The Brave Page 8

  The sounds of the city were muffled in the park, birds chirped, squirrels and rats scampered across the soft earth that cushioned his steps. The dark green soothed and strengthened him. He ran hard for an hour in a wide circle that took him downtown toward the luxury apartment buildings with penthouses overlooking the park. He wondered if he would ever make enough money to live in one. He wondered what the house in Phoenix looked like. He was glad Mom had something going for herself now, and he wished he could tell her he was okay, too. But she’d never understand how he could be living in a gym in Harlem thinking he was okay. She’d send the sheriff down if she knew. Even Jake didn’t understand. He tried to make it more than it was. On the phone, Jake kept saying it was like Stonebird, only a different kind of solo.

  No way. It was just what it was. A chance to be somebody.

  The run always ended too soon. He came back out of the park into the morning rush hour, streets jammed with hot metal screeching, honking, farting fumes, sidewalks jammed with men and women hurrying to work, children to school. The traffic slowed him to a walk. Sometimes he thought he got suspicious glances from the beeper dudes, but he just kept moving. He was careful not to eyeball anyone. He didn’t notice any tattooed X’s.

  At the Korean grocery on the corner he bought oranges and muffins. Upstairs he boiled water for coffee on the hot plate. He missed the eggs and cereal and toast that Jake had made for him, but his money was starting to run low. He would be finished eating by the time the early birds came chattering up the steps, a few businessmen and politicians who worked in Harlem and liked to skip rope and hit the bags while they gossiped about real-estate deals and what the mayor was going to do next. They didn’t need much attention besides getting towels for the shower. The real fighters didn’t start drifting in until the late morning, and they always came with their managers and trainers and sparring partners and pals. One heavyweight, Dave Reynolds, a loud guy whose handlers all wore black silk jackets with DAVE THE FAVE stitched on the back, brought along his own disc jockey, a guy who did nothing but program the portable compact disc player the fighter trained to. He was into rap. Some of the other fighters didn’t like it too much, but the Fave was the number-eight-ranked contender, and he had a big fight in Atlantic City coming up.

  The Fave never noticed Sonny. Nobody did, except to call for extra towels or tell him to mop up after a blood spill or send him out for food. That usually meant a free lunch. When one of the pro trainers gave him money for Chinese or sandwiches or fried chicken, he almost always told Sonny to feed himself from the change.

  He tried to pick up pointers as the trainers shouted instructions at their fighters. He watched the pros throw their punches, make their moves in the ring, hit the bag, shadowbox. They knew what they were doing. They were serious workers. Some of them were preparing for matches in Atlantic City and at Madison Square Garden.

  Most of them were finished with their training by the late afternoon, when the schoolkids and the yuppies and the beginning pro boxers who needed to keep their day jobs arrived. One of Johnson’s sons took over Sonny’s chores for two hours while Sonny did his sit-ups and push-ups, skipped rope, punched the bags, shadowboxed and pounded Rocky to Martin Witherspoon’s monotone. He grew to hate the fat owl, the way he gasped for air after the three-story climb, the way he kept pushing his round glasses up his sweaty nose, the drone of his voice.

  “Jab…one. Hook…two.”

  His sessions on Rocky grew shorter. He began to lose interest. He even stopped getting angry when a squat heavyweight who arrived at the gym in a postal carrier’s uniform tapped him on the shoulder and said, “‘Nuff lovin’ for Rocky today, my man—let The Punching Postman put some real hurt down.”

  He began to wish Brooks would come by. At night, waiting for the laundry machines to finish the towels and the jockstraps and the workout clothes, he thought about Doll and The Deuce. Brooks had said, Go down there and don’t come back.

  Might just do that.

  Dinner was some more food picked up at the Koreans’, something easy he could cook on the hot plate, or something from the salad bar. Sometimes he fell asleep in front of an old movie on TV. Sometimes he just watched the dark shapes roll across the ceiling until they swallowed him.

  16

  “RIGHT…ONE.”

  He sensed a familiar presence behind him before he heard the voice. “You’re thinkin’ about sittin’ around the fire ’stead of choppin’ the wood.”

