Warrior Angel Read online

  Hubbard in person was bigger, shinier than he appeared on TV. Trainers and boxers flocked around him. Nobody was going to dis the most important promoter in the sport. Even Johnson grudgingly shook hands with Hubbard.

  “You doin’ a fine job, Henry,” boomed Hubbard. “You are keeping up the standards of Mr. Donatelli.”

  “Some of the old dirt still here, too,” said Malik, toeing the inlaid grit on the wooden floor.

  Starkey snapped, “That old dirt knows more about boxing than you do.”

  Malik looked up, eyes furiously red, his teeth growing. Starkey’s hands tightened on the mop handle as Malik’s body swelled and he started toward him.

  “That mop boy is right,” said Hubbard. “There’s history in this dirt, ambience we call it. Where’s Sonny?”

  He sauntered across the gym floor to where Sonny was pounding the heavy bag and carefully ignoring him. “You okay, Sonny? Anything we can do for you?”

  Don’t look at him, thought Starkey.

  “Bygones are gone by, champ. I just want you to know I got no hard feelings.”

  Don’t answer him, thought Starkey.

  “I got hard feelings.”

  “I’m counting on that, and you will express them when you tear down The Wall.” Hubbard flapped his arms to create a space around himself and Sonny. Everyone backed away. He lowered his voice so Starkey couldn’t hear.

  But he could imagine what Hubbard was saying: You got to get rid of that mop boy. Warrior Angels are trouble. They are crazy. They will drag you down.

  Starkey went into the laundry room and held on to the dryer until the heat and the throbbing metal drove everything else out of his head.

  19

  JOHNSON SAID, “He makes everybody nervous.”

  They stood in Johnson’s office watching as Starkey moved around the gym, crouched, throwing quick looks over either shoulder as he scooped up used towels, refilled water bottles, mopped up pools of sweat. He looked different to Sonny, more like a scuttling crab than the confident loudmouth who had swaggered into the gym less than a week ago.

  “Does his work,” said Sonny.

  “Alfred says he’s a time bomb.”

  “Alfred’s never seen him.”

  “Told him about the boy. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  Starkey looked as jumpy as a Reservation dog. He was muttering to himself. But Sonny couldn’t just let him be driven out of the gym. Where would he go?

  “I can’t just send him away.”

  “You can’t baby-sit him neither,” said Johnson. “Or expect me to.”

  “Maybe I need to go to another gym.” Even as he said it, he knew it made no sense. Starkey had gotten him back here, where he belonged.

  Johnson sighed and pulled his beard. “Sonny, you know I’m right.”

  He knew Johnson was right. Title fight around the corner, he’d be out of the gym more and more for appearances and meetings and interviews. While Starkey was getting weirder and weirder.

  Starkey was quiet that night at dinner. Hunched over the table, his body was a clenched fist, head down, elbows against his chest. His hands dangled from his wrists as he picked at chicken from Kim’s. After a while he looked up and said, “You eating?”

  “Eating at Johnson’s,” said Sonny, “while we look at tapes.”

  “Why not here?”

  “Alfred can’t get up these stairs anymore.”

  “They don’t like me.” Starkey’s voice sounded flat, a computerized voice.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “They want you to get rid of me.”

  “Just be cool.”

  “Cooool?” Starkey’s voice changed, rose.

  “Will you bag that crazy voice?”

  “You don’t lissss-ten to meeee.”

  “Not when you talk like that.”

  “You’re not ready for The Waaaaaalllllllll.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  “Tooooo soooon.”

  Sonny left him yelling at the ceiling. I owe this guy, he thought. But I can’t deal with this right now.

  Johnson had an apartment a few blocks from the gym, four bedrooms and three bathrooms and a living room big enough for a baby grand piano. One of his kids was a composer. Alfred and Marty were already there, parked in front of the monster TV, rewinding back and forth through the eighth round of the fight with The Wall.

  Alfred barely looked up as Sonny walked in. “Here’s where you won the title, Sonny. Floyd lost heart right here. He was running out of steam and you were getting stronger.”

  “The jab—you never stopped pumping it in his face,” said Johnson, coming in with plates of cold poached salmon and salad. “Eleanor cooked this. She had to go to a community board meeting. Said to say hello.”

