The Chief

by Robert Lipsyte

  “Jab…five.”

  Then, “Right…eight. Hook…nine.”

  “Good work,” I said. “I like the way you moved your head after the punch.”

  He grinned at me. He knew what I was doing. He hadn’t been moving his head properly at all, but you can’t yell at a hardhead like Sonny—you have to use psychology. I learned that from Alfred. And a smart hardhead like Sonny likes it when you jerk his string. Means you know what you’re doing.

  Whenever Sonny climbed into the ring, other fighters and trainers stopped working out to watch. I greased Sonny’s face and slipped on the headgear. Dave the Fave climbed in. He was one of Sonny’s biggest boosters now. He’d gotten good security-guard jobs from the publicity of their Vegas fight, and he loved to boast about being the guy who gave Sonny his start. Henry let him train for free in exchange for sparring with Sonny, which could be fun if you didn’t mind being punched around. Sonny wasn’t one of those hothouse fighters who have to be treated carefully in the gym. You could whale at him if you were willing to take a whack back.

  Sonny was doing most of the whaling the day Hubbard Senior showed up. He climbed up on the ring apron and leaned on the ropes next to me.

  “Your boy needs better’n Dave to get sharp.”

  “Isn’t this a conflict of interest?” I asked.

  “How you mean?” His brow was all wrinkled as if he didn’t know what I was talking about. Fat snake.

  “It’s your son fighting, and you’re the promoter, and now you’re here giving his opponent advice. I don’t get it.”

  “Ah, boxing, it’s like poetry,” said Hubbard. “Mysterious. Once you try to explain it, poof, the magic is gone.”

  “I better write that down,” I said sarcastically.

  He nodded. “Sometimes I say things, I wish I had me a writer so I don’t lose ’em. In fact”—he reached into a pocket and pulled out a roll of bills as big as his fist—“I could advance you…”

  “I should have you thrown out like you had us thrown out. You’re a spy.”

  “Chill, boy. Your friend Robin had a financial problem and I…”

  “Robin?”

  The bell rang, and Sonny sauntered over. “You here to set the date?”

  “Could be. The public’s panting to see the two best young heavyweights in the world.”

  “I’ve got a manager,” said Sonny. “You better talk to him.”

  “Be glad to talk to anyone,” said Senior. “But I want to be sure you are properly represented by someone who knows the nooks and the crannies of a world populated by people of devious disposition.”

  “You already announced the fight in Vegas,” I said.

  “Not the details,” said Hubbard. “You get to fight Junior if you sign with me as promoter for your next three fights.”

  “That way, you get a sure rematch after Sonny wins,” I said.

  “Right on, brother.” Hubbard threw back his head and gave off an annoying howl. He dug into his pocket and came out with the roll. He peeled off bills, crumpled them and stuffed them down the front of Sonny’s trunks. “Get yourself a fly suit for the signing ceremony.”

  “I didn’t say I’d sign.”

  “Armani be fine.” He swaggered to the door.

  Sonny didn’t even look at the money until we got back to the apartment. At dinner, after I told the story, he asked my dad, “How much does an Armani suit cost?”

  “That depends,” said my dad, who doesn’t like people to think he doesn’t know everything.

  “At least two K” said Denise.

  Sonny grinned at me. “Get one for you, too. That was five grand he gave me.”

  Denise clapped her hands. “Party time.”

  I did my geek impression. “Wall to wall babes.”

  Mom said, “You can’t walk around with that…”

  Dad said, “That’s bad money. Strings attached.”

  “Sonny made no promises,” I said.

  “Better talk to Alfred,” said Dad.

  He was in the hospital. He tried to hide the feeding tube in his stomach and the urinary catheter coming out between his legs. He couldn’t hide the deep pain lines across his forehead. Sonny laid out the details of Hubbard’s visit.

  I said, “The deal stinks.”

  Alfred said, “But it’s pretty cut and dried. You need Junior to move up. Senior’s the only one can deliver.”

  “I don’t trust Hubbard,” said Sonny.

  “Who does?” said Alfred. “But it’s his way or the highway.”

