the pace, to snap out the numbers louder, faster, in ever more complex combinations until his mind was purged of everything except pure action.

  Movement in the gym would slow, then stop as he attacked the dummy. Other fighters would drift away from their mirrored images, leave the punching bags dangling, to gather around him, to grin and nod at each other. Hearing them murmur, Sonny’s on edge, kid’s ready to rumble, drove him to hit harder. Johnson stroked his beard and looked pleased. The Punching Postman announced, “This boy has it, take it from me.” Even the Fave seemed impressed. “Sonny Bear is the future.”

  He tried to exhaust himself during the day so he’d fall asleep early, not think about her. Sometimes when the phone rang at night, he’d shiver, thinking it might be her. But it never was.

  Jake stayed at the gym for a few nights, then flew back to the Res to feed the dogs. Sonny missed Brooks. Johnson said he was very close to breaking his big case.

  Martin invited him to move into his room for the last two nights before the title fight. He said they could watch old fights on the VCR.

  The whole family watched with them, Denise peeking up from her homework, Betty from the papers she was marking. Martin’s dad turned down the sound to do his own commentary. “Ali was the greatest, but you can learn more here from watching Joe Frazier. Ali did so many things only he could get away with, get you in bad habits. See how low he holds his hands, see how he backs away from a punch, instead of slipping it—you do that, Sonny, it’s lights out.”

  He didn’t think he learned much he could use right away, but sitting in this warm place with people who cared about him made Johnson’s amateur road seem truly possible, win the Gotham Gloves and the Golden Gloves and the Olympics, follow the path blazed by the champions on the screen. It was beginning to seem real.

  The night before the fight, while Martin went to a friend’s house to borrow a school-book, Sonny sat at his desk and doodled. After a while it became a drawing, a boxer running behind a hawk up a mountain road. He got lost in the picture.

  “Hey! You’re really good.” Denise was standing beside him with tea and cookies.

  “No, I, uh, just…”

  “Don’t crumple it up. Please.” She put down the tray and picked up the drawing. “Where’d you learn to draw like this?”

  “My mother’s an artist.”

  “On the Reservation?” asked Denise.

  “No, she lives in Arizona now.” He was surprised at how easy it was to talk with her. She was pretty and nice and smart. He should feel the warms for her. But she wasn’t Doll.

  “You miss her?”

  “Huh?” Did she know about Doll?

  “Do you miss your mother?”

  “Oh. Sometimes. I do. Maybe after this fight I’ll visit her. She sent me a ticket.”

  “Maybe she’ll come to the fight.”

  “No way. She hates me fighting.”

  “Then how come she…”

  “Hey!” Martin stamped into the room. “Leave him alone. He needs his…You do this, Sonny? I didn’t know…”

  “You just don’t know everything,” said Denise. “His mother’s a southwestern artist.”

  “The Hawk,” said Martin, snatching the drawing out of Denise’s hand. “The one Jake talks about. Follow the Hawk.”

  “What’s that mean?” asked Denise.

  “You just don’t know everything,” said Martin.

  “Moscondaga fairy tales,” said Sonny. “The Hawk is the spirit inside you.”

  “More to it than that,” said Martin. “You got to let it out before it eats up your insides, destroys you. If you follow it, the Hawk leads you to your special destiny. In Sonny’s case to be a Running Brave, a sort of…”

  “Jake’s brainwashed you,” said Sonny.

  “You bet. He invited me to come up to the Res with you sometime. I’m going to tape his memoirs. For a book.”

  “Sonny can do illustrations,” said Denise.

  “Would you?”

  “Let’s win the fight first.”

  Martin stayed home from school the day of the fight to make Sonny a giant breakfast of bacon and eggs and muffins. They were sitting at the kitchen table, pleasantly stuffed, drowsy in the morning sun slanting through the window, when Martin asked, “Who was that girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “Come on.”

  “Some girl I knew.”

  “Was that guy her pimp?”

