The Chief Page 5

  “Now you happy?” Richie was standing next to me outside the ropes. He looked angry.

  The only thing I could think of to say was, “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

  “You may think it’s funny, but I’m trying to get John L. ready for the fight of his life. We don’t need this.”

  “We do.” I tried to sound as tough and raspy as Richie.

  “You’re a real mouth, you know that? Tomato Kid better have good insurance.”

  “His hands’re his insurance, pal. Be surprised if old Slug lasts the round.”

  “Put your money where that fat mouth is,” rasped Richie.

  “Five hundred.” All the cash we had. For our tickets home. I felt sick.

  Richie grinned at me.

  Sludge looked at Sonny the way Custer the dog looked at hamburger. There was foamy slaver in the corner of his gray lips.

  “Don’t kill ’im. Sludge,” yelled Richie, “just cripple ’im,” and Sludge grinned at the crowd with his pointy gray teeth, and then waved at Sonny to come on over the way a grown-up beckons to a toddler. The crowd laughed and popped their flashes. I was scared that Sonny would rise to that bait, the way I rose to the bet.

  I yelled, “Stay away—dance him.”

  John L. himself rang the bell, and Sonny walked right out and hit Sludge with everything he had, a powerhouse left hook that would have killed a Cadillac. Sludge shook his head as if a fly had landed on his nose. Solomon laughed. Richie gave me an elbow in the ribs.

  Sonny stood there trying to figure out what to do next when Sludge fired a right into his chest that knocked Sonny on his butt. Bang. Sonny got up slow, a red mark spreading on his chest.

  “Whadya think,” yelled Solomon to the crowd, “enough’s enough?”

  When the crowd started chanting “E-NOUGH, E-NOUGH,” Solomon started climbing back through the ropes.

  But Sonny was already charging Sludge.

  “Move—stick and move,” I yelled.

  “Run for your life,” yelled Richie.

  Sonny took another hard shot to the body. It rocked him, but he stayed up and popped two quick jabs into Sludge’s face. Sludge wrinkled his nose. The crowd laughed again.

  They were whaling now, back and forth, throwing punches, in close, and then suddenly Sonny slipped a right; he just tilted his head so it whistled over his shoulder and he slammed a left hook into Sludge’s liver. When the gray slab froze, Sonny stepped back, banged a right to Sludge’s temple and slammed a hook into Sludge’s jaw.

  Sludge sank to his knees. The crowd roared—it had to be a joke. Sludge looked as though he was trying to pray, but couldn’t quite get his gloves together. His brow wrinkled, and the skin continued to ripple up his bald head. His eyelids dropped like window shades. The laughter faded, grew nervous. Sludge pitched forward on his forehead. I heard Richie gasp. Sludge rolled over on one side. The ring shook.

  I gave Richie the elbow. “Bigger they are…” but he was through the ropes, with smelling salts. John L. helped him roll Sludge over. It was a while before Sludge got up, real slow, blinking. Another trainer helped him down from the ring and out of the room.

  Sonny watched from a neutral corner, his elbows hooked on the ring ropes, looking nonchalant and arrogant at the same time. Once our eyes met, neither of us could stop grinning.

  John L. picked up the mike. “Now I see why the Hubbards didn’t want this boy in their camp. He’s dynamite. Well, I want this boy on my side. What do you folks think?”

  The crowd cheered.

  John L. pulled Sonny out into the middle of the ring and threw an arm around his shoulders. “He’s gonna spar with me, and if he don’t hurt me too bad”—he led the crowd in a big chuckle—“I might let him in on a few secrets. Who knows, when I’m ready to give up the title again, I just might give it to Sonny Boy here.”

  “Bear,” snapped Sonny. “Sonny Bear.”

  “See, he ain’t even afraid of King Solomon. I like that.” Suddenly he pointed at me. “You, come up here.”

  It took me a few seconds to understand. Richie goosed me with a water bottle, and I stumbled through the ropes and nearly fell down. John L. grabbed me in his other arm. “What’s your name?”

  I don’t know why I changed my middle name on the spot, but I did. “Martin Malcolm Witherspoon.”