  21

  IF THE LAS VEGAS gambling hotels are an oasis in the desert, then the Atlantic City gambling hotels are an oasis in hell, surrounded by houses that look like tombstones, empty lots carpeted with broken glass, junkies, crack kids, muggers, beggars, whores. Robin and her crew spent one whole morning trying to get a single shot of Sonny running along the boardwalk, the sand and the ocean on his left, the hotels on his right, the slums behind him. The idea was that Sonny was running from a hopeless ghetto toward gambling casinos where you could change your life in one lucky night. I told her I thought the shot was crap because the casinos were a mirage. Ultimately nobody ever won.

  She laughed. “You don’t understand television.”

  “I understand reality.”

  “Television is emotion, quick impressions, a few seconds to leave an imprint on the brain. You’re thinking linear.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “End of lecture. Can you afford to take so much time off school?”

  “Since when did you start smoking?”

  “I think this is all getting to me.”

  “What? The documentary? Atlantic City? Sonny? Hubbard’s money?”

  She lit the cigarette and turned her head to blow the smoke away from me. “You going to flunk out?”

  “You going to sell out?”

  “You don’t know anything about reality, either, kid.” She tossed the cigarette and stalked back to her crew.

  We spent the week in A-City to drum up publicity for the pay-per-view boxing show. It was all about getting stories in newspapers and on TV. Sonny was getting better, but he was no Mr. Soundbite, and Junior Hubbard was dead from the neck up, so everybody in both camps pitched in giving interviews. That was the deal: keep the fighters sharp and the media fed.

  So there were stories about Hubbard being a tool of the Mafia, about Richie being on a vendetta against Junior because of John L.’s death, about Jake channeling the souls of dead warrior chiefs to give Sonny supernatural strength. The only story that was true was about a struggling filmmaker who got a grant from the Hubbards’ nonprofit foundation to finish her video on machismo in boxing. Robin wouldn’t discuss it with me.

  The week went fast, but each day was long. Up early to run, nap, eat breakfast, walk and rest, work out, press conference, rest, watch fight films and talk strategy, eat, a few special interviews, sleep. Constant idle chatter to keep Sonny amused and focused on the fight, but not so intense he’d burn out. Richie was good at jokes and small talk, and Dave the Fave kept everybody laughing with his crazy raps. Clowns are essential at a fight camp.

  Richie and Henry spent a lot of time going over the fight plan with Sonny, how he had to expect a long, tough fight because Junior was in good condition, how he had to respect Junior’s right hand, how he couldn’t get discouraged in the early rounds if Junior’s defense seemed impregnable. Junior was a well-trained fighter, and disciplined. But he didn’t have a lot of imagination, and when the big moment came. Sonny had to be ready to be creative and pour it on.

  “Patient, then pounce,” said Richie.

  Sonny just nodded. You couldn’t be sure exactly how much of it he was buying.

  There was a little story in the paper about a shooting on the Res. The chiefs must have hushed it up and taken care of the wounded guy themselves, because there were no police or hospital reports. The print reporters started asking about Moscondaga politics. The TV reporters preferred Dave the
Fave. They got him to do an “original” rap a TV producer wrote for him about the fight.

  I didn’t get to spend much time alone with Sonny. I wondered how he was reacting to John L.’s death. He never mentioned it. Sometimes I wondered just how well I really knew him. Was he stuffing it down, not dealing with it? Or had he cruised past it, John L. gone and forgotten?

  The morning of the fight, Alfred drove down in his specially equipped HandiVan. He’d lost a lot of weight, and there were hollows in his cheeks. While Sonny napped, Alfred suggested we stroll the boardwalk. I was surprised. We’ve never been close; in fact I thought he didn’t like me much, just tolerated me because my dad was a hero of his.

  “How’s school?”

  “Okay.”

  “What?”

  “I said, it’s okay.” It’s not so easy walking and talking to someone in a wheelchair.

  “Aren’t you missing classes?”

  I walked a little ahead of him and leaned down. “They’re cutting me slack.”

