The Brave Page 9

  “Mr. Donatelli was one of those wise men,” said Martin. “Like Jake.”

  “He’s no wise man,” said Sonny.

  “Who’s Jake?” asked Denise.

  “He’s like a shaman,” said Martin. “An elder of the tribe.”

  “He runs a junkyard on the Reservation,” said Sonny.

  “Can’t judge a man’s wisdom by how he makes his living,” said Spoon.

  “Enough talk,” said Betty. “Let Alfred digest…” She laughed. “I mean Sonny.”

  Denise said, “Mom’s in a time warp.”

  “You’re just warped,” said Martin. “I’ll take Sonny for a walk, then he can lie down.”

  “I’ll come, too,” said Denise.

  “Skip that,” snapped Martin. “We’ve got…”

  “I need you to help me, Denise,” said Betty.

  Out on the street, Martin said, “Denise got the warms for you. You got a girl?”

  Sonny thought of Doll. “Sort of.” He pushed her out of his mind. Not now. Stay loose. “Always live here?” The neighborhood was quiet and old, crumbly red brick apartment buildings along grimy sidewalks. Most of the people they passed were old whites and young blacks and Latinos.

  “My folks been here forever. It’s okay. When the geeps come from Jersey to score rocks off the Dominicans, it wakes up. At least one shootout per weekend. You have crack on the Reservation?”

  “Not like here, but a kid might bring something back from Sparta. Chiefs better not find out.”

  “What would they do?”

  “Kick butt. Maybe send some warriors down to Sparta to warn the dealers off.”

  Martin’s eyes were wide. “They can do that?”

  “Moscondagas are pretty tough, not like the old days, of course. There was this society of warriors called the Running Braves…”

  He stopped himself. Playing Indian. Listening for footprints. “Some other time.”

  “Sure, I understand. Mess your mind up before a fight. This must be like a different planet for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, whites, blacks, all together, city.”

  “No. My mom traveled a lot. I don’t remember when we lived in New York, but I remember L.A. and Santa Fe and Minneapolis. I liked Santa Cruz a lot, Miami.” It was easy talking to Martin. He felt as though he was outside himself, listening.

  “Your mom didn’t like the Res?”

  “No. She used to say, ‘The only time I want to be on the Res is when the world ends, because everything happens on the Res ten years later.’”

  “I thought you lived with Jake.”

  “Some of the time.”

  “He coming tonight?”

  “You never know with Jake.”

  “What about Brooks?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s real interested in you.”

  “How you know that?” Sonny felt his heart speed up.

  “Hear him talking to my dad.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how much talent you got to be a great fighter if you get control over yourself.”

  He tried to sound casual. “What’s he think?”

  “Says it’s up to you.”

  They circled the block twice before Martin brought him back upstairs and into his bedroom. The walls were covered with posters for Save the Earth concerts. There was even a Grateful Dead poster. The shelves were crammed with magazines, books and computer disks. There were two computer monitors on a desk in one corner. “One’s for homework, one’s for writing,” said Martin.

  “What do you write?”

  “Stories. Maybe I’ll write a book about you when you’re champ.”

  Sonny pulled off his boots and stretched out on Martin’s bed. “You getting this down? The champ’s got a hole in his right sock.”

  “Right now I’m writing up our fight plans. Operation Rocky.”

  “Don’t overplan.” Sonny felt his body relax. He felt safe in this house and easy with this fat owl. He closed his eyes and started to drift away. “Remember what your dad said.”

  “He’s always putting me down.”

  Something in Martin’s voice snapped him awake. “How come?”

  “He was a big jock, could have been light-heavyweight champ if he didn’t get hurt, and he thinks I’m just a blob who reads too much. That’s why he made me go to the gym. I hated it till you came around.”

  Sonny laughed. “You mean till Jake came around.”

  Martin laughed, too. “What about your dad?”

  Sonny pointed to the wall. “Grateful Dead was his favorite band. He died in Vietnam. That’s all I know. Nobody talks about him.”

  “Sorry.”

  Sonny closed his eyes again.

