The Chief

by Robert Lipsyte

  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.

  29

  FIFTEEN MILES FROM Sparta I spotted the first war party, half a dozen Moscondaga standing back to back in the bed of Jake’s pickup, their rifles and shotguns bristling.

  Alfred yelled, “Sonny, get in!”

  “They’re us,” Sonny yelled back, without breaking stride. He gave the warriors the Running Brave fist. They silently raised their weapons.

  Jake pulled up in the pickup. Two Moscondaga clambered up on top of the HandiVan. Jake dropped back and fell in behind us.

  Another truck filled with Moscondaga riflemen cut in front of Sonny. Then two Indians on motorcycles, shotguns strapped to their backs, roared out of the trees to flank Sonny.

  “You believe this?” asked Alfred.

  “Maybe Hubbard sent them,” I said. “For the documentary.”

  “Don’t be too hip to be happy. Chills up my spine, and I hardly got one.”

  I had chills, too, but I was too hip to tell him.

  For the next ten miles, our caravan grew, cars and trucks and motorcycles. At the Sparta city limits two warriors on horseback, one with a long hunting rifle on his back, the other with a bow and a quiver of arrows, galloped out of a farm road and took the point.

  The phone rang. Hubbard. “I’m here in beautiful downtown Sparta with the governor. Keys to the city, a medal from the state. Just make sure our boy’s cool.” He hung up.

  We arrived in Sparta in the middle of the afternoon. It was the first big city we’d been in since New York, a week ago, and it seemed huge and concrete. The streets were lined with cheering, waving people; they must have come from all over that part of the state. Most of them were wearing red ribbons. There were red ribbons on every tree and telephone pole. A band was playing. In the center of downtown the governor was on a reviewing stand with Hubbard and a montage of faces I recognized from TV news. There was a grove of cameras on the stand, some facing us, some facing the famous faces.

  An enormous banner, red with white lettering, hung across the main street:

  SPARTA SALUTES SONNY BEAR

  We swept through the city, guns pointed out, surrounded by warriors. Sonny didn’t even look at the reviewing stand. Just kept running, right out of town toward the Reservation. Can’t get cooler than that. I caught a glimpse of Hubbard and his famous faces, frozen.

  There were roadblocks and troopers and clattering choppers overhead as we approached Stonebird. No one tried to stop us. Sonny headed right into the Reservation, through the green tunnels, running past the trailers and the junkyard and the Longhouse, until he reached the Stump.

  I’d never paid it much attention, even when I was getting into Moscondaga myths and all. The Stump was about four feet high, but too thick to get your arms completely around it. The top was flat as a table and polished shiny by centuries of people rubbing it for luck.

  Sonny leaped up on the Stump.

  He waited for a long time, until the caravan had stopped, until hundreds of Moscondaga, people from Sparta, media, police, the governor and his entourage, had climbed out of their cars and trucks, had dismounted from their horses and hogs, and formed an enormous circle around the Stump. Robin’s crew was down front, aiming up at Sonny.

  “No pictures,” he said.

  “You must be joking.”

  Slowly, patiently, Sonny said, “The wisdom keepers believed that photographs could steal your powers.” His voice sounded different, not deeper or older or anything I could name, just different.

  “You can’t really believe that.” Robin’s eyebrows nearly lifted off her face.

  “I have to trust the wisdom keepers.”

  They stared at each other a long time before Robin said, “Cap it.”

  The camerawoman made a face at the sound guy, but she covered the camera lens.

  It was very quiet when Sonny spoke.

  “My name is Dawadoh. I am the son of Answedaywe, daughter of Oktedowe who was son of Lamagha, who was son of Hodanoh, who some have thought was the last of the Running Braves.

  “This was not true. The secrets of the society were passed down to his grandson, Garanguthwa, my great-uncle, who passed them to me. I claim the Stump as a Running Brave with a message for the Nation.”

  Decker strode forward, an Uzi in his hand, five casino goons behind him. “He’s not even full-blood.”

  Jake said, “His mother was the daughter of a Chief.”

  “You got to be full-blood to claim the Stump,” said Decker.

  “Says who?” shouted one of the riflemen who had ridden on top of the van.

  One of the goons said, “Butt out.”

  Cartridges hammered into chambers, chick-chack; magazines slapped up into automatic weapons. People were pushing children down. The crowd was too dense for anyone to run away. The camerawoman slipped off her lens cap.

  Sonny raised his arms in a gesture that held the peace just long enough for the crowd to part, for people to make way for an old man hobbling with a carved stick. The Chief of Chiefs of the Moscondaga Nation. He raised the stick. His voice was rumbly.

  “Prepare the Stump. Dawadoh will speak.”

  Alice Benton, the Clan Mother, rushed forward and circled the Stump, sprinkling shredded leaves from two old leather bags. She lighted the leaves and chanted.

