“Which one?” asked Sonny. “Shakespeare?”
I laughed. “Wish I’d thought of that.”
“Should of popped him.”
“I wanted to.”
Baseball players moved onto the screen, and Sonny started channel surfing until he clicked up MTV. A group called Dung Beetle was going nuts.
“Got some good fish for dinner,” said Jake, shuffling in. “Gonna start cookin’. You boys go feed the dogs, close up the yard.”
It was twilight. The cars and trucks in the junkyard were twisted animal shapes against the gray of Stonebird. Jake had always talked about Sonny doing his solo for three nights on the top of Stonebird, part of the ritual of a Running Brave. I pushed my luck.
“Can’t leave—you haven’t done your solo yet.”
“Got to get out of this dump before it blows,” said Sonny. “Gonna be big trouble behind this bingo.”
“Be something for the Res if you fought for the title.”
“Like they care. Decker told Jake last week he wanted only full-bloods living on the Res.”
“Your mother’s father was a chief.”
He shrugged. We chased the dogs into the yard and closed the gates after them.
“What about Jake?” I asked.
“He can take care of himself.”
After we fed the dogs and locked the gates, we washed up under the outdoor pump. It was dark now, and somehow not seeing him clearly made me feel closer to him, more confident.
“We’re not done yet. Sonny. It’s not over.”
“It’s over. Gave my stuff away.”
“Henry’s still got it.”
He took some deep breaths before he said, “You been a real friend. Got to face it.” His voice seemed small, faraway. Unsure? “We gave it our best shot.”
“We blew it.” I said it as harshly as I could. “We didn’t go all the way.”
“You think so?” He was unsure. I had him on the ropes. Did I have the killer instinct?
“Remember that TV producer?”
“The one you got the warms for?”
“C’mon, that skinny little…”
“Sure.” He bumped me with his shoulder. “That old black owl head of yours did a three-sixty when she did that thing with her eyebrows.”
“You noticed.”
He laughed. “That girl was trouble.”
“But smart. We could go to Vegas and do the Muhammad Ali number.”
“Be serious.”
“I am. You saw those guys on TV. It’s all gimmicks.”
“How would we get out there?” When I flapped my arms like wings, he asked, “How do we get the money?”
“You could cash your Phoenix ticket, and I got some money.”
“You into mugging now?”
“Put away.”
“School money?”
“Green money, what’s it matter….”
“Look at you, fat black boy with glasses. If you don’t go to college, you’ll starve to death.”
“If it works, I could have a best-seller. Both be champs.” Had to give him my best shot now, the money punch. My left hook.
“Look, Sonny, this is for me as much as it is for you. If I’m really your friend, let’s just do it.”
“You got a plan?”
Almost had him. “I’ll figure it out on the way.”
He gave me a shove. “Let’s eat first.”
Bingo.
10
THE WING DIPS, and I follow it down through the clouds toward a sea of neon.
“Wake up. Sonny.” I shook his arm. He was already the world sleeping champion. “Vegas.”
“Later.” He burrowed deeper into the Moscondaga medicine pillow Jake made us take for luck.
“History, man. Your life.”
“I’ll read about it in your book.”
“Here’s the first line.” I snapped open the laptop. I hadn’t given up on the present tense yet. No matter what Professor Marks says, it pulls you right into the action. “The wing dips, and I follow it down through the clouds toward a sea of neon.’”
“Sea of neon—I got to see this.” Sonny grunted and leaned across me to squint through the airplane window. “Looks more like all the crayons in the world melted down.”
“That’s not bad.” I tapped it in. “You write the first draft.”
“You fight Hubbard.” Sonny laughed and went back to sleep.
Wish I could. I never liked Junior Hubbard. The old man was a windbag, a better TV actor than he was a fighter, even though he had won the middleweight championship, but the kid was just a dumbo who got lucky. Ever since he won the Olympic gold medal that should have been Sonny’s, he got ink and airtime he didn’t deserve, not to mention the best training money could buy and a steady supply of opponents, punching bags with arms, to fatten his self-confidence and his record. Hubbard was sixteen wins, twelve by knockout, and nothing close to a defeat. All the experts said that once he got past old John L. he’d get a crack at the champ.
