The Chief (12 page)

I
'M TAKING NOTES
again as Alfred keeps the HandiVan twenty-five feet behind Sonny on the highway heading north.

“You think he can run the whole way?” I ask.

“If the Hawk gives him a lift,” snickers Alfred.

“You still don't buy that spiritual stuff.”

“You know what I think.”

“If it works, fine.”

“You got it.” He backhands my shoulder without taking his eyes off the road. “I think you're gonna be all right, Marty. A contender. Spoon always said so, but I was never sure till now.”

“Dad said so?” There's a fist in my throat, my eyes sting.

“Never told you?”

“No.”

“Probably did, but you missed the signal.”

There are state troopers waiting for us at the entrance to the New York Thruway. One of them waves us down, a massive Black guy in a Smokey the Bear hat.

“No pedestrians.” He jerks a thumb at Sonny, jogging in place.

Alfred shouts, “Sonny! Hop in.”

I open the sliding door, and while Sonny climbs in, the Black Smokey pushes his face against a window. “What you got in there?”

“Guns, drugs, hypodermic needles,” says Alfred. “I come to make your career.”

“Smartmeat,” snarls the Smokey. “We'll get you.”

Alfred is laughing as he peels out. “He should've looked. I got guns, drugs, and needles. All legal, of course.”

“You like this,” I say.

“Love it. Action Jackson time.” He looks over his shoulder at Sonny. “I'll pull off the next exit. How many miles a day you figure?”

“Fifty, a hundred? I don't know,” says Sonny.

“Could take us five, six days to get there. The point you trying to make, man, is that people got to pay attention, okay, not that you got to win the Olympics, dig?”

I think Sonny might snarl back at him, but he just smiles and nods. There is something peaceful in his face.

 

Late in the day a helicopter appears overhead, beating the air with that brain-busting clatter. From the writing on its belly I see it's the weather chopper for a big New York radio station. I tune to their frequency.

One of those radio voices:

“Below us, a blue van is moving slowly up the road, trailing Sonny Bear on a mission that began hundreds of years ago when a band of Moscondaga warriors who called themselves the Running Braves became the feet and brains of their people.”

A familiar voice:

“Sonny is a direct descendent of the last Running Brave, his great-great-grandfather. He's learned the secrets of that society, and he
feels his time has come to help the Nation.”

“That was Sonny's friend, Martin Witherspoon. But not everyone is so positive about this run. Joe Decker is a chief of the Moscondaga.”

“Sonny Bear is not a representative of our people. He is a renegade out for himself. The Moscondaga know how to deal with a renegade.”

“How?”

“By any means necessary.”

 

At nightfall, Alfred bangs on the horn until Sonny drops back to my window. “Get in.”

“I'm fine.”

“I'm not. Gotta change my diapers, get some food. You got to sleep.”

We pull into a truck stop, jammed with drivers. Some of them check us out but nobody bothers us. Alfred is gone a long time while Sonny and I eat.

“Alfred okay?” asks Sonny, which surprises me. He's not the sensitive type.

“Yeah. How 'bout you?”

“Hungry.” He digs into his bowl of spaghetti. End of sensitive conversation.

Alfred rolls back with a plastic bag of underwear on his lap. “If you run in the dark, we'll never see what hits you.”

Sonny nods. “Sleep in the van?”

Tonight anyway.”

I ask, “Tomorrow?”

“Out early, see what finds us,” says Alfred.

“Finds us?”

“Count on it,” says Alfred. “Good or bad, it's coming.”

On our way out, one of the truck drivers yells, “Custer wins this time, kimo sabe.”

Alfred wheels around, his hand inside his shirt on the .38, but Sonny never blinks, just keeps moving. Another driver yells “Shut up” to the first driver, but we're out of there.

“See, you also got your fans.” Alfred chuckles. Action Jackson.

We find a space for the van among the rows of trucks parked for the night. The air hums with the sounds of radios and TV sets. Sonny wraps himself up in a blanket as if he's leftover food and goes to sleep without saying good night.

Alfred hands me the shotgun. “Wake me in two hours.” He cranks his seat into recline,
fusses with tubes and starts snoring.

