Born Bad

by Andrew Vachss

  RIX: I ain't nervous, man. Just a little smoke to celebrate.

  TONY: Billy, you stay by me today. See the rest of you men in the shop later.

  Shop Class. The word has spread and TONY is waiting for the approach.

  (LACEY, the leader of the Golden Dragons, slides in next to him.)

  LACEY: Hey, brother, is it true what I been hearing?

  TONY: Yeah, man. The Counts took too much shit from that roller. And you can't take shit when you small or the other clubs…you know, the nigger clubs…man, they go down on us and we get blown out.

  LACEY: Mebbe you thinkin' about joining us?

  TONY: Well, we did, man, But we heard you all was going a bit sporty, like no more boppin' when the Youth Board faggot says and all like that…

  LACEY: (Quietly) Watch your mouth, man.

  TONY: Brother, I'm glad to hear you talk like that. Sure, we all knew it was a bullshit rep they was layin' on you. Man, we proud to join a true fighting club. We get together, straighten the niggers right out, right?

  LACEY: (Mollified) Yeah, baby. Where's your boys now?

  TONY: Manny is out of school, man. Billy and Poet are over near the printing press, and Prince is on my right hand here.

  LACEY: Give me skin, Poet, you all right!

  POET: My pleasure, President.

  LACEY: Hey! You swift, baby. Looks like you got prime boys, Tony.

  TONY: The best. Rix just rolled in. He's by the tool chest. Hey! Isn't that Priest of the Black Barons?

  LACEY: Yeah. The fuckin' nigger thinks he's bad shit. Only reason we don't jump him before this is 'cause we don't waste our time with nothing less than an all–out. Anyway, boppin' in school is no fuckin' good—we lose that anti–poverty green behind shit like that…

  (PRIEST is cleaning a linoleum–block print with a white rag, singing softly to himself. RIX walks past and brushes against him. PRIEST looks up, catches RIX 's eye, says nothing. RIX wheels around, loud.)

  RIX: Motherfucker, watch where you put your feet!

  PRIEST: You talkin' to me, paddy?

  RIX: You heard me, nigger!

  PRIEST: (Not raising his voice,flat–toned) Outside. After school. You and me.

  RIX: (Contemptuous) I'll be there, punk.

  PRIEST's boys move in fast and RIX is quickly surrounded. He backs against the printing press, watching hands reach into pockets. The scene freezes.

  LACEY: Dragons!

  Other boys drop their work and move toward the printing press, reaching for the kind of instant weapons you find in shop class. About thirty boys are milling around, waiting for the match to hit the gasoline, when the SHOP TEACHER jumps in the middle.

  TEACHER: Get back where you came from you punk bastards! I'm warning you, one fucking move and I call the cops. This is the last damn time I'm telling you…move!

  The groups part. Hands return to pockets. PRIEST walks up to LACEY.

  PRIEST: That paddy–punk one of your boys, huh? Want to make it an all–out tonight?

  LACEY: Whatsamatter, boy? Afraid to go up against the man who burned the heat?

  PRIEST: Be outside after school. We see who burns who. And maybe I see you afterward.

  LACEY: I'll be there.

  The schoolyard looks like the recreation yard in any maximum–security prison: high fence, blacktop, slit–window buildings. About seventy boys are on each side of the yard, waiting for the gladiators.

  LACEY: How you want it, fair one?

  PRIEST: Okay by me. I don't need a blade for that punk.

  MANNY and RIX are off to one side, whispering.

  MANNY: Take this, man. (He shows a steel can–opener, fattened at one end and sharpened so that it glints m the faint light). I tape this to your wrist—you slice him when you get in close.

  RIX: Man, I don't need that. I kill the nigger with my bare hands. Kill him like I killed that fuckin' cop.

  MAMMY: Rix, that is Priest of the Black Barons! He is a stone vicious killer, brother. I know for a fact he's killed four men. You take this, man, or you're dead.

  RIX: Yeah, Yeah, okay…just for insurance.

  TONY: Happy nigger–hunting, man!

  LACEY: You take Priest and you next Warlord of the Golden Dragons!

  POET: Go, man. Kill the motherfucker!

