The Brave Page 12
“That’s over.”
“We can do it, Sonny, the hard way, tank towns, tough fights.” Martin’s glasses slipped down his sweaty nose. “We’ll turn pro for real.”
Fat owl never shuts up, said the monster. “Shut up,” said Sonny.
“Right thing.” Stick sat up against the suitcases. “Brooks just wanted you to be his decoy.” He wiped his bloody nose with silk underpants. Doll’s? Push that away. Concentrate.
“Alfred and Jake want you to be a Running Brave.”
“Ignore that fat fool,” said Stick. “Brooks just wants you to be a rat for him.”
“You gonna listen to a dope dealer set you up to get busted?” said Martin.
Stick and Martin began yelling and Doll began to sob. The monster thrashed in his chest. Get it over with. Pull the trigger—don’t you ever learn, half-breed? They rob the fights, they switch the rules, they kill off the people who care about you, Brooks, Dad, squeeze the trigger nice and easy, like Jake taught you….
He thought of Jake and closed his ears and slowed his heart, the little death. Got to think now—what should I do, what would a Running Brave do, a warrior who can speak with wisdom, a peace bringer who can fight to the finish?
A Running Brave would know what to do. He would have remembered everything he learned on his journey, of mules and mushrooms, the selling of death to kids, a friend named James who survived a war to die on the streets at home. A Running Brave would remember and think and make the right decision for the People.
The noise in his chest drowned the screams in the room. How come they can’t hear the monster? Jake’s evil spirit. Brooks called it a passive-aggressive personality. Donatelli called it a fire. Everybody has a name for it.
The Hawk inside me.
“Stop,” roared Sonny to the thrashing wings. “Leave me alone.”
Their faces froze, they thought he was shouting at them. Why can’t they hear the beating wings crushing my lungs, trying to break free. He gasped for breath. If I was a dumb Redskin, he thought, I could really believe there was a Hawk in there and this was the time to let it loose.
And follow it out of here.
He looked at them—Stick quivering, a cornered weasel; Martin clutching the shotgun stick, his shirt black with sweat; Doll heaving under the robe, her makeup bleeding down her cheeks. The baby, incredibly, smiled up at Sonny.
They were all waiting for him.
To take control.
He took a deep breath. Scalding pain. “Let’s go. We’re taking Stick out of here.”
“Way to go,” whooped Martin.
His chest swelled, the pain was unbearable, another moment and he would explode and die. His body shuddered from toe to scalp. He felt a sudden chill. And then calm.
The Hawk was free.
“Never make it,” said Stick. “Guys out there won’t let Doll out of here.”
“Not taking Doll. Just you.”
Stick smiled. “Doll won’t let you do it.”
“Sure she will.” Sonny looked at her hugging her baby, her bird eyes pecking around the room for a way out. “She loves her baby. She’ll do what she thinks is right for her baby.” He thought about his mom. She must have called the boxing commission after reading about him in the newspaper. She must have thought that was right.
“Don’t let ’em do it, Doll.” Stick’s voice was a low growl. “I’ll get you.”
She buried her face in Jessie’s tummy. The baby giggled.
“Sonny.” Stick’s voice was hoarse. “She took your wallet and your pack. When the pigs jumped us in the Port.”
Doll looked up. “I was keeping it for you, Sonny. I swear.” She flashed the neon smile. “It’s here somewhere.”
“Keep it. Don’t need it.”
“You’re such a good artist, Sonny. Maybe you’ll draw Jessie someday.”
“Maybe.”
In the calm, his head felt very clear, his senses sharp. He smelled ammonia and pizza and exhaust fumes, markers on the pathway out. He heard the slap of flesh and the chatter of video games and the thump of trucks rolling over manhole covers on The Deuce.
Sonny pulled Stick to his feet. “Martin, once we’re out that door, we keep going till we hit the street. No matter what happens.”
“Got it,” snarled Martin. It was almost funny, Martin acting tough. But he felt proud of him. Every Running Brave has a young warrior-in-training by his side.
“Give me the stick. Keep the Colt under your shirt till you need it. We’re out of here.”
He pushed Stick ahead of him. He turned at the door. Doll was rubbing her nose against Jessie’s and cooing at her. He wondered if he would ever see them again. Sonny slammed the iron door.