  Sonny tried to keep his face expressionless. It was something he didn’t want to think about. “Who said that?”

  “Alfred told my dad she was bad news.”

  Sonny shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “You mean you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Right.”

  “She’s really built.”

  “You don’t quit, do you?”

  “I’m a writer, not a fighter.” He grinned.

  “You better remember that.” Sonny made a fist.

  “You hit me it’s a felony, your hands are weapons.”

  “Not till I turn pro.” He stood up. “Might as well get you while I can.”

  “You wouldn’t hit a guy with glasses, would you?”

  “Never.” Sonny snatched Martin’s glasses and laid them on the table. “Now.”

  He was kneeling on Martin’s lap, tickling him under the arms, when the phone rang. Martin was still cackling and gasping as he answered it. He swallowed suddenly.

  When he hung up the phone, his face was twisted. “Alfred’s been shot.”

  “Is it bad? What happened? Who…”

  “I don’t know. My dad just said to get there fast.”

  Spoon met them in the hospital lobby. “It’s very bad. He took a load of buckshot in the back. If he hadn’t been wearing his gun, he would have died instantly. As it is, he’s paralyzed and they’re worried about infection.”

  The elevator and the corridor were filled with police officers. Mrs. Brooks came out of a room and headed straight for Sonny. “He wants to see you.”

  Brooks’ eyes were closed. Tubes ran out of his nose, his throat, his arms. Machines hummed and beeped around him. A nurse stood near his head. “A minute, that’s all,” she said.

  Brooks’ eyes fluttered open. His lips formed words, but Sonny couldn’t hear them. He put his ear close to Brooks’ mouth. He thought he heard the word “win,” but he could have imagined it, could have thought that’s what Brooks would say.

  The nurse tugged at his arm. Brooks’ eyes were closed.

  “He’s going to be all right?”

  She looked away.

  He walked out of the room on rubbery legs. He remembered how he had felt when the fat farm boy hit him in the groin. Gasping for air, for strength, trying to focus. He was glad when Spoon put his arm around his shoulders. “Did he say anything?”

  “Told me to win.”

  “That’s Alfred,” said Mrs. Brooks. She started to cry. The police officers closed around her.

  22

  THE GUARD OUTSIDE the dressing room barred them all this time. “Not on the sheet.” He pointed to a list of names on a piece of paper taped to the door. “Commission rules.”

  “This is Sonny Bear,” said Martin. “He’s fighting for the title.”

  “I know Sonny,” said the guard, “but nobody goes in without your name on the sheet. I don’t make the rules.”

  “Got to be a mistake,” said Johnson i
mpatiently. “Get the commissioner.”

  “Can’t leave my…”

  “You taking responsibility for this?” Johnson looked fierce. “If my boy loses because of you…”

  The guard said, “Okay, Mr. Johnson, I’ll be right back.” He scurried off.

  “I seen this before, Sonny,” said Johnson. “They’re trying to mess up your mind before the fight.”

  “They’re scared of the tomahawk,” said Martin. He held up his palms. “Stay loose, champ. Jab…seven…five…two. Never opened with that combination before.”

  The monster stirred, snickered. No mistake, Injun. They’re not scared of the tomahawk. Journey’s over. No Stonebird, no championship. Sonny felt suddenly sad. He wouldn’t be able to win a fight for Brooks.

  The guard returned with a man in a red blazer. “You’re out, Henry. Didn’t you get my telegram?”

  “What telegram?”

  “Bear’s disqualified.”

  “Says who?” Johnson’s fists came up. His body swelled.

  “We got documents. Kid’s had six pro fights. Upstate.”

  Johnson whirled on Sonny. “True or false?”

  “Smokers,” said Sonny.

  “You take money?”

  “Yeah.”

  Johnson’s hands dropped. His body deflated. “Sorry.”

  “Late for that.” The commissioner rapped his clipboard. “Some title fight you left me with. Have to put Velez in against Hubbard.” He glared at Sonny and marched away.