  Sonny looked at me.

  “Martin Malcolm Witherspoon. You Sonny’s manager, his trainer?”

  “No, they’re still in New York. I’m his…” I stopped before I said third second again. “…writer.”

  “Writer,” bellowed John L., winking at everybody. “I like that. I’m from the People of the Book myself. It’s ancient and it’s modern. Sonny Boy’s gonna need a writer. This here’s the future, folks, my new protege.

  “Think of it, the fighter and his writer, the people that Elston Hubbard, Junior, and that blowhard father of his are so afraid of, are here in the camp of the champ.” He squeezed us. “Mazel tov, boychiks. We are going to make history.”

  13

  SUDDENLY, WE HAD a room in the Oasis. It was a small room, two narrow beds and a single window overlooking the volcano that erupted every twenty minutes after twilight, but it was ours and it was free. We each had a card that entitled us to sign for all the food we could eat in the coffee shop off the lobby. Solomon’s training camp would pay for it. We had T-shirts with caricatures of John L. and Richie sparring, and “OY, VAY” in cartoon balloons over their heads. We were on the team.

  But Sonny was down. That night, back in the room after dinner, he sat on his bed and stared out at the volcano. Before it erupted, the volcano growled for thirty seconds. It was that distorted, over-amped noise you hear in movie theaters with wraparound sound. Then a geyser of steam shot up and an avalanche of plastic lava poured out as dopey music swelled and lights twinkled.

  “Hot and smoking,” I said, to cheer him up. “Just like us.”

  He grunted. The volcano’s neon lights splashed against his face. The scar was a tiny railroad track over his left eyebrow. Dr. Gupte had done a good job—not much lip. “What did you think of Solomon?”

  Sonny never asked questions like that unless he wanted to offer an opinion, so I played straight man. “What did you think?”

  “A bull artist,” he said. “Like Hubbard.”

  “They’re trying to promote a fight.”

  “All that stuff, my boy, my protege…”

  “Maybe he likes you.”

  “In one minute?”

  “Maybe he liked your coming out here on your own, talking your way…”

  “That was you.”

  “I just made noise. You decked Sludge.”

  He sprawled backward on the bed. “All that Jew talk.”

  “He’s Jewish. Maybe he’s proud of it. Maybe he thinks it sells tickets. Who cares? What’s bugging you?”

  I’d forgotten that you can’t always be direct with Sonny. He’ll go away on you. He sat up and turned on the TV. He said, “You’re a bull artist, too.”

  “I make promises, you deliver. That’s why we’re a great team.”

  He changed channels and the topic. Think we should call Jake? Tell him where we are?”

  That meant it was my job. Jocks are like that. If they ask if you’re cold, it means they’re cold and they want you to close the window and turn up the heat. It comes from having everything done for them. I dialed direct, but the hotel operator came on and said we couldn’t make any long-distance calls from the room, even collect. Training camp rules. That made the whole deal seem more real. But I was too tired to go downstairs and call collect from the lobby. Sonny’s eyes were closed; he was already snoring. I thought I’d just rest for a minute before I went downstairs. I tried to keep myself awake by trying to figure out what was on Sonny’s mind. Why should he care what Solomon thought of him? We weren’t here to win a popularity contest. Unless he didn’t trust Solomon being nice to us. Except for Jake and Alfred and me, not too many people ha
d really reached out to Sonny in his life. Most people are put off by his hard crust. It takes a while to see there’s a good guy underneath.

  Next thing, the phone rang. It was five A.M. I recognized Richie’s rasp. “Drop your putz, klutz. Road work. In the parking lot in ten. Shake it.” He hung up.

  It took me almost ten minutes to get Sonny out of bed.

  John L. was in the parking lot bouncing in his black combat boots. Under his Oasis sweatshirt, his gut was bouncing, too. He slapped Sonny on the back, and they took off with a couple of John L.’s sparring partners. I didn’t see Sludge. A pink sun was streaking the gray sky. I got into the back of the chase car with Richie. He handed me a paper container of coffee. I got some down my throat and some on my pants, as the car followed the fighters down side streets and out toward the desert.