  (They circle shyly, PRIEST the confident veteran of a hundred such battles. The Dragons scream encouragement at RIX—the Barons beat a heavy silent tattoo with their minds, disciplined. PRIEST feints with a left hook and catches RIX with a kick to the groin. RIX hits the ground and PRIEST dropkicks him in the face. RIX rolls away and comes up throwing a handful of pebbles and dirt. PRIEST fakes backing off then suddenly moves in, drops his shoulder and drives a straight right hand to RIX's head.

  RIX throws up his hands to protect his face and PRIEST is all over him with heavy, driving punches. RIX gives ground, not returning the fire. His nose is squashed flat on his face and his eyes are glazed.

  PRIEST slams a fist into RIX's stomach, watches him double over, and steps back like an artist admiring his work. RIX feels the slippery steel at his wrist and lets it fall into his cupped hand. He pulls back his right foot, drops to one knee.)

  PRIEST: You down on your knees for me, paddy–boy? You wanna suck some good black cock?

  RIX: (A dead man's voice) Come on, nigger. Just come on.

  (PRIEST charges and the steel spike whips like a jet from around RIX's knees…catches PRIEST full in the face and slices his cheek off like raw meat. A slab of flesh flies away and lands at the feet of the assembled Dragons. PRIEST is down on the ground rolling with his face in, the dirt, screaming. Blood and white muscle tissue foam up between his clenched hands. The Barons all reach for their weapons. RIX stares fixated at PRIEST on Old ground before him. He slowly climbs to his feet. PRIEST struggles to his knees to face him. He pulls his hands from his face with an effort of will. One eye lies on the blacktop next to him. His voice comes from the grave.)

  PRIEST: You dead.

  (Police sirens split the air and the gangs turn to run. MANNY bends and picks up PRIEST's eyeball He walks over to RIX)

  MANNY: This is yours, man. You earned it. I told you you needed the blade, right, baby?

  RTX: (Dazed, pocketing the eyeball) Yeah, Manny. Thanks. You all right, brother.

  LACEY: Tony, come to our clubhouse tonight…and bring your boys. And Rix, man, you got heart to spare. You my man. Later!

  That night. The clubhouse of the Golden Dragons, a seven–room apartment on the sixth (top) floor.

  (TONY and BILLY are the first to arrive from the Counts. LACEY motions him over to a quiet corner.)

  LACEY: Listen, Tony, you want to be with us permanent, right?

  TONY: Yeah, man. We proved that, I think.

  LACEY: You surely did, brother. You a natural leader. But I got to talk somethin' over with you. The Black Barons sent The Messenger over to see us. Earlier. Before you got here. They not fuckin' around this tinge. They got the Egyptian Kings and the Harlem Raiders, plus a brother club, the Devil's Disciples. They got more than four hundred and fifty men, Tony, and they fixing to burn us all for what Rix did to Priest.

  TONY: Holy shit, man! Can't you go to the Youth Board? Get them to cool it?

  LACEY: Man, everyone knows the Youth Board ain't really for niggers. Besides, those Egyptian Kings, they just rumble, man…they ain't no social club. They even called off their war with the spic crews just to get at us. They got fuckin' guys in there must be thirty years old. I mean real gangsters, man. The Messenger said they emptied the treasuries of all the nigger clubs just to buy some death for us.

  TONY: But first they got to call a War Council…

  LACEY: They don't got to do shit! They say all the rules is gone for this one because they got to have the boy who blinded Priest. Man, they gonna go down without warning and they gonna jump guys in neutral turf and in school and even in they homes, man. They say vengeance by fire, man, you understand?

  Nobody s
afe until they get Rix.

  TONY: What…

  LACEY: Yeah, that's like it is. The Messenger say they call the whole thing off if we give them Rix.

  TONY: They want Rix to fight another one of their boys?

  LACEY: Oh, man…they want to torture the cat. The Messenger says they have to cut off his balls and watch him bleed to death, pull out his eyes with pliers. They say he got to pay!

  TONY: You mean like…fuckin' deliver him? Hand him over? What if we hip him and he cuts out…splits the neighborhood for good?

  LACEY: Don't be crazy, man. They will know how he knew and we will all pay the fuckin' price. The niggers are crazy behind this one. Anyway, with all the shit on the street, the cops must know one of you guys burned that cop. Somebody got to pay for that, too.