“Give it a rest,” rumbled Sonny, closing the laptop on my fingers. Las Vegas rose to meet us, blinking like a crazy bloodshot eye. That was better than crayons, even better than sea of neon. You out there listening, Marks?
There were slot machines at the airport in Vegas, and they were getting plenty of action in the middle of the afternoon. We moved fast through the terminal, just carrying gym bags, traveling light and loose. I hated to spend the money, but we jumped in a taxi. Couldn’t chance missing Elston Hubbard’s workout and having to waste another day. Besides, I was starting to feel nasty, ready to rock. Didn’t want to lose the Fever. Don’t get it that often. This was my show.
The land was flat and scrubby, sandy desert washed in a shimmering yellow light I’d never seen before. Riding into town we passed a huge billboard with Hubbard’s picture on it. I elbowed Sonny. “Should be you up there.” I liked the gravelly sound of my voice.
The cabdriver said, “He’s gonna win.”
“How come?”
“Old John L. ain’t hungry no more. Once Jews get rich, they lose heart.”
“How you know I’m not Jewish?” I snapped.
He laughed.
“Sammy Davis, Jr., was Black and Jewish. So was Rod Carew, Major League Baseball Hall of Fame. The college professor and writer Julius Lester. Michael Jordan. So?”
He nearly drove off the road. “Michael Jordan?”
“How you think he made all that money?”
That shut him up for the rest of the trip. I didn’t tip him. When we got out at the Garden of Eden Hotel, Sonny said, “Michael Jordan?”
“Made that one up. What does that redneck peckerwood honkie white trash cracker know?”
Sonny mimicked Jake. “That kind of talk don’t get us anywhere.”
“Got us here,” I growled.
He squinted at me, as if he was seeing something new.
I liked that.
11
SONNY SHOULDERED through the hotel lobby and the gambling casino, and I followed close behind. I’d figured Vegas would be wall-to-wall Mafiosi in wraparound suits, and wildcat Texas oilmen blowing their salaries after months on a rig. But most people seemed to be family-plan tourists with tight shorts and camcorders. Packs of Asians. Old-lady robots sitting in front of the slots clutching paper cups of coins, waiting for the spinning pictures to chunk-chunk-chunk to a stop. Now and then the clatter of coins in the metal tray under the machine. Hard to imagine all this on the Moscondaga Reservation.
It took ten minutes to get to the nightclub where Junior was working out. More tourists in there plus boxing fans and reporters. Lots of red velvet and mirrors inlaid with golden designs. About as far from Donatelli’s Gym as you could get. Made my juices hotter. All this so Dumbo could spar and hit the heavy bag, and look how Sonny lives. Should have been the other way.
Sonny should be getting ready to fight John L. instead of standing in the corner, waiting for me to make my move. I felt a shiver of p
ure fear right down my spine. Cliche, pal, but that’s where it was. Suck it up, Marty.
“Ladeez and gentlemens. Welcome to the camp of the next champ.” Elston Hubbard, Senior, stood on the nightclub stage. He was wearing a white cowboy hat and nothing under his white leather vest but ropes of gold. He had a golden belt buckle as big as a paperback book on his white leather pants and white cowboy boots that looked as though they’d come off the belly of an endangered species. “The next heavyweight champion of the world, Elston Hubbard, Junior.”
Hubbard came out onstage, jumping rope. The crowd cheered. He wasn’t even that good a rope-jumper. Sonny was better.
“This is so sweet for me,” said Senior, the mike almost in his mouth. “You mommas and daddies in the audience, you know what I’m feelin’.” He crooned, “Myyyyyy boyyyyy.”
Really tacky, but everybody was clapping or shooting their camcorders.
“To think this boy would grow up to be bigger and badder than his daddy. And just like his daddy he fought everyone on the way up.…”
Someone screamed, “EXCEPT SONNY BEAR,” in an exceptionally loud and powerful voice. I was shocked to realize who it was.
People peeled away from me as if I was contagious. Even Sonny got a he’s-not-with-me look on his face. Suddenly there was a clear path between me and Elston Hubbard, Senior.
“What’s that, young man?”
“YOU HEARD ME. WHY YOU DUCKING SONNY BEAR?” By now every eye was on me. The fear was gone. My spine felt fine. Felt great.