The cold skin of the barrel sends shivers through my palm and up into my arm. This is real. There are people out there who don't want us to make it to the Res.

The shivers ripple out of my shoulder and into my chest. Fear can feel good, Jake says. Fear makes super sharp the senses of the Running Brave. He learned that from his grandfather and taught it to Sonny. But what's that got to do with me?

This is your run, too. Gonna deliver your message. Finish your book. Write it in blood if you have to.

Not mine, I hope.

How about Professor Marks' blood?

That'd be good.

“Huh?” Alfred is awake. Moonlight glints off the revolver in his hand.

“Sorry. Talking to myself.”

“Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.”

“You really think there'll be trouble?”

“Nothing the three of us can't handle.” He is snoring again.

 

Alfred shakes me awake at first light and gestures out my window at Sonny stick-dancing on the rutted black macadam of the parking lot. He wears only a jockstrap. He is barefoot.

He grunts softly each time the stick, a strip of plywood, bounces off an instep. He tracks it up into the pink-gray sky. The rising light glistens off his sweaty skin. He quicksteps under the tumbling stick, maneuvering himself into position on one foot to kick it back up with the other foot.

There is still Hollywood flab over the solid muscles of his abdomen, and I have seen him quicker and looser, but he looks good, powerful and graceful and confident in his body. He is getting back into shape.

Alfred and I watch for a long time. I could never dream of moving the way Sonny moves—I've been fighting fat my whole life. But Alfred was a fighter once, speedy and tough, and he was a very physical cop. I wonder how he feels now in the prison of his body.

Truck motors are coughing and sputtering around us by the time Sonny catches the stick behind his back and throws it away. He slides open the van door and hops in.

“Let's go.”

“Breakfast,” says Alfred.

“On the way. Stinks here.”

Truck exhausts are pumping diesel fumes into the air. You can see what you're breathing.

“Progress,” I say, “will kill you. The elders know what they're talking about.”

“AIDS, TB, diabetes, booze,” says Sonny, “kill you just as dead.”

“We've got to take control of what we can,” I say.

Alfred is chuckling as he pulls onto the highway. “Maybe Marty should run for chief.”

I feel stupid until Sonny reaches from the back and squeezes my shoulder.

“Escort service,” says Alfred, jerking a thumb behind us at a green Chevy. “State troopers.” He points up through the windshield at a distant chopper. “Feds.”

“Maybe they'll buy breakfast,” I say.

“They'd love to,” says Alfred. “At your friendly neighborhood slam.” He taps the radio scanner until he finds an all-news station. We don't have to wait long.

“Violence has flared again on the Moscondaga Reservation. One man was injured
and thousands of dollars of construction materials destroyed when a bomb exploded at the site of a new gambling casino. The governor has promised to send state troopers to the Reservation to restore order. Elsewhere,…”

“Time to eat,” says Sonny.

The green Chevy is replaced by a brown Ford when Alfred pulls off the highway. We decide to buy food at a convenience store and eat in the van. Alfred gets himself into his chair and rolls off to the bathroom while Sonny and I go inside.

The fat cracker behind the counter never takes his beady eyes off Sonny as he scoops up an armful of fruit and milk and cereal and juices. I pick up the newspapers, some packaged sandwiches and cookies, and large containers of coffee.

At the checkout, the cracker says, “Your money's no good here.”

“We make a wrong turn?” I growl. “We're not in America?”

But I'm off base, and Sonny gets it right away. He puts out his hand. “Thanks.”

The cracker pumps it. “Proud to meet you, Sonny. People got to stand up. Good luck to you.”

The last time I will even think the word “cracker.”

The papers don't have too much more on the Moscondaga story except a quote from one of the governor's aides who says that Sonny is only a boxer and that he represents no one on the Reservation. I read it out loud.

“Know which side the governor's on,” says Alfred.

“The money side,” says Sonny. “'S okay.”

“Starting to sound like Jake,” I say.

“'S okay,” says Alfred. He's in a good mood. He finds a classic rock station and settles into driving. Sonny stretches out to digest. I scribble some notes while I check the sky and the road for latest developments.