  “Some piece of work you pulled off yesterday, kid. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is the champ’s big shot. If you guys mess it up, you’re dead. I’m serious. Dead.”

  He looked serious.

  “Mess up what?”

  “Try to make him look bad. Hurt him. In any way.”

  “Why should we do that? He’s the only chance for Sonny to get over.”

  “Just don’t try to make it over John L. Get me?” His face was about an inch from mine. Every word felt like a sandstorm.

  “Got you. So what about the five hundred dollars?”

  “You’ll get everything you deserve.” He made it sound like a threat. He tapped the driver. “Get up closer, give ’em the horn, make ’em run faster.” He turned back to me. “Bring Sonny downstairs at ten sharp. Just the two of you. Don’t tell nobody.”

  After the run, which couldn’t have lasted more than twenty minutes, we went back to the room and showered and put on the only clean clothes we had. At breakfast, I asked Sonny what he and John L. talked about on the run.

  “He could barely breathe. If the fight goes more than a few rounds, he’s in trouble.”

  Sonny went back upstairs to sleep. I read all the newspapers I could find. Every one had a story about Sonny Bear bursting into Hubbard’s camp, and every one had at least one mistake, little ones like spelling his name wrong, and big ones like declaring that Hubbard had paid us to do it for publicity. One writer called Sonny a “Muhammad Ali Wanna-Be” and a columnist from New York called him a Trojan horse, a trick by Hubbard to get a spy into Solomon’s camp. Not one of the newspaper stories mentioned me, even though I was in most of the photographs.

  I clipped every story for my file. Then I wandered around the hotel, looking in the shops at the jackets and hats and stuff we could afford once I got the five hundred dollars Richie owed me.

  At nine thirty I woke Sonny up and started the process of dragging him down to the basement training camp. An armed guard blocked the door until Richie came out to get us. John L. was warming up in the ring. He was the only person in the room.

  Richie whispered, “Work his body all you want, but no head shots, get it? And don’t you guys ever mention this to nobody.”

  Richie started to tape Sonny’s hands, quickly and efficiently, but not nearly as carefully as Alfred did. I said, “Middle right knuckle needs extra padding.”

  “So you do it,” said Richie, dropping Sonny’s hands.

  “I never did it before.”

  “Smart-mouth boy like you knows everything,” said Richie.

  Sonny nodded. “You been watching everything, you can do it.”

  While I wound the gauze around Sonny’s hands, Richie told him, “You’re going to pretend you’re Hubbard. Keep moving right, you’re moving away from John L.’s right hand, his best punch, and you’re dancing so he can’t get set. He’s gonna try to cut the ring on you and bull you into the ropes. You want to spin out, clinch when you need to, punish him with body shots. But don’t touch his head. Get it?”

  Solomon grinned at Sonny as he climbed into the ring. “Don’t hold back, Sonny, I want you to try to knock me out.”

  I heard Richie mutter, “Over my dead body,” before he rang the bell.

  They sparred for five rounds, but I don’t think any were standard three-minute rounds. If Sonny was spinning away from Solomon, Richie might call “Time!” after two minutes. But if John L. had worked Sonny into a corner and was landing punches, he might let it go three and a half, even four minutes. He was trying to build up John L.’s confidence.

  John L. was still strong, but his reflexes were gone. He was reacting in slow motion to Sonny’s punches, and Sonny was throwing half speed. Meanwhile, it was as if Sonny had radar; he could spot one of John L.’s punches before it left the launching pad, pick it off in midair. If they fought for real, Sonny would win.

  I tried to be diplomatic with Richie. “I guess John L. is sort of taking it easy on Sonny,” I said.

  He gave me a long, hard look. “Don’t try to soap the soap man. All the champ’s got left is heart and maybe enough tricks to keep Hubbard from hurting him too bad.”

  “Why are you letting him fight?”

  “Ain’t my idea, believe me. I don’t even want to be here. But he needs somebody who cares about him.”

  14

  SONNY AND JOHN L. ran together at dawn for ten days and sparred secretly every morning. John L. seemed to be getting sharper. In the early afternoons, they worked out in front of the crowd. You could tell they were getting to like each other.