“Elston Hubbard ducks no man,” said Senior. “We’ll fight ’em all. In turn.”
“I SAY YOU’RE SCARED OF SONNY BEAR.
THE TOMAHAWK KID’LL SCALP YOUR HAIR.”
Senior laughed, and said, “That boy’s a poet, and he don’t even know it.”
The crowd applauded him. People were craning their necks to get a look at me. Shoot me with their cameras.
“MIGHT AS WELL BE FUNNY,
’CAUSE YOU’RE GONNA LOSE YOUR MONEY
WHEN JUNIOR GETS DECKED BY SONNY.”
Now the crowd was applauding me. Even Junior laughed.
Senior kept the smile on his face, but you could see he wasn’t enjoying it anymore. “Boy’s read up on Muhammad Ali, a great champion and a great friend of me and Junior.” He was smiling until one of the TV camera operators climbed up on the stage and nudged him out of the way so she could shoot down at me. He scowled. “Who you working for, boy?”
“SONNY BEAR. HE’S RIGHT HERE.” When I pointed to Sonny, Senior’s head jerked.
“Never heard of him.” His eyes were cold.
“YOU CAN RUN, JUNIOR, BUT YOU CANT HIDE FROM SONNY BEAR.”
The crowd was applauding me and pushing closer. Now they wanted to catch whatever I had. But Hubbard snapped his fingers and shouted, “Get him out of here—he’s a spy from Solomon’s camp.”
A pair of serious gangsters started bearing down on me. “Move it, boy,” one of them said, pushing people out of his way and reaching for me, but then Sonny was shouting, “Back up,” to the gangsters and one of them didn’t and I shouted, “Watch your hands, Sonny,” and he must have heard me because he didn’t go for the face, which could have hurt him without gloves; he threw a half-speed left into the first gangster’s stomach, which folded him over and sent him back into the second gangster. They went down like dominoes and took some camcorders with them.
There was screaming and shoving and we were surrounded by casino cops, linebackers with silvery guns who grabbed our arms and hustled us out through a back door and into the parking lot and threw us against a chain-link fence. Suddenly I was looking into the blinding sun. I was on my back on the asphalt.
A guy with a microphone blocked the sun. “So what’s your name, pal?”
“Help me up, I…”
“Nahh, it’s a better shot, you on the ground.” He had a pile of silver hair. He put on a deep voice. “They say you’re a spy for John L. Solomon, you’ve just been kicked out of Elston Hubbard’s training camp, who ARE you and what’s the story?”
“I’m nobody, but this is Sonny Bear,” I said, pointing at Sonny, who was up and dusting himself off, “better known as the Tomahawk Kid, and we’ve come to Las Vegas to get the fight we deserve.”
“CUT.” The silver head turned. “You got it?” When the cameraman gave him a thumbs-up, he turned back down to me. “Nice bite, kid, that Tomahawk line’s just what I need for the afternoon feed. That Daddy Hubbard spiel is getting old. How about we take the show over to John L.’s, see if we can make something happen for the overnight?”
12
JOHN L. SOLOMON worked out at the Oasis Hotel, at the other end of the Vegas strip. Once you got past the plastic sand dunes and the Kool-Aid waterfalls, the Oasis was just a low-rent version of the Garden of Eden. The lobby was tackier and the tourists were carrying Instamatics instead of camcorders. Drunks in cowboy clothes. The old ladies at the slot machines looked older and more desperate.
Solomon’s training camp was as plain as Hubbard’s was fancy, a huge gray basement room that smelled like an abandoned parking garage. Damp pipes snaked along the ceiling. A boxing ring was set in the middle of the room. That was Solomon’s stage. No chairs. Hundreds of spectators crowded around the ring to watch Solomon make a big deal of his stretching exercises. We followed the TV guy into a section roped off for the press. Solomon was on his back in the middle of the ring, a fat little guy straddling him.
“I’m too old for this, Richie,” moaned Solomon.