  At twilight, Betty woke him up and made him drink tea with honey. She gave him a hug at the door, and Denise kissed his cheek. They said they wouldn’t be at the fight but they’d be thinking of him. Martin seemed tense. For once he didn’t have much to say as Spoon drove them to a large, shabby building across the East River from Manhattan. The marquee advertised an afternoon dog show and an evening of amateur bouts, the first round of the Gotham Gloves.

  Johnson was waiting for them. “Sonny’s on early. Might as well go inside.”

  “Alfred here?” asked Spoon.

  “Not yet.”

  The smell of dogs still hung in the arena. A boxing ring had been set up in the center of the main hall, surrounded by folding chairs. Sonny thought it looked like a larger version of the hillbilly smokers. He wondered if they’d try the same thing here, give the fight to the hometown boy.

  Let ’em try. He began to feel excitement build from his toes.

  The locker room was crowded with a dozen young fighters in their undershorts waiting to be weighed and examined while their trainers and fathers and friends rubbed them and made conversation. The room smelled of liniment and nervous sweat.

  “Sonny Bear?” called a man in a red blazer.

  “Over here,” said Johnson.

  “Third bout. Black trunks,” said the man, tapping his clipboard. “Let’s go.”

  Sonny weighed in at 185. The doctor examined his mouth and eyes, checked the inside of his arm for needle marks and listened to his heart. “Better calm your boy, Henry,” said the doctor to Johnson. “His engine’s over the speed limit.”

  “It’s his first fight,” said Johnson. “Remember it, Doc. Be historical.” He taped Sonny’s hands.

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

  “Hands,” snapped Johnson. He pushed the gloves on and laced them. He rubbed Sonny’s chest and arms. “You take your time, feel him out the first round, stick and move, don’t go for the head too early.”

  Sonny thought of Jake. Why do they all say the same things? He looked around the locker room. Where was Brooks?

  “Bear-Cooper, let’s go.”

  The hot blaze of the arena smacked him in the face. He smelled mustard, beer and the smoke caught in the tunnels of light. People were stamping, clapping, chanting, “Coo-per, Coo-per.” Local boy for sure, Sonny thought, have to knock him out just to get a decision.

  He barely heard the instructions from the referee as the chants of “Coo-per, Coo-per” swelled to fill the arena, smothering Johnson’s “Stick and move, stick and move” and Martin’s shrill “Jab…one…three.” The monster roared and surged up into his chest and neck and brain. Sonny thought of wild horses at the ends of leather reins, controlled by the flicks of his wrist.

  Cooper was fast and smart, and he knew how to stay away from the left hook. More hero than zero. By the middle of the first round, Sonny felt frustrated, planted like a tree in the middle of the ring while Cooper circled away from Sonny’s left so he could never set himself to fire the hook, or even mount a quick barrage of left jabs. The crowd had come for action and they booed.

  Sonny stalked back to his corner at the bell. “He won’t fight.” He dropped onto the st
ool.

  “He’s no fool,” said Johnson, tilting the water bottle above Sonny’s mouth. “Wait your time. And don’t listen to the crowd. No one’s hitting them.” He pushed Sonny out for the second round.

  The monster had no patience. He taunted Sonny, This boy’s making you look like a wooden Indian—can’t you run him into a corner, rattle his bones?

  He felt as if he had one foot on the gas and one on the brake, pumping himself into high speed and holding himself back. His mind raced but his body stalled. Stay. Go. Wait. Bang him!

  The bell rang. Johnson waved him into the corner and put his mouth to Sonny’s ear. “He’ll crack. Wait. Pressure’s on him not to look scared of you.”

  The monster said, Jump out and give this Cooper the hook before they steal this fight.

  Take control. Go out nice and easy and make him crack.

  At the bell, Sonny stood up slowly and strolled to the center of the ring with his hands below his waist. Cooper’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. His dark-brown skin was very smooth. Hasn’t been hit much, Sonny thought. Doesn’t want to get his face scuffed up. Good to know. When Cooper began skipping away, Sonny raised his right arm and beckoned him, smiling, join the party. The crowd applauded.

  Cooper darted in and popped two jabs to Sonny’s jaw, but they were light and off the mark. He was more interested in getting away without getting hit back than in following the jabs with real punches.