  Sonny tried to concentrate, but he kept thinking about Starkey, hunched over the table, alone in the gym. What was he going to do? And was Starkey right? Was he fighting too soon?

  “He’s going to be expecting the jab,” said Alfred, “and he’s going to be looking for the hook to follow. That was the pattern here, and he’ll be looking at the same tapes.”

  Marty stuffed fish into his mouth. “Mmm, real moist. Fool him: Stay with the jab and hook combination, since they’ll be expecting us to change the plan.”

  “Don’t complicate this,” said Johnson.

  “Boxing is chess with blood,” said Marty.

  “You better stick to chess,” said Alfred, poking Marty, “before I shed some of your blood.”

  An old joke. They all laughed. Sonny felt warmed by being back with them, but trapped, too. Can you feel two emotions at the same time? Maybe I’m the crazy one. A part of me wants to stay here, part of me wants to get out.

  Sonny nodded, but he wasn’t really listening as they argued strategy through dinner. His ears didn’t perk up until Alfred said, “So what are you doing about the stalker?”

  “He’s not a stalker….”

  “He tracked you down,” said Alfred. “Don’t matter if he did it by shoe leather or e-mail.”

  “It’s my problem,” said Sonny.

  Johnson said, “All our problem, Sonny. We got a fight coming up.”

  “I’m not going to just dump him.”

  Alfred said, “You done that before.”

  He was grateful when Marty said, “Sonny wouldn’t be here without the kid.”

  “Find out where he came from,” said Alfred. “I’ll call them to send out the butterfly nets.”

  “He helped me,” said Sonny.

  “So help him,” said Johnson. “Get him back where they can take care of him proper.”

  Alfred said, “You know where he was running from?”

  Sonny lied. “No.”

  On his way up the stairs he heard Starkey grunting in the darkness. When he turned on the gym lights, he saw Starkey on his hands and knees, scrubbing old bloodstains. He was wearing the ratty old red cap backward.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Gotta finish before they come.”

  “Who?” He knew he didn’t want to know.

  “The Legion.”

  “Better not talk like that in front of Johnson and the others.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Sonny. The Legion got to them. They’re not on your side. They’re using you.”

  “Get some sleep.”

  “They want you to lose. Hubbard wants you to lose, set up the third fight, the big one.”

  Sonny felt a cold spot in his stomach. Can’t hear this now. “They wouldn’t do that.”

  “They know you’re not ready for this fight. You’re not in shape, your head’s not there yet.”

  “You’re talking crazy.”

  Starkey stood up, swaying. “Listen to meeeeeeeee.” He kicked over the metal bucket. Ammonia fumes rose off the water sloshing over the wooden floor.

  Sonny grabbed his arms, but Starkey wrenched free. He began running around the gym, kicking over buckets, hurling water bottles ag
ainst the walls, beating the bags. “Listen beeeforrrre they get meeeeeee.”

  It took longer than Sonny expected for Starkey’s energy to run down. He waited until Starkey stopped and hugged a heavy bag, then wrapped his arms around Starkey’s waist. Starkey moaned, “Nooooooooooooo,” but he didn’t struggle as Sonny pried him loose and carried him into Johnson’s office. He dumped Starkey on the couch and held him until he fell asleep.

  The cold spot grew to fill Sonny’s stomach and chest. Stalker, savior, both. What am I gonna do? I owe him. But I can’t baby-sit him.

  Maybe Alfred and Johnson are right. Get him to the people who can help him.

  20

  THE VOICES WOKE him, murmuring so softly, he could not understand what they were saying.

  The meds were all gone but that didn’t matter. He would never be free of the Voices.

  As long as he lived, they would be in his head.

  It was the longest day he could remember. He was hanging on by his fingernails. Riding the bike behind Sonny, he felt the streets flow under the quivering tires, oceans of streets in unending waves. He hid in the laundry room as reporters and camera crews clustered around Sonny, watched him spar with Dave the Fave, interviewed everybody in the gym, even Cobra. The red cap helped, but its powers were failing.

  The snakes were sticking their tongues out at him.