  “What’re smokers?” asked Martin.

  “Lousy little fights for has-beens and wanna-bes,” said Johnson. “Should of told me.”

  “Didn’t think of it,” said Sonny.

  “What’s the big deal?” asked Martin.

  “Rules,” said Johnson. “If you take money, you’re not an amateur no more.” He leaned against the stone wall of the corridor. “Somebody out to get us. This never comes up ’less somebody makes a big complaint to the commission.”

  “Hubbard,” said Martin. “Afraid of Sonny.”

  “No, even if they knew, they’d want to win in the ring. Somebody’s out to wreck Sonny’s career. And they did it, yessiree, they did it.”

  “No,” said Martin. “It’s not over yet.”

  “Is for me,” said Johnson.

  “We’ll fight pro,” said Martin. “We’ll do it the hard way, be better, coming up through the tank towns, leaving a trail of broken bodies, right, Sonny?”

  He had no more words. There was only one thing left to do.

  “Where you going?” yelled Martin. “Wait for me.”

  23

  THE TOW TRUCK came alive on the first kick.

  “Where we going?” Martin was scrambling into the passenger seat.

  “Get out.”

  “I’m your trainer, I…”

  “No more boxing.”

  “I’m your writer.”

  “Do this alone.”

  “I’m your friend, Sonny.” The owl face was serious. “I’m going with you. Where to?”

  Sonny jerked the truck into traffic. “The Deuce.”

  “Them,” said Martin. “The girl and the pimp. You’re not going to…”

  “Directions. Get us there.”

  He drove carefully. This was no time to be stopped by the police. Martin wasn’t sure of the way, but he knew they had to head west to get back to Manhattan. Sonny kept the skyline in sight as he wove through deserted blocks of shuttered factories and side streets with rows of attached houses.

  “You think he shot Alfred? You think he turned you in to the commission?”

  The sky was dark. The lights of the tall buildings were stars to follow.

  “Sonny. What are you going to do to him?”

  “Watch for cops.”

  That shut him up. The river sparkled beneath them as the truck clattered over the bridge into Manhattan. Martin pointed downtown. Neon splashed the windshield. He turned onto Forty-second Street. Times Square. Bursts of music. They were in a valley of flashing lights. The stink of sick flesh.

  “Reach into the dashboard.”

  “All those wires…”

  “Won’t hurt you. Deep as you can go.”

  “What am I supposed to…Hey.” Martin pulled out the old Colt .45. “Is it loaded?”

  “Better be.” He double-parked the truck outside Chub’s Grotto. “Stay here.”

  “You kidding?”

  Sonny shut off the ignition and handed Martin the key. “Make sure Jake gets his truck back.” He took the gun out of Martin’s hand. “Whatever happens.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Sonny jammed the gun under his belt at the small of his back and covered it with his shirt. He climbed out of the truck and walked into Chub’s.

  “Sonny Bear!” Chub dropped a pizza. “Heard you been…Hey, you can’t go…”

  Martin was right behind him, around the counter and into the tiny bathroom, through the little door beside the toilet and into the chattering, clanging, screaming electronic battlefield of the video arcade, past rows of hunched bodies to the door marked POSITIVELY NO ADMITTANCE.

  “Can’t you read?” Mo loomed up.

  “Stick said it was an emergency,” said Sonny.

  “Didn’t tell me.”

  “Doll supposed to tell you.”

  Mo looked confused. “She didn’t.”

  “Stick’ll make her pay for that.”

  “Don’t say nothing. Please.”

  Sonny pretended to think it over. “This time.”

  Mo unlocked the door.

  In the darkness he sensed direction. He shut out the moans and whispers and slaps of flesh on flesh from behind the curtains, the mingled odors of sweat and ammonia, and concentrated on his destination. A Running Brave could smell Doll’s sweet perfume, hear the tap of Stick’s walking club.