  Sonny shook his head until the ponytail was slapping rhythmically against his shoulders. Don’t you want to fight?

  “Cooper, ya bum,” someone shouted.

  “Pretty boy.”

  The crowd laughed. A crumpled paper cup flew into the ring and bounced out. Cooper looked angry.

  “Fight, Cooper, you scared a him?”

  Cooper cracked. He darted in again, but this time he was moving forward when he threw the jabs and he had his right cocked. He was ready to take a risk to do damage.

  Tough luck, Coop.

  Sonny let the first jab graze his chin, he slipped the second and when Cooper was close enough he drove a right uppercut into his stomach. It straightened Cooper up.

  Sonny glimpsed an open mouth gasping for breath. Hook…five closed the mouth. Right…six sent him reeling across the ring.

  Johnson’s voice cut through the roar of the crowd. “Now, Sonny, now.”

  All yours, monster.

  Cooper turned as Sonny hurtled toward him. He threw up his hands in front of his face. Sonny’s first hook drove Cooper’s own glove into his face and the straight right snapped his head around. The second hook slammed into Cooper’s forehead. As he was going down, the referee pushed Sonny away.

  Martin howled and tumbled over the ropes to hug him, and Johnson held up his arm as the referee counted Cooper out.

  Brooks climbed into the ring, an enormous grin pushing the tiredness off his face. “Not bad for starters. Sonny.”

  It was the first time Brooks had called him by name.

  18

  FROM THE WAIST up Delgado looked like a bodybuilder, smooth muscles popping and rippling under his suntanned skin. His stomach was laid with cobblestones. The crowd whistled when he took off his blue silk robe. Sonny studied Delgado. His legs didn’t match the rest of his body. Too thin. Not enough muscle. Not enough roadwork, thought Sonny. I can wear him down.

  At the bell, Delgado flexed for the crowd and danced out, smirking. When Sonny backed away, he beckoned and shouted, “C’mon, Sonny boy, my car’s double-parked.”

  The monster chipped in, You don’t need to hear that, you can let him land a punch or two, you can take it.

  Let Mr. America run his mouth, said Sonny, I’m here to win this fight.

  Delgado threw a lazy jab. Sonny slapped it away.

  “Keep moving,” shouted Brooks, “stick and move.”

  Sonny snapped out a jab, reddening Delgado’s nose, but he danced away before Delgado could shoot one back. No percentage in tangling with him yet, not until he was tired.

  Real man gets in there and bangs, said the monster.

  Gets his butt kicked for no reason, said Sonny.

  People think you’re scared, said the monster, of a walking jar of steroids.

  Someone shouted, “Sonny the Dancin’ Bear.” Laughter.

  No one’s hitting them. The bell was drowned in boos.

  In the corner, Brooks said, “Pick up the pace, make him run after you.”

  Delgado’s dark eyes bored into him, daring him to stand and slug it out, but the smile was gone, his mouth too busy sucking air.

  Jab…seven and hop back. Jab…three and sidestep, keep moving, changing direction, make him move. All those miles running on the Res and in the park were paying off now. I can dance forever and Delgado’s legs are losing their spring, his gladiator chest is heaving, all those fancy muscles are screaming for air, jab…five…five, he’s winding down like a toy with a dying battery. The crowd was beginning to catch on now—they could see the plan, figure out the ending. Delgado knew it, too, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

  By the fourth round, Delgado was lurching after him on stiff legs, his entire body heaving for air, his dark eyes pleading with Sonny to stand still, make a target.

  “Take him,” yelled Brooks.

  Delgado’s head and neck were stone, from the waist up he barely moved under the hammering hooks, the right cross, the straight left, but his legs seemed to fold into themselves, like telescopes, and he went down like a man sinking into quicksand. His arms were ready to keep fighting, but he couldn’t get up.

  “Smart fight,” said Brooks, as Martin hoisted Sonny’s arm in victory. “You controlled it all the way.”

  They all drove back to the Witherspoons’ apartment. Betty and Denise were waiting at a table loaded with cake and soda and a six-foot hero sandwich. They had expected him to win. Brooks stayed just long enough to make a toast.

  “To the future heavyweight champion of the world.”