  Through the afternoon Starkey watched the clock, but the hands mocked him, quivering, spinning backwards. I can’t hold on much longer.

  I can’t let the Legion take me over.

  At five o’clock Sonny said, “You’ll be okay?”

  He’d never asked that before. What’s he mean? We can smell trouble, Warrior Angels and Running Braves. Is he trying to warn me? What is he trying to tell me?

  “I’m not trying to tell you anything. Be back real late. The boxing writers’ dinner at the Hilton.”

  Then he was gone.

  Then everybody was gone.

  Starkey held the cap down on his head, pressing his thumbs into his temples. That helped sometimes, quieting the throbbing inside his skull. Not this time.

  He checked the backpack—laptop, The Book—before he slipped it on. Better be ready for anything.

  It was dark in the gym. He heard the old bloodstains bubble up from the wooden floor. He was looking for the mop when the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

  The door burst open and the lights exploded on.

  “Stay calm, Richard. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Three big men dressed almost identically in double-breasted black blazers and black T-shirts were marching across the gym. They wore radio headsets. They looked like the security goons that Stepdad’s company hired for parties and concerts.

  A middle-aged couple was right behind them, jumping around to peer over and around their broad backs. Somebody’s parents, Starkey thought.

  Somebody’s mother shouted, “Richard…”

  Starkey heard himself wail, “Nooooooo…”

  The head goon shouted, “Collect ’im.” Fire came out of his eyes.

  “Don’t hurt my son,” screamed Somebody’s Mom.

  “For God’s sake, Cynthia, let them do their job,” yelled Somebody’s Stepdad.

  Starkey found the mop and swung it, but the goons surrounded him. They were dancing and laughing, black lava pouring out of their open mouths, chanting, “Gotchagotchagotcha, angel.”

  You’re no Warrior Angel, said the Voices. You’re a simpleton, a fool, a crazy boy.

  That’s why Sonny bailed on you and ratted you out.

  21

  SONNY WAS HUNGRY, clearheaded, on edge. He was up on the balls of his feet, jiggling, making it hard for Johnson to tape his hands. But Johnson was grinning and so was Alfred. Like old times almost. Malik and Boyd were sulking in a corner of the dressing room with nothing to do. Red Eagle had been banished to the corridor. Next fight they’ll all be gone, out of my contract, out of my life.

  “Jab,” said Johnson, holding up a hand. He nodded as Sonny’s taped fist smacked into his palm. “That’s it. Again. Just like that. You’ll take down The Wall one brick at a time.”

  “Hold that thought, young gentleman,” said Alfred. “Only one thing in your mind. How we gonna make The Wall come tumbling down? Again.”

  Now they never stopped talking, low and urgent, as the commissioner signed the tape, as the gloves went on, as the door banged open and someone yelled, “Five minutes,” and then they were out in the arena, the television lights cooking the air.

  He thought of the last time he had walked out into this Vegas parking lot, a zombie in a murky brown cloud. This time his nerves tingled, the thoughts bounced against the inside of his skull. He wondered if Starkey was listening to the fight. Been three weeks since I saw him last.

  He probably thinks I called the people who snatched him. Kim saw them driving away in two limos that night. Dr. Gould said it would have been all right if I had called them. He’s okay, that shrink. He didn’t want to get involved, but he found out that Starkey was in the hospital. Some girl from the Family Place spotted him on TV and helped his parents arrange the snatch. Felt relieved that somebody else was taking care of Starkey. Back from the writers’ dinner that night, when he wasn’t there, I was almost glad. And then I had to focus on the fight.

  Alfred’s voice broke through. “Stick and move.”

  “To the left, always to your left,” said Johnson, and then Sonny was in the ring, nodding back at The Wall, they were both too professional to glare like gangstas, that man is HUGE. Sonny heard a voice, sounded just like Starkey, “Bigger the wall, the harder they fall,” made him laugh, and Johnson grunted, “Don’t get cocky on me, boy,” and Sonny let the parade of celebrities slap his gloves, the rap singer and the action hero, “Sayonara, snotface,” they said in unison, they are friends now, but Sonny kept thinking, Jab and go left, not letting the tattoos and the breasts and the gold teeth steal his concentration. Cobra got a round of applause from the crowd as he swaggered into the ring. He’d won his fight with a second-round knockout. As he tapped Sonny’s gloves, he whispered, “Win, baby. I got next.”