 

Sonny has been running slow and smooth for almost two hours on a county blacktop that winds through old farms, when a gray stretch limo with a sky roof zooms out of a side road and pulls alongside. The roof slides back and a black leather cowboy hat pops up, followed by Elston Hubbard, Senior. He is grinning and signaling us to pull over.

“You think it's some kind of trick?”

“Count on it,” says Alfred. He hits the horn for Sonny and eases the van onto the shoulder of the road.

Alfred makes a throat-clearing noise that sounds like a chain saw. “What do you want, Elston?”

“The best for everybody.” He boosts himself out of the limo and onto its roof. He is totally in black leather. “Our boy is on the verge of capturing the imagination of this nation.”

“Our boy?” I ask.

“His next fight belongs to me, remember?”

“Lay it out,” snaps Alfred.

“A direct man. I can deal with that,” says Hubbard. “This little run of yours, it's a ton of ink and air. The best buildup I've ever seen for a fight.”

“With who?” asks Sonny.

“With the champ.”

“What about Junior?” I ask.

“Good boy, my boy, but he don't have the Oh-Boy to sell a match with the Wall.”

“Your own son.” Alfred shakes his head.

“He'll get his shot,” says Hubbard. “Now listen. Be a scramble, but we can schedule your
fight in ten days. Pay-per-view. I'll have the suspension lifted.

“Sonny keeps running, every day in another town, he works out, meets the people and the press. I'll set up everything, the training sites, the motel rooms, food. Get you a phone and a fax for the van, a backup RV with a bathroom. Anything else you need, you got it.”

“Sonny's running for a reason,” I say, “not to promote a fight.”

“Shut up,” says Alfred. “The deal, Elston.”

“You still tough, baby.” Senior chuckles. “Okay. I want to promote a fight, Sonny wants to make a point. Together, we both get over. I get to be the fight king, he gets to be a Racing Beaver.”

I can't believe this guy. “A Running Brave.”

“Whatever. I'm not political.”

“Where is this fight going to be?”

Hubbard smiles. He looks like a black crocodile when he smiles. “There is only one place in the cosmos where this can be held, gentlemens, and when I say the words you will lose your breaths.”

“Hell?” I say.

Hubbard laughs. “That boy's mouth will
lead him to the penthouse or the outhouse. Gentlemens, this fight will be held at the grand opening of the Hiawatha Hotel and Casino.”

“The what?” Alfred and I are a chorus.

“On the Moscondaga Reservation,” says Hubbard. “We are talking about the greatest victory for the Native American since Little Big Horn.”

“What do the chiefs say?” asks Sonny.

“When this goes down,” says Hubbard, “you be the chief.”

“May be nothing to be a chief of when you're done,” I say.

He leans back and looks at us, cold eyes, no smile. “That's up to you.”

R
ICHIE WAS WAITING
for us outside the Fort Ruth Holiday Inn under the billboard: WELCOME SONNY BEAR. I noticed that Sonny's name was bigger than Iron Pete Viera's had been. A good sign. But under his name it read: THE RUN TO THE TITLE. Bad sign.

“Classy, huh,” said Richie. “Senior thinks of everything.”

“Got to change it,” I said. “It's not a run to the title. We're running to the Reservation, for a purpose. It's like a mission.”

“'S okay,” said Sonny. “We'll make our point when it's time. Now we're just chopping wood for the fire.”

At four o'clock a crowd of several hundred whistled and clapped as Sonny jogged into the motel's banquet room and held out his hands for Alfred to tape. I really missed my laptop. Got to get this down. Only Day Two of this
amazing run, and it feels like just another workout in the gym. That's something to write about, when history feels like everyday.

Sonny stretched and shadowboxed to loosen up, sparred with two different partners, then hit the heavy bag and speed bag mounted on portable metal stands. Richie drilled him through his exercises. Once I thought I heard Richie say “Oy, vay.”

I didn't get a chance to talk to Sonny that night. He went right to sleep after dinner, and Alfred hurried to his room to give himself an enema, clean his tubes and bags.

I wandered downstairs. Richie was supervising the sparring partners taking down the ring. No time to talk, either. “Four o'clock tomorrow in the Ramada Inn, Breitenburg Falls. Go with the flow, kid.”

“What you mumbling?” asked Alfred.