  Nobody laughed. In the sudden silence, they all turned to Sonny.

  “If he wants it badly enough,” said Spoon.

  “Amen to that,” said Johnson.

  Sonny shivered. He felt a movement in his chest. Like wings rustling.

  On his way out, Brooks pulled Sonny to one side. “Remember what you been doing right. It works outside the ring, too. Just be cool. Whatever happens.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll figure it out when you got to.” Brooks pulled his pistol out of his jacket pocket and slipped it into the holster at the small of his back. “Gotta go to work. You call Jake?”

  “Now?”

  “Right now. He’s waiting.” Brooks was out the door.

  Martin shambled over, his cheeks bulging with sandwich. “Thawasomefie.”

  Sonny had an urge to hug him, but he said, “Can I use your phone?”

  Martin swallowed. “If she’s got a girlfriend for me.”

  “I want to call Jake. Be okay with your folks?”

  “Of course.” Martin looked surprised. “Jake’s got a telephone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, um, I thought, he’s a, you know…”

  “He’s got a VCR and a microwave. And a CB in his truck. You thought we used smoke signals?”

  Martin stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.

  Jake picked up on the first ring. “How’d you do?”

  “Fourth-round kayo.”

  “What took so long?” Jake chuckled.

  “Guy didn’t want to get hit.”

  “Can’t blame him. What’d Al say?”

  “Said I fought a smart fight. Controlled it.”

  “Real good, Sonny.” The old man’s voice was relaxed and warm. “When you fight next?”

  “Friday night.”

  “Save me a good seat.”

  When he got back to the party, they were all at the dining-room table listening to Johnson. He sat at the head of the table, tugging his beard and
speaking in a deep, measured voice, as if he was addressing a class. “The amateur road is the road for Sonny—give him the gradual progress, the ring experience and the media exposure he needs as he matures physically and emotionally. Win the Gotham Gloves, then the citywide Golden Gloves, national Golden Gloves, come back from the Olympics a twenty-year-old man with a gold medal, ready to turn pro.”

  “What if he wants to turn pro now?” asked Martin.

  “Forget it,” snapped Johnson.

  “It’s his life,” said Denise. She looked embarrassed when everyone turned to stare at her.

  “It’s economics, young lady,” said Johnson. “Be too long and hard a road as a pro now. Have to fight in small clubs, tank towns for bad pay in worse conditions. Have to fight whoever you can get, wild kids who can hurt you, old bums make you look bad without teaching you anything. Ain’t worth it. And who’s going to pay your way? Some gangster?”

  “What if he was bankrolled by people who really believed in him?” asked Spoon.

  “Who’d gamble on a kid?” asked Johnson, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “A fortune on somebody who could lose interest, fall in love, go junkie on you. The amateur road is the only way—develop slow but sure. Alfred wasn’t blowing smoke, Sonny could be heavyweight champ if nothing gets in the way. Mr. Donatelli should of seen this boy. Whoa.” He wiped his eyes.

  Spoon’s eyes were wet, too.

  “Sonny Bear-Kwame Hicks.”

  “Yo.” A big kid with cannonball shoulders flashed a gold-toothed smile. “Who’s this Yogi Bear? From Jellystone Park?” The men around him cackled and slapped their legs.

  “I seen this before,” said Johnson. “Ignore him.”

  “How you ignore Kwame Hicks, the next Gotham Gloves champ?” asked Kwame Hicks.

  “Retard champ,” said Martin. “Soup for brains.”

  “Shut yo’ mouth, blubber,” said one of Kwame’s handlers.

  “Shut Kwame’s mouth,” said Martin. “All that yellow in there matches his spine.”

  Kwame cursed and started toward Martin. Sonny felt the heat rise up his legs into his gut. Old pal, the monster, the evil spirit, welcome. Sonny stepped in front of Martin and smiled at Kwame. “You want to do this here and now?”

  Men were suddenly pushing Sonny and Kwame to opposite ends of the room, and Spoon was pushing Martin out the door. Johnson laughed as he kneaded Sonny’s shoulders. “I seen this before. You got yourself a real assistant trainer there, reminds me of me and Alfred.”