  John L. made a big deal of introducing “Sonny Boy, the Tomato Kid,” and Sonny would growl, “Sonny Bear, the Tomahawk Kid,” and John L. would wink at the crowd and say, “What’s a Yid know from Indians?” and then they would take turns slamming the heavy bag and rattling the peanut bag, and doing calisthenics and jumping rope.

  On the fourth day John L. suddenly turned to Sonny, palm out, and said, “How,” and Sonny said, “Oy, vay,” and we all cracked up. Sonny can surprise you that way—he can act like a dumb thug and then come up with something really smart. After that, they ran that bit every day, it was their little thing, and even raspy old Richie’s eyes would twinkle.

  “The kid’s good for John L.,” Richie told me one dawn in the car. “John L. hates to train. He gets bored real easy. I’m glad you guys showed up.”

  “Five hundred dollars glad?” I rasped.

  “Don’t push your luck, pencil boy.”

  Sonny never sparred with John L. for the crowd. An old sparring partner would go through the motions, never laying a glove on John L. After the public session was over, Richie would coach Sonny. He’d talk strategy. He’d put on the big mitts and review combinations.

  I learned from watching Richie. He corrected some bad habits Sonny had fallen into, like dropping his shoulder so low before throwing a body hook that he left his face wide open. Sonny was a fast learner with lots of energy, and I could see that Richie enjoyed teaching him. He could forget about John L. for an hour or two. He made Sonny go outside after the coaching and run again for twenty minutes to get used to the heat.

  My folks were excited when I called home; they’d seen me on TV. My dad never asked where I got the money for my flight. Jake sounded happy, too. Alfred asked a lot of questions about Sonny’s training. There was no way I could lie to him about the secret sessions with John L.

  “Shouldn’t need that kind of work so close to a fight,” said Alfred. “Don’t bet on Solomon.”

  John L. invited us to have dinner with him one night. He had his own cottage by the hotel’s golf course—three bedrooms, a huge living room with a monster TV set, gold bathrooms. We ate outside on the patio overlooking the pool, with a dozen other people, family and friends and lawyers. John L. put us near him at the long table.

  “So, what kind of Indian are you?” he asked.

  “You never heard of it.”

  “Would if you told me. Be proud of your race, make your race proud of you.”

  “Moscondaga. Up near Sparta, New York.”

  “You d
on’t look so Indian.”

  “My father was a white man.”

  “Was?”

  Sonny got a funny look. “Died in Vietnam.”

  John L. leaned back in his chair and put his hands on top of his big gut. “My granpa Moise came over from Russia, settled in Brooklyn. Brighton Beach. That was like a reservation—you could walk on the boardwalk, hear nothing but Russian and Yiddish. English is my fourth language.” He winked. “Third one was punching out anybody called me kike. Roots make you strong, Sonny Boy. And after I messed up…”

  “Bad breaks can happen to anybody,” said one of the lawyers.

  “…I had a place to crawl back to.”

  My mouth was full but I couldn’t miss the chance. “How’d you mess up? The papers said…”

  “Papers always get it wrong. I blew it, didn’t train, let it all go to my head. Women, booze, dope.” He winked. “Maybe I got my break too early. The world’s upside down, once you can afford things, everybody gives you stuff for free.”

  “But you pay for it,” said Richie.

  “Jewboy, redskin, schvartze”—he winked at me—“same books, different covers.”

  He winked too much. I finally figured out he had a nervous tic. Did it have something to do with his brain? The reason Richie wouldn’t let Sonny hit his head?

  The next morning, in the car, Richie said, “You think Sonny be willing to fight the under-card?”

  I thought he was teasing. “Nah, we’re just out here for the sun.”

  “Worth two grand.”

  “You serious?”

  “Sludge took off. He was supposed to fight one of Hubbard’s sparring partners in a four-round prelim.”

  “Who?”

  “A pretty decent banger, used to be ranked, but he got into drugs, now he’s trying to make it back up. I don’t think Sonny’ll have any trouble with him.”

  I tried to stay cool. “He got a name?”