The Brave (3 page)

H
E NEVER BLACKED
out. He swam through tunnels of darkness and pools of light. He was jerked to his feet, half carried up stairs, dumped into a small room that stank of sweat and smoke. He gagged. A light flashed into his eyes. A paramedic said, “He'll be okay.”

“Redskins are tough.” Police officers filled the room.

“Look what they did to Custer.”

“Look what he did to Brooks.” The cops laughed and surrounded him. Half a dozen hands patted over his body, up his legs. Sonny reached for his wallet. His back pocket was torn and empty. The belt loop was torn too. Did the cops have the wallet? Doll?

“What's your name, Tonto?”

He concentrated on slowing his breathing. His eyesight was blurred by sweat, but he could see that the room had no windows. It was bare except for a table and two chairs and a long
mirror on the wall opposite the door. Too many bodies blocked the way out.

Voices battered him.

“Resisting arrest.”

“Striking a police officer.”

“You are in deep, Geronimo.”

White and black faces hovered in front of him.

“Want to go to jail?”

“Scalp you at both ends in jail.”

Sonny's hands curled into fists. Be cool, he told himself, ride it out. But the monster was in his chest.

“So what's your name, where you from?”

The cop's face bobbed into range. A straight right, then the hook. He began to raise his fists. What's the difference between jail and being sent back to the Res?

The door banged open.

A cold, hard voice blew in. “Young gentleman, don't even think about lifting your hands.”

Cops scrambled out of the way. A chunky black man swaggered in. He was holding a frosty can of soda to a bearded jaw.

“Put your hands in your pockets, young gentleman, before you mess up your life for good.”

Sonny opened his hands and dropped them.

“Leave me alone with this fool.”

“Sergeant Brooks, this kid's…”

“Pathetic. Leave.” He flipped the soda can to one of the cops and waited until they all filed out of the room. He kicked the door shut with his heel. “You are pathetic. Fifteen minutes off the bus and you bought the total New York experience. Saw the whole thing. You let yourself get picked up by two hustlers who ripped off your backpack and wallet. Then you fouled up a drug bust. Must be some kind of a record.”

Sonny studied Brooks. He didn't look deranged. He didn't look much of anything. He wasn't particularly tall or heavily muscled. The beginnings of a potbelly pushed out the front of his polo shirt. I could take him out, thought Sonny. Probably has a gun strapped to his ankle under his gray warm-up pants. But one good punch, I could be past him and out the door. Make it to the street. The Deuce. Get to SoHo.

“Tell you how dumb you are, young gentleman. You are thinking right now you could actually get through me.” Brooks shook his
head. “I am sick of this job and I am tired to death of fools like you.” He sighed, closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. “Why'd you leave home?”

Sonny shrugged.

“Can't hear you.” His eyes were still closed. Sonny wondered if Brooks was daring him to try to escape. “You get thrown out?”

“No.”

“Anyone make you do sex?”

“No.”

“So why'd you run?”

Sonny grunted.

“Can't hear you. Why?”

“Get away.”

“Why?”

It just came out. “Be somebody.”

Brooks' eyes opened. “What?”

“Want to be somebody.” Sonny wondered, Why am I talking to him?

Brooks straightened up. “Everybody's somebody.” His voice wasn't so cold and hard. “Where you from?”

“Upstate.”

“How far up which state?”

Sonny shook his head. Answers would land
him back on the Res.

“I don't want to put you away. I just want you out of my jurisdiction, on a bus back home. Got that? So what's your name and where you from?”

“Don't matter. I'm here now.”

“I'm Sergeant Brooks. I can help you. What's your name?”

Brooks' eyes were warmer than he would have thought. But Sonny shook his head. He wasn't going back to the Res. Got to get to SoHo. Find Mom. Be hard now without the phone number and address.

“You got a real left hook. Ever box?”

Sonny nodded.

“Pro?”

“Not really.” Be careful, he thought. Don't get suckered into giving away information. But he wanted to talk to this man.

“How'd you do?” Brooks was smiling. His voice was friendly.

Can't trust anybody in the Port or on The Deuce. Especially the pig posse.

“I asked you, ‘How'd you do?'”

The monster whispered, Good enough to clock you, pig.