“You know the first athletes in America were Indian runners?”

“This
Jeopardy?”

“In 1680, the runners carried messages coded into carved sticks and knotted strings to the Pueblos. It was a revolt against the Spanish.”

“How'd they do?”

“Kicked ass.”

Alfred laughed. “How come they didn't teach us that in school?”

“In 1890, runners went to Washington to tell the Indian side of the massacre at Wounded Knee.”

“Do any good?”

I pointed at Sonny. “Still at it.”

 

Sometimes Richie set up the training camp in a community center or a school auditorium. The crowds grew at every stop. So did the media. They began following us in a chartered bus. Same questions: Why are you doing this? How old are you? Think you can really knock down the Wall?

I got to talk to Richie only once, caught him alone staring at the wall after a workout. I stood quietly until he turned to me and said, “John L. would of loved all this. He talked about Sonny a lot. You know that pillow Sonny gave him? I stuck it in his coffin just before they closed it. Rabbi would've gone nuts, but I figured, hey, who knows who's in charge up there?”

When he realized that tears were streaming down his face, he turned away, and growled, “Don't you got something to do, pencil-boy?”

I decided it was not the time to bring up the five hundred dollars he still owed me.

 

On the fifth day, Dave the Fave showed up to spar, and to do his “Sonny's Run” rap. We were on the news every night. The governor said it was just too bad people were listening to a boxer instead of their elected officials, and Hubbard said it would be the biggest fight in history.

Dick, the silver-haired TV guy who had helped us in Las Vegas, flew in for a special network interview. Afterward, he said to me, “Watch yourself, Marty. There are people who don't want Sonny to make it.”

“Like who?”

He raised his hands.
“A
word to the wise,
capisce?”

 

Good Morning, America
showed up on Day Six with Sonny's mom. They interviewed them together, on a wooden deck overlooking a lake. It was so cold they had to surround them with silver foil and beam heat lamps at them.

Alfred and I watched on a monitor inside a tent. Sonny's mom was beautiful and articulate. She looked like she could be his older sister. Sonny seemed a little uncomfortable, but she did all the talking. About how hard it was for Sonny growing up without a dad and how they moved around a lot, but that he had the strength of his two cultures, red and white. She managed to hold up some of the jewelry she designed, and get in a few plugs for Sweet Bear's Kiva craft shops and the new line of “Tomahawk Kid” Indian-style sweat clothes.

It wasn't until the very end that the interviewer got around to asking Sonny if he was excited about his chance of becoming the youngest heavyweight champion in history.

It took him so long to answer that Alfred
and I glanced at each other, but then he finally squinted down the barrel of the camera and said, “I'm sure my mom feels the same way. There's nothing we could make or do as individuals that would be as important as what we could do as members of the Moscondaga Nation.”

“Oooo-eee.” Alfred gave me an elbow. “Hawk been whispering to that boy.”

“See, you're starting to believe,” I said.

“Always believed. In whatever works.”

 

Day Seven.

Alfred is at the wheel when the bullet ricochets off the roof of the van.

It's dawn. Sonny is outlined against the horizon, a perfect target, and we hear a crack, like a branch snapping, and the ping of a spent cartridge bouncing off the van. I'm not sure what it is, but Alfred knows right away. He hits the horn and guns the van, pulling alongside Sonny.

“Door,” Alfred shouts to me, and as I slide it open, he shouts to Sonny, “In.”

“Got to keep going.”

“If you go down it's over.”

Sonny throws himself through the door onto a pile of blankets and clothes on the floor of the van.

Alfred unhooks the phone and flips it into my lap. “Call the local cops.”

“Call the Res,” says Sonny.

“They're the ones trying to kill you.”

“They wouldn't of missed,” says Sonny. “Call Jake.”

Jake has only one question. “Where you at?” When I tell him he hangs up.

Sonny pulls off his shoes and flops backward. He is snoring before Alfred pulls over. “You drive now.”

I drive the HandiVan and Alfred leans out the passenger window, the shotgun balanced on his knees, his old police revolver in his hand. Steering the van, I think I'm in the middle of a western movie, driving the Butterfield stage through Indian country.

Only in this flick it's the Indians coming to the rescue.