They scrambled down the stairs, then up the other flight. In the corridor of curtained cubicles he linked arms with Stick and motioned Martin to do the same. They moved Stick along with their shoulders.
Mo loomed up. “What’s going…” He jerked back at the snake’s-head stick. “Where’s Doll?”
“Don’t let ’em take me,” squealed Stick.
“Doll’s waiting for you upstairs,” said Sonny. He never stopped moving. He knew Mo would step out of their way.
No one looked up as they rushed through the video arcade, into the little toilet and out into the Grotto.
Chub blocked the way.
“Don’t let ’em take me,” shouted Stick. “I’ll drop the dime on you. They’ll close you down.”
Sonny jammed the snake’s head into Stick’s spine. “Anything goes wrong, you’re gone.”
“Let him go,” said Chub.
Martin snarled, “Keep your head down and mouth shut if you know what’s good for you, fatso.” He tore his shirt pulling out the Colt, but once Chub saw it, the snakes and eagles on his arms seemed to shrink. He let them pass.
And then they were out on The Deuce.
“This your truck, boys?” A woman in a brown uniform was about to write a parking ticket. She looked them over sternly. Sonny poked Stick to keep him quiet.
“Sorry, officer,” said Martin. “We had to make a pickup. We’ll move it right away.”
“Let you go this time,” she said. “You boys are real lucky.”
They didn’t let themselves laugh until Sonny pulled the truck out into the traffic on Forty-second Street, Stick jammed between them, clutching his bony shoulders with his spidery hands, moaning, the gun in Martin’s hand deep in his ribs, and they couldn’t stop laughing until they got to the hospital.
24
THE HILLCREST LODGE hall was smaller than Sonny remembered, a cramped box of a room, the whitewashed cinderblock walls covered with cheap plaques and moth-eaten animal heads. It looked more like a rec room than a boxing arena. For has-beens and wanna-bes. Most of the men were crowded around four kegs in the corner, filling their paper cups.
“I seen this before,” said Johnson. “Fightin’ in a outhouse.”
“From the Outhouse to the Penthouse,” said Martin. “The Sonny Bear story.”
“Don’t you ever zip up?” grumbled Johnson.
Sonny undressed in a storeroom jammed with folded card tables and softball equipment. Johnson double-wrapped his hands with thick gauze and heavy-duty tape. “Not gonna let you bust a knuckle in this hole. Stick and run the early rounds, don’t head-hunt.”
“Just what I told him last time,” said Jake.
“If he listened,” said Martin, “he wouldn’t be on his way to the title now.”
“Quiet now,” said Johnson. “Let Sonny concentrate.” He held up his palms. “Jab and hook.”
Sonny snapped out the jabs and threw slow hooks, feeling the warmth spread through his body. Push everything else away and concentrate on the farm boy, and the crowd that came to see him grind the half-breed into red meat.
Don’t think about Brooks, lying in that hospital three weeks now, just staring at the ceiling because he’ll never walk again.
Don’t think about Doll and Jessie.
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Don’t think about Mom, on her way with Roger’s lawyer to make you come back to Phoenix with her.
Don’t think about Stick, waiting for a trial at which you’ll have to testify.
Just think about this fight.
The rematch, the second chance, the new start.
When the door opened, he pushed ahead of Jake and Martin and Johnson. He swaggered down the aisle, banging his big red gloves together, whipping his ponytail from side to side against his bare shoulders.
I’m back, bozos, and I’m stronger.
“…main event, a grudge match we’ve all been waiting for. Winner take all, three hundred dollars, in black trunks…showing some real guts, let me say…” there was scattered applause. “…weighing one hundred and eighty-five pounds, the pride of the Moscondaga Nation, Sonny Bear, The Tomahawk Kid.”
He looked around. Johnson was rolling his eyes and jerking his thumb at Martin, who was grinning and slapping palms with Jake.
“And from Hillcrest, the undefeated champion of Van Buren County…The Fighting Farm Boy…Glen Hoffer….”
Hoffer lumbered into the center of the ring and waved to the cheering crowd. The curly yellow hair on his chest was already glistening with sweat.
“Looks like the fighting furbag to me,” said Martin.
“Don’t ever make light of a fighter,” said Johnson, “especially if you’re not one.”