“Talk to me, young gentleman.”

“Good enough to clock you, pig.”

Brooks' smile froze. He nodded. “Sound just like Stick. Fine and dandy, young gentleman. You called it.” He jerked a thumb at the door. “You're free to go.”

“Like that?”

“Like that. Move out before I change my mind.”

The cops outside the door eyeballed him all the way to the stairs, but none of them moved. He hurried down the stairs toward the front doors of the bus terminal. He had no idea what to do next. He had no money. But he knew he had to get out of here.

He wasn't ready for the dazzling lights of the street and the roar of traffic. Or the sharp fingernails that dug into his arm.

He cocked his fist and whirled into that neon smile. “Oh, Sonny, you're okay. I was so worried about you.”

T
HEY STROLLED
T
HE
D
EUCE
and people checked them out as if they were somebodies. He felt strong and cool with Doll on his arm. He had never before had a girl he was proud to show off, and he swelled with the pleasure of being on parade. She walked tall like she felt it, too.

“Doll!” An older man, maybe forty, bigger than Sonny, his bull neck hung with gold chains, stepped out of a video arcade.

“Later, Mo.” Her body tensed and her voice seemed small.

“I need to talk to you.”

Doll picked up the pace until they had passed him. “Just some meatball, Sonny, don't mean nothing.”

He sensed it meant something, but the street took all his attention. He had never seen anything so filthy and ugly and stinking and full of life.

Rock music pounded out of record stores and fought for airtime with the rap and the salsa blaring from the giant boom boxes. Sidewalk preachers screamed at them to find Jesus before they went to hell. Black men in tee-shirts shook plastic bags: “Hey, rock, reef, loops, cubes.” Doll called some of them by name. They nodded and looked Sonny over.

“You hungry? Best pizza in Times Square.” She steered him into a narrow little pizza parlor between a movie theater and a souvenir store. Chub's Grotto was just a long counter in front of a wall of ovens and soda spigots. No tables or chairs.

“Listen to this.” Doll giggled. “I used to call my dogs back home.” She stuck her pinkies into her mouth and made a piercing whistle. “Yo, Chub, any mail or messages for me?”

An enormously fat man wearing only a tomato-stained white apron over his bare upper body waddled down the counter. Tattooed snakes and eagles bit and clawed their way up the mountainous flesh of his arms and shoulders.

“You gonna bust my ears someday, Dolly.” He had a high-pitched voice. He leaned over
the counter to study Sonny. “Love your outfit.”

“My friend Sonny.” She squeezed his arm.

“That belt's exquisite,” said Chub. “And the headband.”

He had forgotten he was still wearing them.

“Sonny's for real,” said Doll.

“We're all for real,” said Chub. “You thought this was Disney World?”

“I mean he's not just dressed up. He's a real Indian.” She looked up at Sonny. “You are, aren't you?”

“Yeah.” The farther you get from the Res, the more they love you.

“Apache? Cherokee?” Chub looked serious. “I'm like a Western buff. Read every Louis L'Amour.”

“Moscondaga,” said Sonny.

“Yeah, right, sure.” Chub nodded as if he had heard of the Nation. “Welcome to The Deuce.”

“Two slices, pepperoni, extra cheese,” said Doll. Chub waddled away. “My treat, Sonny. Stick never has anything to eat at his place 'cause he hardly ever eats.”

“You spend a lot of time there?”

“Not if I can help it. He's such a snake.” She
wrinkled her nose.

“I thought you were…”

“You kidding?” She rolled her eyes in a cute way that flipped Sonny's stomach. “Number-one rule in the Port or on The Deuce, don't trust anybody. Number-two rule. Especially Stick and Brooks.”

“Sergeant Brooks wasn't so bad.” He wondered why he was defending him.

“Don't let Stick hear you say that.”

“Here you go, kids, specialty of the house,” said Chub, slapping two limp, greasy triangles on the counter.

He had eaten better pizza in Sparta, but it didn't matter, he was so jacked. The aches and pains were distant now, smothered in excitement. He was out in the real world now, on his own.

“No mail,” said Chub, “but I heard that Mo beat up Trini and she split.”

“Oh, no,” wailed Doll. “She was gonna help me with Jessie.”

“Nobody can find her.”