  “Who’re you?” asked Martin.

  “Got to concentrate, Sonny,” said Jake. “When a Running Brave chops wood, he thinks about the tree and the axe, not the fire he’s gonna make.”

  “That is so cool,” said Martin. “What’s a Running Brave?”

  Jake ignored him. “You practicing to hit a man, Sonny. So you think flesh. Jaw’s hard, sting your hand. Belly soft, slow your punches. Hit the nose right, drive a bone into his brain.”

  Jake whirled on Martin and fired a bony finger at the owl face. “When you call a number, you gotta think, Why? Number nine, eye, so he can’t see what’s coming next. Number twenty-five, arm, deaden his muscle so he can’t hit you so hard.” He stalked off toward Johnson’s office.

  “Who was that?” Martin’s eyes seemed even rounder than his glasses.

  “My great-uncle.”

  “He some kind of shaman?”

  “What?”

  “You know, like an elder…”

  “He’s old, for sure.” Sonny cocked his fists at Rocky. “Let’s go!”

  “Jab…one…one. Right…three. Jab…one…. Where’s he live?”

  “Don’t stop.”

  “Hook…five. Jab…one…one. Right…six.”

  They worked on Rocky for five more rounds, a hot blur, Martin’s voice bingo urgent, Sonny lost in the intensity of his concentration as his pounding fists moved over the dummy’s body.

  “Time!” Johnson was staring at him. “You been flat-foot when you jab. Up on the balls of your feet. More forward. See?” He demonstrated and walked away. It was the first time Johnson had given him any instruction since he had started.

  Martin wiped his glasses. “Man, that was awesome. You tapped into a spiritual wellspring.”

  “You woke up.” Sonny strode to the mirrors, Martin at his heels.

  “Is he like a wise man, your uncle?”

  “Runs a junkyard.”

  “This is like a movie. You see American Ninja? Karate Kid?”

  Sonny began to shadowbox at his reflection in the mirror.

  “He live in the city?”

  “On the Reservation. He came to get his truck.”

  “Reservation? What kind of Native American are you?”

  “Half Moscondaga, half white.”

  “That is so cool. What does Sonny Bear mean?”

  “It’s my name.”

  “Yeah, but does it have some tribal significance, like when a bear came to the wigwam…”

  “No. My dad’s name was B-a-y-e-r, people pronounced it bear, so that’s the way my mom started spelling it when we went to the powwows.”

  “Powwows! What were they like, what did you…”

  “You’re blocking the mirror.” He almost felt sorry for pushing Martin out of his way. He had never seen him excited before, shifting from foot to foot as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

  “I thought you were just some wiseguy with a ponytail. Listen, maybe we could…Uh-oh.”

  The change in his voice made Sonny turn. A tall, gray-haired man in a pin-striped suit stood at the door talking to Johnson. When he spotted Martin, he waved him over with a commanding swing of his arm.

  “Gotta go. My dad. See you tomorrow around noon?”

  “We don’t start till…”

  “I’ll help you clean up so we can plan our attack on Rocky.” He made it sound like a war movie. “See ya.” Martin waddled away.

  Jake helped Sonny restack the chairs and straighten up after the gym cleared out. They ate dinner at
a Chinese restaurant across the street.

  “Always train with that boy?”

  “He really got into it after you laid that Braves stuff on us.”

  “Think they love Indians, new-age yappies.”

  “Yuppies.”

  “’S okay. He can help you if you let him.”

  “How?”

  “Every Running Brave had a young warrior-in-training he…”

  “C’mon, Jake, none of that.”

  Jake said, “Your mom been calling.”

  “Yeah?” He felt glad and scared.

  “She don’t like it, you down here by yourself.”

  “What’s she gonna do?”

  “Don’t know. Limo fella keeps her busy with”—he spat out the words—“Sweet Bear’s Kiva. She wants you out there with her.”

  “Selling jewelry?”

  “Live good. Make some money. Finish school. Not bad.”

  “Sounds like you think I should go.”

  Jake shook his head. “I think you got to make the choice.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “See what happens. She could try to make you.” Jake poured tea. “Know a girl Heather?”

