The Brave (8 page)

“R
IGHT…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.”

“A
LFRED
B
ROOKS 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.”

“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 some
thing 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 stool.

“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.