“Doesn't she have a sister in Jersey?”

Sonny watched Doll nibble at her slice as daintily as she had eaten her chocolate dough
nut at the bus terminal, only an hour ago, before he decked Brooks, before he lost everything he owned. Twelve hours ago he'd been lying in his bunk thinking about the fat farm boy and Jake and Mom, and plotting his escape from the dead zone. And now he was in the middle of everything.

“Mo's going to freak when he finds out Trini split,” said Chub.

“He might know already,” said Doll. “He says he needs to talk to me.”

“You're not going back there?”

“Not if I can get something and pay him back.”

Chub's eyes brushed over Sonny. He caught the move. He was somehow already involved in Doll's plans. His skin tingled.

For a while he listened to Doll and Chub gossip about people who were in detox or jail, who had made a score and bought some new clothes, who had tested positive. He lost interest. He watched Chub's assistant, a tiny Asian woman, bustle up and down the counter slapping slices in front of foreign tourists in sandals and shorts, raggedy street kids, junkies, beggars counting coins out of their paper cups,
college boys and their dates and a steady stream of hard-eyed black kids his age with beepers on their belts. Crack dealers, figured Sonny. He had seen them on TV. They all frisked him with their eyes. He stared back in the way Jake had taught him to scope strange dogs. Show any fear, they might take a piece out of you just to stay in practice. Show any threat, they'd go for your throat. But eyeball them cool, they won't jump you without good reason. He wished he had Jake's Colt.

Chub was saying, “I could help you take care of Jessie.”

“Thanks, but if I didn't have my own place it'd be too risky,” said Doll. “One bust, they'd declare me unfit, she'd be in foster and I'd never see her again.” She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. Her mascara was smeared.

“She is sooo cute,” said Chub, stroking Doll's arm.

“I really miss her so much.” Doll sniffled.

It sounded as if they were talking about a child. Doll's? She was definitely not older than he was, maybe even younger. Sixteen? The thought that she could be a mother aroused
him. He looked at her pale, soft arms. In the neon lights of the pizza parlor the fine hairs on her arms were golden. The spreading warmth pushed away the last twinges of the farm boy's uppercut.

Doll nudged him. When he looked up, startled, she made a small motion with her hand. He turned. One of the beeper dudes was backing out of the store, whispering into his sleeve. When he was out on the street, Chub casually waddled to the door and blocked his view inside.

“Undercover narc,” whispered Doll, grabbing his hand. “Follow me.”

She pulled him behind the counter and into a tiny bathroom. A door beside the toilet opened into the video arcade. He plunged after her.

The video arcade was jammed, row after row of bodies hunched over muttering, screaming, flashing machines. Bells, horns, squealing brakes, chattering automatic weapons. Sonny felt as though he had entered the guts of a game. He trailed Doll through the room, bouncing off machines and bodies like a pinball. Nobody looked up.

They came to a door. POSITIVELY NO ADMITTANCE. Doll opened it and pulled him into darkness. A red light blinked on. A huge shape loomed up. “Hey, you…. Dolly?”

“Trouble, Mo. Get us out back.”

Mo bolted the door and led them quickly through a murky corridor of curtained rooms. They reminded Sonny of the dressing cubicles in department stores. He heard moans and sighs. He smelled sweat and ammonia. He glimpsed a man in a suit and a young boy. They reached another door. Mo blocked it and turned to face them.

“What's with this guy.”

“He's the one slugged Brooks. We're trying to lose a narc up in Chub's.”

“What's that got to do with you?”

“I'm taking him to Stick. That's all there is, Mo.”

“You sure, Dolly, this ain't another number?” His voice sounded rough and pleading at the same time.

“Cross my heart. Okay?”

“I got something planned for your birthday.”

“That's so sweet, Mo. I got to go. See you tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“Eight o'clock.”

“You sure?”

“I swear.”

“You swear. Watch the steps.”

The door closed behind them. Doll took his hand and put it on her shoulder. “Indian file,” she said, giggling.

She led Sonny down steps into a storage basement. By the time his eyes adjusted to the darkness, they were through another door and up an iron spiral staircase.

Stick was waiting for them at the top. He was wearing an elegant red-silk robe with a velvet collar. His hair was black now, with a coppery sheen. He looked older, in his twenties.