  “Heather?”

  “Called twice. Said she owes you a slice.”

  “Heather.” His stomach flipped and his face felt hot. Doll wants to see me. “Some girl from Sparta, from high school.”

  “Sounded long distance.” Jake raised his eyebrows. “Maybe somebody you met down here?”

  “How would she know to call you?” That night at Stick’s. He had run at the mouth. Had he mentioned Jake? “There was a Heather in my homeroom.”

  Jake stood up. “Gotta feed the dogs.” He pulled money out of his jeans, left some on the table to pay the bill and stuffed the rest into Sonny’s pocket. “Eat right. Chicken, fish, greens, hot cereal.”

  They walked to the corner. The tow truck was parked in front of the Korean grocery. Sonny realized he didn’t want Jake to leave. “Martin thought you were a wise man.”

  He expected Jake to grunt, but he smiled. “Let that boy help you. You getting strong now. One time I worried, all alone with your mom, wearing that jewelry, hiding out in the cars to make your little pictures…”

  “You knew?”

  “Been watching you close, Sonny. You got the blood. Started you boxing to get that Hawk out. Now I know you gonna be fine. Gotta go now.”

  Sonny tried to think of something else to say, to keep him talking on the corner, but he couldn’t, and after a while he put out his hand to shake. Jake hugged him. It was the first time Sonny remembered being hugged by Jake since he was little. He watched Jake climb into the truck and drive away. Sonny’s eyes were wet.

  “Grampada?” Kim was staring up at him.

  He sounded so eager that Sonny nodded. “Yeah, my grandpa.”

  Kim motioned him into the store and held his sleeve while he punched open the cash register and pulled out a photograph of a skinny old man in a black suit. “Kim grampada.” He resembled Jake.

  “Could be brothers,” said Sonny.

  Kim laughed and bobbed his head and shook Sonny’s hand. “Wait.” He plucked a banana and an orange out of their bins. “Here.” When Sonny tried to pay him, he pushed the money away.

  The phone was ringing when Sonny got upstairs. He hoped it was Doll.

  “How you doin’, young gentleman?”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t sound positive.”

  “Jake just left.”

  Brooks’ voice softened. “Miss him already.”

  “Sort of.”

  “I’ll try to get up soon. Take you to a great soul-food place. I’m really jammed right now—we’re running a 24-7-365 surveillance with the feds, wiretap, the works. Major case. Could go down anytime.” He sounded tired.

  Sonny thought of Stick and Doll. “In the Port?”

  Brooks’ voice changed gears. “Heard you made war on old Rocky today.”

  “You got a wiretap here, too?”

  Brooks chuckled. “Spoon told me. Martin’s dad? Used to be a helluva light heavyweight till he got hurt. Mr. Donatelli made him quit, go to college. He’s a school principal now. He and his wife Betty used to…Hang on. What’s that?” He was yelling to someone else. “Right there. Got to go, young gentleman, talk to you soon.” He hung up.

  Sonny felt lonely in the spooky silence of the dark gym. He welcomed the grotesque shapes rolling across the ceiling. Old friends. How had Doll gotten Jake’s number? He was sure he had never mentioned Jake. The only place the number was written down was on his ID card in the wallet he had lost during the drug bust in the Port.

  It took him a long time to fall asleep. She had his wallet. Had she just gotten it? Maybe she was calling to tell him she had just bought it off somebody in the street and wanted to get it back to him. Or maybe she’d had it all the time. Got to find out. And the deerskin pack with his sketchbook. Even worse than losing the wallet was Doll and Stick looking at his pictures.

  “Jab…seven…seven. Right…six. Hook…”

  The notebook in Martin’s hand was drenched with sweat and his glasses were sliding down his nose, but his voice was a whiplash.

  “Jab…three…three…two. Right…sixteen.”

  The bell rang and they both sucked air. The dummy was pocked with depressions the size of Sonny’s gloved fist.

  “My dad…helped me…” gasped Martin, “work out…combinations.”

  A few fighters drifted over to watch Sonny hammer Rocky. Johnson joined them. “Not bad, Sonny.”

  “Excellent,” said Martin.