Sonny listened carefully to the referee’s instructions. I’m a pro now. It’s for real. Not a kid from the Res making a few bucks. Not an amateur. First step out on the road to the top.
The crowd started calling for action right away, but Sonny ignored them. Jab and move. Control the fight. Make Hoffer tired and frustrated. The crowd booed at the bell.
“Smart round,” said Johnson, as Martin trickled water on his tongue and Jake rubbed his back. “Now pick up the pace. You’re a pro now, an entertainer.”
Martin shouted, “Jab…five…five,” as Hoffer marched after him on flat feet. Late in the second round Sonny landed a sharp combination that rocked him, but he lingered too long admiring his punches. Hoffer clinched, grabbing him in a powerful bear hug that gave the farm boy a chance to drive a knee into his groin and rake his laces across his back. Sonny felt the sting of torn skin. As the referee separated them, Hoffer rammed his head into Sonny’s mouth, splitting his lower lip. Blood dribbled down his chin.
Don’t get mad, get even. Jab and move. Work the farm boy, don’t show him you’re hurt. Sonny slipped two jabs in a row, but Hoffer grabbed him again and kicked his shin. Control. Take what you got to take till your time comes.
It came in the third. Hoffer threw a roundhouse right that Sonny ducked. He dropped into a squat as the big punch whirled over his head. The force of the punch pulled Hoffer into a half-turn, his right glove flung over his left shoulder, his big face exposed.
Jab…five…seven…two. Right…eight. Hook…one.
Bingo.
Sonny strolled to a neutral corner. He was almost sorry it was over. At least one more round. Too soon, it was over too soon. He wanted to savor it a little longer, remember every punch. It was going to get harder now, it was for real from here on in, tank towns and short money on a hard road, crazy kids and losers who wanted to hurt him, a long climb. But he was going to make it.
“Winnah…by a knockout in two twenty-one of the third round…Sonny Bear…The Tomahawk Kid….”
The crowd cheered politely. They were disappointed, but respectful.
Martin hugged him. “Un-dee-fee-ted.”
Johnson pulled him out of the ring. “I seen this before. Let’s split. Jake’ll collect.”
Sonny pulled his pants over his trunks while Martin draped his jeans jacket over his bare shoulders. They hurried out ahead of the crowd to the parking lot. Sonny started the truck and gunned the engine until Jake climbed into the cab with the money. It was a tight squeeze, the four of them. Sonny burned rubber out of the parking lot. Martin started whooping first, and then they were all yelling and laughing.
“Tomahawk Kid. Where’d you get that?” asked Sonny.
“I’m a Writing Brave,” said Martin.
Sonny looked at Jake. The old man made a fist, the thumb thrust up between the knuckles of his third and fourth fingers.
Halfway down the mountain, at the fork, Sonny asked, “Which way?”
Jake said, “Don’t matter. Both take us there.”
“Straight to the title,” said Martin.
“Never seen this before,” said Johnson.
About the Author
Robert Lipsyte is an award-winning sportswriter for The New York Times, and was the Emmy-winning host of the public-affairs show The Eleventh Hour. He is the author of a number of acclaimed titles for young readers, including THE CONTENDER, THE BRAVE, THE CHIEF, ONE FAT SUMMER, and WARRIOR ANGEL. He is the recipient of the Margaret A. Edwards Award honoring lifetime contribution in writing for young adults. Robert Lipsyte lives in New York.
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Also by Robert Lipsyte
THE CONTENDER
THE CHIEF
WARRIOR ANGEL
ONE FAT SUMMER
Credits
Cover photograph © 2003 by Chris Rogers
Cover © 2003 by HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Copyright
THE BRAVE. Copyright © 1991 by Robert M. Lipsyte. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lipsyte, Robert.
The brave / by Robert Lipsyte.
p. cm.
Sequel to: The contender.
Summary: Having left the Indian reservation for the streets of New York, seventeen-year-old boxer Sonny Bear tries to harness his inner rage by training with Alfred Brooks, who has left the sport to become a policeman.
ISBN 0-06-447079-2 (pbk.)
1. Indians of North America—Juvenile fiction. [1.Indians of North America—Fiction. 2. Boxing—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.L67Br 1991 90-25396
[Fic]—dc20 CIP
AC
EPub Edition © November 2009 ISBN: 978-0-06-199583-5
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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