  When she finished, Sonny leaned down to take a deep breath from the curling smoke. He looked around, nodding and making eye contact with the people around the Stump. Decker and his men looked down, trying to avoid looking back into his eyes, but they couldn’t. The force of Sonny’s will made them acknowledge him.

  He spoke:

  “First, I apologize for speaking in English. I do not know our language well enough to make myself understood in it, to be sure that I am saying what I mean to say. Someday I hope I will be able to speak it well. I claim the Stump because I think this can be a good time or a bad time for our people, and it is up to us to choose.”

  I thought Jake’s wrinkled cheeks were glistening. Tears?

  “The casino is not a good thing or a bad thing unless we make it one or the other. If we take control so the money goes to the Nation, if we are not greedy, if we remain a family, we will be all right. Otherwise it will destroy us.”

  Someone shouted out, “You got a plan?”

  “It is not for me to plan for the entire Nation. We should meet in the Longhouse, as our grandfathers and our grandmothers did, and decide together. I can only plan for myself. I will not fight at the casino until the Nation tells me to.”

  “You got no choice,” yelled Decker. “You signed a
contract.”

  “We all got a contract with the Creator,” said Sonny. “That comes first.”

  The Chief of Chiefs raised his stick. “We will go into the Longhouse. Garanguthwa and Dawadoh will join us. All those who are not Moscondaga must leave the Reservation now.”

  He turned and walked toward the Longhouse. Sonny jumped off the stump and took Jake’s arm. They followed the Chief, and then the members of the Council of Elders followed them. Grumbling, Decker fell into step with the subchiefs and the Clan Mothers.

  Alfred and I drove back to Sparta. Near the city’s main medical center we found a motel that had good wheelchair access and a huge bathroom. I stretched out on one of the beds and channel surfed. We were all over the waves, although mostly they got the story wrong. They called Sonny a young chief, which he certainly was not, of the Iroquois, to which the Moscondaga do not belong, and they had Sonny running to emphasize the exploitation of the Indians since Columbus, whom he has never mentioned. And they didn’t go into the issues on the Res. Too complicated for their freeze-dried heads.

  But the pictures were sensational, blimp shots, chopper shots, hand-held, minicam. I had no idea what we looked like until I saw it on TV. The caravan had stretched for miles behind us: first the Moscondagas who were guarding us, the whole Nation it seemed, carrying everything from AK-47s to ceremonial tomahawks; and there were other Nations, the Onondaga were there and the Mohawks; and there were biker clubs, the Galloping Ghosts, the Rumson Riders; there was a Baptist church group in a yellow school bus and old folks in Silverstreams and Winnebagos and eco types on their bicycles and Jaguars and Rent-a-Wrecks and muscle cars; and every brand of cop and news-hound and a county beauty pageant float and a beer truck and ice cream wagons; but the best were the overhead shots of the HandiVan, the Indians crouched on the roof searching for snipers and Alfred hanging out the window with his shotgun and, there he is, peering through the windshield, a heroic brown face with little round glasses sliding down his nose. I gave myself the fist.

  Hubbard called. He invited Alfred and me to dinner. I said I’d get back to him as soon as Alfred returned from a meeting. I wasn’t going to tell him that Alfred was in the tile temple Roto-Rootering his personal plumbing.

  Hubbard took us to the best restaurant in town, or at least the fanciest, all leather and wood, on top of an office building with a 360-degree view of the city. In daylight you could probably see the Res. He was wearing a pin-striped gray banker’s suit.

  “First of all, gentlemens, a small token of thanks for a job well done.” He started peeling off bills. Alfred’s pile was higher than mine, and if I was counting right, mine was about $10,000. Five Armani suits.

  “We don’t work for you, Elston,” said Alfred. “We get our cut from Sonny’s end.”

  “Up to you make sure there is an end.”

  “That’s what they’re talking about in the Longhouse,” said Alfred.

  “How serious all that stuff?” He looked at me.

  “Sonny believes he is a Running Brave on a mission to save his people,” I said. “It comes before any fight.”

  Hubbard cursed. “You got any idea how much bread I spread to make this happen? The boxing commissions, the casino authority, the federal agencies…”

  “Should’ve just bribed the Creator,” I said.

  “I am losing patience with your big…”

  “Shut up,” said Alfred. “Why we here?”

  “I got to be sure your boy shows up for the fight.”

  “Can’t promise,” said Alfred. He pushed both piles of money back to Hubbard. “He’s his own man. Better pray the Hawk leads him into the casino Friday night.”

  “If he does fight, what kind of condition he gonna be in?”

  Alfred shrugged. “What do you care? You’ve got it locked up either way.”

  Hubbard shook his head. “You may not believe this, but I love that boy.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Alfred. “After he knocked you and Junior out?”

  “I forgive a boy’s got the goods,” said Hubbard. “He could be a great champion and make me rich beyond my dreams.”

  “Now I believe it,” said Alfred.