  “You have to keep your own thing going, Marty. School, writing.”

  “My dad ask you to speak to me?”

  “No, but I’m sure we feel the same way. I’m also thinking about Sonny. He’s going to need you up the road. He’s going to need a real friend.”

  “If he wins, he’ll have plenty of friends,” I said.

  “He’ll need old ones. Hang in there with him, Marty. Be some rough times.”

  “You think he’s going to win?”

  “Whatever happens, he’s going to lose his way for a while. He’s not going to listen to anybody.”

  “Won’t listen to me either.”

  “Count on it. But you can keep the door open so we can all come back when he’s ready again.”

  “What does Jake think?”

  “Same as I do,” said Alfred. “’Cept he’s got all those hawks and spirits on the case.”

  22

  SONNY AND JUNIOR settled right into a steady, grinding fight, trying to wear each other down until the chance came to fire the big one. Patient, then pounce. They were both playing that game. They respected each other’s knockout punch. The crowd booed because they were cautious.

  I was sitting with my dad in great seats behind the press rows. He was grunting and moving along with Sonny. It was like virtual reality: Every time my father’s left shoulder twitched, Sonny jabbed.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Too early to tell,” he said. “Both have the skill. We’ll have to see who has the will. Will beats skill.”

  It wasn’t the kind of fight the mob guys and the rap gangstas love, bing-bang-blood and good-night, but for anyone who really enjoyed and understood boxing it was state of the art, two disciplined fighters trying to dominate each other through strength and tactics.

  I was proud of Sonny. He never got angry or lost control for a second, moving in with crisp jabs, dancing away from Junior’s right hand, moving his head after he threw a punch, spinning off the ropes, wasting no energy with macho moves or insults. He kept up the pressure on Junior without leaving himself open for a big punch. My dad was impressed, too.

  “He’s learned a lot. He’s been paying attention.”

  “He’s going to win,” I said.

  “Senior’s worried.”

  Between rounds. Senior pressed his mouth to Junior’s ear and talked until the bell rang, then slapped him hard on the back to get him going.

  But Junior knew only one way to fight. Dig it out. He was a laborer with a pick and shovel—give him enough time, he’ll dig the hole and bury you. It had worked with everyone else he had ever fought, because he was stronger or in better condition or more disciplined—everyone else cracked under Junior’s relentless forward march and did something stupid that left him open for the dynamite right.

  Except Sonny. Cool and deadly Sonny, stick and move, willing to fight this dull, grinding, brutal fight.

  In his corner, Richie and Alfred kept up a steady stream of coaching and cheerleading, and Jake sponged his face and washed his mouthpiece. Every so often, Robin and her crew moved in for close-ups.

  In the middle of the sixth round, Dad whispered, “He’s got ’im.” Sonny was in command, moving Junior backward with sharp jabs that couldn’t be brushed aside, pounding him into the ropes. Sonny had the will. Junior began dancing and grinning to hide his panic, but he couldn’t keep his arms up and he was grunting at body blows.

  Between rounds, Alfred and Richie were screaming at Sonny to go for it, and Senior was yelling at Junior and tapping his left eyebrow.

  I had a flashback…Iron Pete Viera.

  Junior threw a right at Sonny’s left eye, and when Sonny batted it away. Junior crossed with a left, missed and clinched. He rammed his head into Sonny’s face. As the referee broke them, Junior took another swipe at the eye. The referee warned him, but the damage was done. The old scar tissue was leaking blood. How had he known about the cut?

  “Here’s where the fix comes in,” I said. “Doctor calls it, Junior wins. Senior still has rights to the rematch.”

  “Let’s try not to be paranoid.” Dad must have been thinking the same thing.

  After the seventh, Jake and Richie managed to seal the leak by pinching the flesh hard, then fingering ointment into it. Alfred, hanging on the ropes, was shouting new instructions. Sonny would have to protect that eye now, without losing his momentum. It would be tough.

  For most of the eighth round, I thought he could do it. He was still sharp, bulling Junior around the ring, snapping out the jab, maneuvering him into position for the left hook.