  Bells rang, the ring was cleared. The announcer pulled down the microphone. “And now, the main event, for the heavyweight championship of the world…in the blue trunks, the former heavyweight champion, at two hundred twenty-eight pounds, Floyd…The Wallllll…Hallllll.”

  The crowd was up and stomping, cheering, whistling.

  “In the red trunks, youngest heavyweight champion in history, at two hundred ten pounds, the Tomahawk Kid, Son-neeeeeeeeeeee Bear.”

  In the avalanche of sound sweeping over the ring, he heard Johnson’s needle-sharp, “First round, feel him out,” and Alfred, shouting up from his wheelchair at the ring steps, “Stick and move, stick and move,” and then they were standing in the middle of the ring and the referee was giving the usual instructions about neutral corners and break when told, and The Wall nodded, the mother blocked out the light, he is HUGE, let’s get it on already, and then, finally, the bell.

  Through the earpiece of the tiny radio, Starkey heard, “The Wall acts like Sonny’s jabs are just green flies at the picnic.”

  He closed his eyes and imagined that Sonny looked sharp, nothing like the zombie who had fought Navy Crockett. But The Wall is too strong to push around in the early rounds. No quick knockout here. Yet even if Sonny has the patience, does he have the endurance to go the distance? Is he ready?

  “Richard?” said Dr. Raphael.

  Reluctantly, he pulled out the earpiece. It had taken a week of begging and good behavior to get the little radio. Don’t blow it now.

  Dr. Raphael said, “I thought we had trust.” He was holding up the little plastic specimen cup. The daily urine test. “I’m very disappointed, Richard.”

  They always say something like that. To make you feel guilty. Like bagging meds is a crime against them.

  “I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on the figh
t.”

  “The medicine shuts down the voices.”

  “But I need to hear the Voices so I can counteract them.”

  “That’s courageous, Richard, but it might not be in your best interests right now.” He had a needle.

  “This is really important to me, Dr. Raphael. You’ve seen how I behaved so I could hear the fight. As soon as the fight’s over, I’ll take whatever you want.” The doctor was flicking the air out of the syringe. I don’t want to have to slug him. Talk fast, Starkey. Angels have magic tongues. “I want to get better, Dr. Raphael. You think I want to be trapped in this Warrior Angel fantasy the rest of my life?”

  That stopped him. “You were making progress.”

  “I still am. But I know I need to hear this fight if I’m to make more progress. I need to bond with the reality.” That was good. Made him blink. “And tomorrow, you can start any protocol you want, with my total cooperation.”

  Dr. Raphael lowered the needle. “Your parents agree with me that electroconvulsive therapy could be useful.”

  Starkey winked. “I’m shocked.” Cool?

  It took the doctor a minute to chuckle. Too dumb to be Legion. “I have faith in you, Richard.”

  He squeezed Starkey’s shoulder on the way out.

  Starkey got the earpiece back in. He hadn’t missed much.

  Sonny jabbed and moved away from The Wall’s powerhouse left hook, keeping his own left up to block The Wall’s straight right. He danced on the balls of his feet as The Wall kept turning, flat-footed. By the third round the crowd in the arena was booing. No hard punches had been landed. They wanted some action, some blood. They always do. Someone in the front row sang a waltz tune, and the section picked it up.

  Keep jabbing and moving, sure, but how long before The Wall just bulls forward, clinches, tries to drive me into the ropes? Have to confuse him, get The Wall angry, frustrated, have him lunge and commit himself to bad punches, humiliate him, bang him around, run him into a corner.

  Sonny sidestepped right, paused just long enough to bait The Wall into throwing a quick, clumsy hook. He let it slip past his ear, then stepped forward and drove a right into The Wall’s stomach. As the big man leaned forward, Sonny stepped back and chopped two lefts to his temple, then a hard right to his chin. The Wall staggered back and the crowd roared. He shook it off. It meant nothing, but it was a start.