“That’s what the Hubbards think, champ.” Fat little Richie had a raspy voice out of an old white gangster movie. “Sit-ups, champ. Gotta pay for all those blintzes. One, two, oy, vay…”
The crowd laughed and clapped and John L. huffed and puffed through his sit-ups. He didn’t look as good as he had on ESPN. He was big, at least six foot three, maybe 250 pounds, but a lot of it was around his middle. Hard fat but still fat. The skin of his chest and back was pale and freckly and covered with curly sandy hair. His head was balding. I remembered when his hair was fire-engine red and he was all over TV and on the covers of all the magazines. A white champion. He must have made zillions.
And now he was in a Vegas basement trying to make a comeback, the crowd grunting and groaning along with him. He’d stop to wink at people, and then Richie would pick up the pace and scold him and Solomon would wink some more and the crowd would cheer and Richie would pretend to get sore.
The TV guy whispered to me, “This stretching and kvetching routine is getting moldy. You guys ready to do your thing?”
“You mean just start yelling again?” I needed time to crank up to another nasty edge.
“Nah, I got that already. John L.’s pretty good—he’ll play.” He signaled to his crew. “Set up the monitor, cue the Hubbard tape.”
We pushed closer to the ring. Solomon had a big, round face. The nose was mashed and there was a blue X scar on the bridge. His eyes were set deep under ridges of scar tissue. He took a lot of punches because he wasn’t all that good, according to my dad, but he got a lot of press because he was a Jew from New York who wouldn’t fight on Friday nights. He was only champ for about a year, and then for only one of the boxing associations. After he lost the title, there were hard luck stories, but I didn’t pay much attention. Just another overrated white jock.
When he finished stretching, someone put on some Jewish dance music and Solomon started shadowboxing. I thought he was going to break into “Fiddler on the Roof,” but he finally quit and came to the ring ropes, breathing hard. The hairy sweater glistened. I didn’t think he’d worked hard enough to be that sweaty.
“Dick. Landsman.” Solomon reached down to shake the TV guy’s hand.
“Shalom, Champ,” said Dick. “I got some kids I want you to meet. They just gave the Hubbards some tsuris.”
“Yeah?” Solomon looked at us and winked. He reached out and tapped me on the shoulder. “You must be the fighter. And ponytail’s you
r record producer.”
“You must be a comedian,” snapped Sonny.
Solomon’s eyes narrowed at that, but Dick shouted, “Look at this, John L.,” and pointed toward his soundwoman who was holding up a TV monitor.
My face filled the screen yelling, “YOU CAN RUN, JUNIOR, BUT YOU CANT HIDE FROM SONNY BEAR.” Hubbard was on screen, then mass confusion and me on my back in the parking lot.
“Love it,” said Solomon. “Richie, get some gloves. Tape his hands.”
The little trainer said, “You’re not going to…”
“Nahh, we’ll let Sludge check him out.”
It happened fast. John L. pulled Sonny up into the ring and grabbed the mike. “Folks, a special treat this afternoon. Want you to meet…”
When he paused and turned to Sonny, I yelled, “Sonny Bear, the Tomahawk Kid.”
“Sonny Boy, the Tomato Kid”—he began to laugh—“come to spar a round with Sludge Wilson, the strongest man in the ring today.”
Sludge was even bigger than he looked on ESPN. He was bigger than John L., and less of it was fat. He was almost the same gray color as the basement. He could be one of the walls. He looked mean, bowling-ball head and pinprick eyes.
Sonny stripped off his shirt. He was wearing jeans and running shoes. I climbed up on the ring apron. “Stay away from him. Show your boxing. Stick and move, lots of combinations. Just don’t let him hit you.”
Sonny shook his head. “Won’t mean anything ’less I stretch him out.”
“He’ll kill you.” I was immediately sorry I said that.
“You can cash in my return ticket.”
Sludge climbed up into the ring. It shook. He loomed over Sonny. John L. was winking away. Richie was shaking his head. The crowd stopped chattering.
“Sonny, look…” I tried to figure out what to say. I wanted to pull him out of there before he got hurt.
“My show now, Marty. Got to do as good as you did.”
Richie stuffed a mouthguard in Sonny’s face and pulled a leather guard over his head. Sludge waved away his mouthpiece and head-guard. “Don’t need it,” he rumbled, and John L. led the crowd in applause. I always thought Sonny was big, but now he seemed small and vulnerable. If anything happened to him, it would be my fault.
The Chief Page 4