  “Just two more rounds and we’re home free,” I babbled. “He must be ahead on points.”

  “Can’t be sure,” said Dad. “He can’t lay back now.”

  A good right cross turned Junior’s face into a fair left hook and he fell back against the ropes, clutching at Sonny, who stumbled forward into a clinch, another butt, and suddenly blood was running down into his eye. Sonny stepped back and his blood sprayed out onto the reporters’ notebooks and laptops. The crowd roared at the blood.

  If the bell had rung then, and if Jake had had a chance to close the cut again…

  The doctor rushed into the ring, signaling the referee, and the two of them examined Sonny’s eye, and then Senior and Junior were hugging. It was over. A technical knockout for Hubbard. A robbery. Iron Pete Viera.

  But this time Sonny didn’t vault the ropes and stalk out of the arena. He swept the doctor and the referee aside and charged across the ring.

  In slow motion, the Hubbards separated to meet him, their hands up.

  “Sonny decked Junior with a beautiful left hook, sharp, short, on the button. Hook…1.

  The hook that put Senior away was longer, not so hard, but good enough. Hook…7.

  The scene is frozen in my mind. The Hubbards stretched out at his feet, Sonny turns to face the world, his fists cocked. But there is no one left to hit.

  The picture made him famous. He flew out to Hollywood with Jake the next day.

  23

  JAKE LEFT HOLLYWOOD after a few days, but I was too busy at school to visit him until Thanksgiving break. He didn’t pick me up at the Sparta bus station, so I took a taxi to his house. The Res throbbed with the grind and snarl of heavy machinery, bulldozers, backhoes, hammering, chain saws, workers’ boom-boxes. When I passed the construction site, a guard followed the cab with the point of his rifle.

  Jake was in the junkyard digging a hole to bury Custer. He was wearing his big old Colt on his hip.

  “What happened?”

  “Poisoned.”

  “Who did it?”

  He jerked a thumb toward the rising cloud of construction dust.

  “Moscondaga wouldn’t do that,” I said.

  Jake stopped, leaned on his shovel and spat. “Moscondaga just as bad as anyone else when they forget where they come from. Think a gambling casino’s gonna make ’em white.” He handed me the shovel.

&n
bsp; I finished digging the hole. It was hard work. I was wet and whipped when we finally lowered Custer in and covered him with dirt. Jake mumbled words I didn’t understand and sprinkled dried herbs over the grave.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothin’. Up to the chiefs.”

  “You’re not going to do anything?”

  “Not gonna start a war, get Moscondaga killing each other.”

  “Where do you stand?”

  He waved his skinny arms around the junkyard. “Right here with the old wrecks.”

  “I’m serious.”

  He wheezed and sat down on a rotting old backseat. “Not so simple. Moscondaga gamble. Running Braves used to race each other, people bet on that. What’s tearing the Nation apart is people from the outside waving big money, turning us against each other.

  “White people did the same thing a hundred years ago, two hundred years ago, get us drunk and make the chiefs sign treaties. Moscondaga needs outside money for roads, schools, clinic. But if the Nation’s not together, outside money means outside control, and then we lose what we got.”

  “What’s the answer?”

  “Two sides got to come together, talk it out. Too late to stop gambling. Got to find a way to keep control of it. Someone got to bring us together.”

  I knew the answer but I asked the question anyway. “Who can do it?”

  “Running Brave could do it.” He made the sign of the Running Brave, a fist with the thumb coming up between third and the ring fingers. “From the People, when the People need him.”

  “You think Sonny can do it?”

  He snorted. “Not Sonny Hollywood.”

  Jake hated Hollywood. Over dinner and into the night, he rambled on about his three days out there with Sonny.

  “Think they love Indians,” he said. “Want to pet us. Keep us in the doghouse till it’s time to go on some show. Party.”

  “What did you do out there?”

  “Eat mostly. Breakfast meetings, lunch meetings, dinner meetings. Party meetings. Everybody got some idea for a show around Sonny. Boxer, sheriff, one show he’s the ghost of Black Hawk come back to save the Res.”