  Jake called us around noon to get back to the Res. The Council would be coming out soon. Indians at a roadblock checked our names and IDs. Mostly media on their list.

  It was early afternoon when they came out, blinking in the harsh light, a little unsteady on their feet from all those hours of sitting. The Chief of Chiefs led the way, then the members of the Council, the Clan Mothers, the subchiefs. There were no guns. Sonny and Jake walked with arms linked.

  The chief waited while the TV cameras set up.

  “This is what has been decided by the Nation. When every Moscondaga who wants work has a job, the boxing will go on. The hotel and casino will be allowed to operate after a contract is signed making the Nation a partner, with a percentage of the profits. Dah-neh-hoh. That is all.”

  The reporters began to yell out questions, but the chief turned his back and walked away.

  “Sonny, what do you say?”

  “You heard the chief.” He smiled. “Dah-nehhoh.”

  30

  IN A QUIET, EMPTY room that smelled of freshly cut lumber, Alfred slowly, carefully taped Sonny’s hands, packing extra gauze over the middle right knuckle. Jake kneaded the muscles of Sonny’s thighs and calves, and I worked on the knotted muscles of his shoulders and back.

  “Stick and move,” said Alfred. “The Wall’s strong. Be hard to hurt him till he’s tired.”

  “He’s got a short right uppercut,” said Richie. “Likes to head-hunt.”

  “Don’t let him inside,” said Alfred.

  Richie said, “When you think you can slip off the uppercut, when his arm comes up, you hook to his liver, hook to his chest, when he drops that arm, hook to his jaw.”

  “Take your time,” said Alfred.

  “Patient, then pounce,” said Richie.

  Sonny looked at me. “What do you say, Marty?”

  Richie said, “He don’t know, he…”

  “Writing Brave,” said Sonny. “He knows.”

  I said it fast before I lost my voice. “Sludge.”

  Alfred and Jake looked at each other. They didn’t know; they weren’t there. But Richie began to shake his head.

  “That’s what I think,” said Sonny. “Take his best shot early, then put him away.”

  “No, no, don’t be crazy.” Richie slathered Vaseline on the old scar over Sonny’s left eye. “You got to take down the Wall slow, brick by brick.”

  “Won’t mean anything ’less I stretch him out.”

  I said, “Hook…twenty-one. Right…ten. Hook…five.”

  “Bingo,” said Sonny.

  Richie began to jabber, but Jake held up his hand. “How you feel?”

  “I can smell the salt in his sweat,” said Sonny. He winked at me.

  “Sounds ready,” said Jake.

  “Let’s do it,” I said.

  Alfred spun around and wheeled toward the door.

  Outside, we smacked into a wall of blinding lights and deafening sounds. I staggered, steadied myself against the back of Alfred’s chair. Drums, whistles, stamping feet. Colored spotlights blazed from the unfinished ceiling of the Hiawatha Hotel and Casino.

  Alfred was in the lead, clearing the way, his cop’s eyes punching through the neon haze, his hand inside his jacket. I was right behind him, carrying the buckets. I glanced over my shoulder.

  Sonny looked good, swaggering down the aisle, banging his big red gloves together, whipping his black ponytail from side to side against his bare shoulders. He looked nasty, wired, ready to rock. He had run and he had spoken and he had negotiated, and now it was time for the Running Brave to fight.

  I felt great. My senses were super sharp. I could smell Denise’s perfume and I could hear Professor Marks scratching notes on his program—he better not be writing his own book about Sonny—and I could see Robin gi
ving signals to her crew. I will remember everything, a gift from the Creator to a Writing Brave.

  And what happens next? Will the truce on the Res hold? Will the casino honor its treaty with the Moscondaga? Will we ever find out who fired that shot? Will Robin make her movie, will we all get rich and famous? Will I flunk out of school? That’s another book.

  Richie kicked me from behind; “Keep moving,” and I stumbled and hit Jake with a bucket. “Sorry.” He grinned. “’S okay,” and I said, “He’s going to win, I know he’s going to win,” and Alfred said, “He already won, Marty. This is just the fight.”

  Also by Robert Lipsyte

  THE CONTENDER

  THE BRAVE

  WARRIOR ANGEL

  ONE FAT SUMMER

  Copyright

  THE CHIEF. Copyright © 1993 by Robert M. Lipsyte. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lipsyte, Robert.

  The chief / by Robert Lipsyte.

  p. cm.

  Summary: On the verge of having a shot at the heavyweight boxing championship, nineteen-year-old Sonny Bear finds himself with conflicting loyalties when trouble erupts on his reservation over the construction of a new gambling casino.

  Sequel to: The brave.

  ISBN 0-06-447097-0 (pbk.)

  1. Indians of North America—Juvenile fiction. [1. Indians of North America—Fiction. 2. Boxing—Fiction.] 1. Title.

  PZ7.L67Ci 1993 92-54502

  [Fic]—dc20 CIP

  AC

  EPub Edition © January 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-199585-9