  The Punching Postman snorted. “Rocky can’t hit you back.”

  “True enough,” said Johnson. “As Mr. Donatelli used to say, ‘The dummy has no arms.”’

  “So get us a dummy with arms,” said Martin. “Like the mailbag here.”

  “You fat…” The Postman reached for Martin, but Sonny slapped his arms away.

  “You want to fight someone, fight me,” said Sonny.

  “I don’t fight amateurs.”

  Martin slipped behind Sonny. “Postman couldn’t lick a stamp.”

  “You serious, pig meat? I sparred with the Fave last week.”

  “So you got nothing to worry about.” Martin looked at Johnson. “How about it?”

  The monster stirred, a good feeling. “I’m ready.”

  Johnson combed his beard with three fingers. “We don’t fight in anger here…”

  “Right,” said the Postman. “This is a pro-fessional gym.”

  “…but it might just be time to see what Sonny’s got.”

  The bells had fallen silent and the bags hung limply. The fighters and trainers gathered expectantly.

  “I got three pro fights,” howled the Postman. “This kid’s nobody.”

  “Then why you scared?” sneered Martin.

  The laughter that swept across the gym darkened the Postman’s face. “Now.” He stomped up the steps to the ring. “Bud. Hands.”

  A toothless old man with thick white hair wrapped the Postman’s hands in dirty gauze and fresh white tape and stuffed them into pillowy training gloves. When he was finished, he beckoned Sonny up to the ring and repeated the process. He leaned forward as he tied Sonny’s laces and whispered, “Postman like to clinch. Belly’s weak.”

  Martin was jittery with excitement. “You can do it, Sonny. Put some hurt on him.”

  Johnson climbed through the ropes. “It’s over when I say so. Got it?”

  Sonny nodded, and the Postman said, “Prepare to be mailed home, sucker. The Postman rings once.”

  Grinning, the Punching Postman confidently marched to the center of the ring. He fired a right at Sonny’s head. Some pro, Sonny thought. The punch was slow and easy to slip.

  Martin was yelling, “Jab…one…one. Right…eight—AWWW-RIGHT!”

  The Postman took the hook high on his cheek, turned and wobbled into the ropes. He turned back to Sonny, his eyes crossed,
his knees knocking. Johnson stepped between them. “It’s over.”

  Too easy, thought Sonny. Just a blowhard, not a pro.

  Martin was in the ring, jumping up and down, waving Sonny’s arm. “Special Delivery. Express Mail. When Sonny Bear stamps your letter, you are sealed and delivered.”

  17

  “ALFRED BROOKS SAT right where you are now, Sonny,” said Martin’s father. He was sitting at the head of the dining-room table. “He was one skinny boy.”

  “We fed him steaks before his fights,” said Martin’s mother. She fussed at Sonny’s plate of spaghetti. “Steaks! That’s how much we knew about nutrition in those days, Spoon.”

  “We were the ones ate the spaghetti.” Spoon chuckled and raised his glass to his wife. “Twenty years ago, Betty.”

  “Time does fly when you’re having fun.” Denise, Martin’s younger sister, rolled her eyes at Sonny. “You must love to have us sit here watch you eat.”

  He didn’t mind at all. He felt their good feelings wash over him as he thought about the fight tonight. First round of an amateur tournament, Brooks had said, you could be up against a hero or a zero. No way to prepare. Stay loose and be ready for anything. Sonny swallowed a mouthful of spaghetti. “No problem.”

  “No problem,” echoed Martin. “I’m planning our moves.” He was scratching away in his notebook. “Boxing is merely chess with blood.”

  “How much blood you spill lately?” sneered Denise.

  “Thinking about spilling some of yours, Dumese.”

  “Children!” said Betty. “Sonny needs a calm atmosphere.” She smiled at Sonny. “More salad?”

  “No, thanks, this was really good.”

  “Dad, I got the Tyson-Berbick opening.” Martin waved the notebook. “Jab…one…three. Right…”

  “You don’t want to overplan,” said Spoon. “Never lock in so rigidly you lose the option to be flexible. You have to anticipate surprise. Mr. Donatelli said that.”