  He followed a trail that was inside his head, making turns that seemed the only way to go, down stairs, up stairs, around a corner, to a heavy steel door. It was open. Stick was waiting for him, the shotgun barrel pointing at his chest.

  “Close enough.” There was a pile of suitcases behind him. They were packing for a trip. Doll was sitting in a corner of the enormous brown velvet couch, wearing the red silk robe Stick had worn the last time Sonny was here. She cradled a baby in her arms.

  “Hi, Sonny. Say hello to Jessie.”

  He felt heat in his neck and groin. Close that down. Push it away.

  “What do you want, Sonny?” asked Stick. The snake’s head was steady.

  “Come to kill you,” said Sonny. Martin gasped.

  “It was him or me,” said Stick.

  “That’s your business,” said Sonny. “You narc’ed me.”

  Stick’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  “Don’t try to weasel out of it.”

  Stick glanced over his shoulder at Doll. “What’s he talking about?”

  “You turned him in, Stick?” She looked puzzled. “For what?”

  He turned back to Sonny. “What you trying to pull?”

  “You called the commission.” It works—Jake was right. People get confused, can think of only one thing at a time. “You told them about the smokers.”

  “Smokers?”

  “My fights back home.”

  Stick was shaking his head. The snake’s head wavered. “Didn’t you fight tonight?”

  “He was disqualified,” said Martin. “For being a pro.”

  “Who’s the fat boy?”

  “My trainer. He’s out of luck, too. ’Cause of you.”

  “Oh, poor Sonny,” said Doll, rocking her baby in her arms. “Why’d you do it, Stick?”

  “Wait a minute,” said Stick. He glanced back and forth from Doll to Sonny. “You know this ain’t my style. Stick is evil, but he ain’t a snitch.”

  The snake’s-head shotgun was still leveled at Sonny’s chest, but the muscles of Stick’s shoulders and arms were no longer so tense and ready. Watch for twitches, Ja
ke had said, shifts in the eye, quick breaths.

  Sonny said, “Can’t believe anything you say. You pulled my chain from jump.”

  “Right thing,” said Stick. “That’s my game. I spotted you off the bus, a Native American, never trust cops, never rat on me.”

  Sonny willed his body to relax, his face to wrinkle into thought. “You didn’t call the Gotham Gloves?”

  “We were rooting for you—we’d’ve had a friend who was champ,” said Stick. “Hey, man, if we weren’t on our way out of town, we’d have come to the fight.”

  Sonny let his head drop. He shrugged. “Maybe you can help me get some money. Get out of town, too.”

  Stick relaxed. He smiled at Doll. “No hard feelings, Sonny. I’ll give you the other half of that hundred. Even though you didn’t make the delivery.”

  Sonny watched the snake’s head dip toward the floor, but he waited until Stick exhaled with relief and let his shoulders go slack before he made his move, one long step forward on his left foot, a quick kick with his right. Stick yelped.

  Sonny snatched the stick out of the air with his left hand and slapped Stick across the face with his right. Stick fell backward into the suitcases, scattering them. Sonny tossed the shotgun stick to Martin, who fumbled it but held on.

  Sonny drew the Colt and put the tip of the barrel to the tip of Stick’s nose. “Now, I’m going to kill you.”

  “No,” screamed Doll. She hugged her baby. “No.”

  Sonny felt the wings rustling inside his chest. Yes.

  Stick waved his spidery hands. “I got crazy money, man, I can set you up on The Deuce…”

  “I’m gonna blow your face off.” The monster filled him: Do it!

  “Please don’t, Sonny.” Doll was crying.

  “Don’t do it, Sonny.” Martin’s voice was high and tight. “Screw up your life.”

  Who is ordering you around now? asked the monster. Blow this piece of garbage away.

  “You can’t be a chief with blood on your hands,” said Martin.

  The wings beat against Sonny’s ribs, pressed against his lungs. “Kill him for Brooks.”

  “That’s not what Alfred wants,” said Martin. “He wants you to be champ.”