“Welcome.” He ushered them into a dim room. Red bulbs glowed from the corners. Sonny felt a thick rug underfoot. A gentle waterfall of music poured out of overhead speakers. Incense. Doll guided him to a soft couch. As he sank into the cushions, he realized how tired he was.

“Some layout, huh?” said Doll. “Who'd believe this under The Deuce?”

“You can stay here tonight, Chief Sonny,”
said Stick. “I owe you one. Brooks was after me and you got in the way.”

“I owe him one, too,” said Doll. She sat down next to Sonny and rested her head on his shoulder. “How about giving Sonny a run?”

“This is no training program,” said Stick. “I need experienced people.”

“You need people you can trust,” said Doll.

“You want to make some change?” asked Stick.

Sonny tried to sound tough and casual. “What's the deal?”

“Delivery. To New Jersey.”

“Won't they be looking for him?” asked Doll.

“Sure. But they won't touch him,” said Stick. “Brooks let Sonny go as a decoy. He'll never bust Sonny as long as I'm loose. He figures Sonny will lead him to me.”

“How do you know that?” asked Sonny.

“I'm in that pig's head. It's him against me for the Port.”

“You really hate him so much,” said Doll.

“He's a hypocrite. The world is setting up for the final war between the colored races and the white slave masters, and I hate any man of color who lines up with the enemy.”

“Stick's real political,” said Doll. She sounded proud of him.

“We're just the little retailers in this drug thing, Sonny. The white man makes the serious money. He's got those foreign dictators to grow it, ship it here. When you got a black cop coming down on the brothers, that is hypocrisy.”

Stick picked up his walking stick. “Someday I'll give Brooks a bite of the snake. I don't think he knows I'm strapped.”

“Packed,” said Doll. “Carrying a gun.”

“That's a gun?” asked Sonny.

“Bottom's a pig sticker.” Stick pulled off the steel tip to expose a dagger. “Top's a shotgun.” He pulled off the ivory snake's head to expose a barrel. “A load of buckshot can cut a man in half.”

Doll shuddered. “Put that away.”

Stick snapped the tip and head back onto the stick and dropped it behind the couch. “Back to business.”

“You really think it's safe for Sonny to make a run?” Her leg was pressed against his.

“Brooks won't touch him.”

“Okay,” said Doll, “how much?”

“You his agent?” Stick sounded annoyed.

“I'm his friend.”

“Top dollar. A Benjy.”

“That's a hundred,” explained Doll. “Benjamin Franklin's on the hundred-dollar bill.” She turned back to Stick. “Double or nothing.”

“He's a rookie.”

“He's strong and smart.”

“He's never made this kind of bread. Have you?”

“Sure,” said Sonny. “Boxing.”

Doll squealed. “You were a pro boxer?”

“Sort of. Smokers upstate. We got paid.”

Stick looked interested. “You thinking about fighting in the city?”

“Maybe.” He hadn't really thought about it until he heard the interest in Doll's voice.

“I could get behind a boxer,” said Stick. “Wouldn't mind a piece of the next Mikey T. How'd you do?”

“Won five in a row.” Hoffer doesn't count, he thought.

“Right thing.”

“One thing at a time,” said Doll. “Two hundred or nothing.”

“You taking a commission?” asked Stick.

Her voice was coy. “Maybe he'll take me out on my birthday.”

Sonny wished he could see her face. “When's that?”

“Next Thursday.”

“How old you going to be?”

“I'll tell you then.” Her leg was pressing harder.

“We'll do details in the morning,” said Stick, “but here's your contract.” He tore a hundred-dollar bill in half, handed one piece to Sonny and waved the other. “You get this and the other hundred when you get back.” His voice turned sarcastic. “If that's okay with your agent.”

“For now. But our price goes up after this one. Sonny needs to get some rest.” She knelt in front of him and pulled off his boots. “These real cowboy boots?”

“They were made for me in New Mexico.”

“You've been there? I've never been anywhere. Maybe you'll take me someday.” She lifted his legs onto the couch and arranged a pillow under his head as Stick snapped off the red lights.

She kissed Sonny's forehead. He reached for her. She slipped out of his arms. “When you get back,” she said.