  TONY: I got to make a decision.

  LACEY: I been talkin' to you like a brother, man. But the only decision you got to make is if Rix dies by himself, dig?

  RIX arrives at the clubhouse to a party in progress. He is greeted like a conquering hero by the Dragons. Representatives from white gangs from all over the' city are there. At 2:30 AM.,

  LACEY goes over to Rix, puts his arm around his shoulders.

  LACEY: How's it feel, man? To be the baddest cat of all?

  RIX: I'm feelin' no pain, man. I shoulda killed the fuckin' nigger.

  LACEY: Listen, Rix. We got a pound of smoke and an ounce of snow stashed over near the border, in spic territory. And you know that fine spic whore, the one they call Rondella? Well, she wants to meet you, man. She heard what you did, baby, and she thinks she be safe from niggers, she was your woman. We always keep the stuff over at her home 'cause her mother works this night shift at the hospital. We called, man, and she wants you to pick up the stuff personally. She waitin' on you. Don't worry about the turf, either. I have ten good men go with you, like an escort for a king, man. They watch the house while you inside with her. And they be fully heeled, with pistols, man. Nothing but the best for my new Warlord.

  RIX: Hey, beautiful, man. I don't need no escort, but if you want…

  (The phone rings. One of the Dragons says it's for LACEY.)

  LACEY: Man, I told you I will deliver and I will. Just hold tight for an hour or less. Yeah….

  (RIX is putting on his neo club jacket. Beneath the embroidered golden dragon is the red legend WARLORD.)

  LACEY: Rix, man, you gettin' ready to go?

  RIX: Man, I gettin' ready to come!

  (Laughter chases him out the door.)

  Warrior

  The Golden Boy was black. Twenty–one and 0, with seventeen KOs. He was as sleek as an otter—all smooth, rubbery muscle under glistening chocolate skin. He wore royal purple trunks with a white stripe under an ankle–length robe in matching colors, his name blazing across the back: Cleophus "Cobra" Carr.

  Tonight he was the main event, a ten–rounder. Middleweights, they were supposed to be, but they called Carr's weight out at one sixty–four.

  There was a lot of betting in the mid–priced seats just past ringside—betting how long the fight would go before Carr stopped the other guy.

  Nobody knew the opponent—he was the last–minute replacement for the guy Carr was supposed to fight. He walked to the ring by himself, wearing a thin white terry–cloth robe. His trunks were black.

  The announcer pointed to the opponent's corner first. Manuel Ortiz. Dragging the last name out way past two syllables—Orrrr–Teeese! Ortiz was fifty–six and sixteen, with thirty–two KOs. Originally a welterweight, he'd go up or down…wherever there was work. They had him at one fifty–nine tonight.

  Maybe he had dreams for this once—now it was a part–time job.

  I knew his story like it was printed in a book. He got the call the day before, finished his shift at the car wash, got on the Greyhound and rode until he got to the arena—I could see it in his face, all of that.

  Carr was twenty–two. He'd gone all the way to the finals at the Olympic Trials before turning pro two years ago. They said Ortiz was thirty, shading it at least a half dozen. The guy who managed him worked out of a phone booth in a gym somewhere near the Cal–Mex border. His boxers always gave good value—they wouldn't go down easy, didn't quit, played their role.

  The fighters stepped to the center of the ring for their instructions. Carr had three men standing with him, one to each side, the third gently kneading the muscles at the back of the middleweight's neck. Ortiz stood alone—the cornerman they supplied him with stayed outside the ring, bored.

  Carr gave Ortiz a gunfighter's stare. Ortiz never met his eyes. That was for younger men—Ortiz was working. I could feel the Pachuco cross tattoo under the glove on his right hand….I knew it would be there.

  The referee nodded to the fighters. Ortiz held out his gloves, just doing as he was told. Carr slammed his right fist down against them. The crowd cheered, starting early.

  The bell sounded. Carr snake–hipped out of his corner, Bring a quick series of jackhammer jabs. Ortiz walked forward like a man in slow motion, catching the jabs on his gloves and forearms, pressing.

  Carr danced out of his way, grinning. I dropped my eyes to the canvas, watching parallel as Carr's white leather boxing shoes ice–skated over the ring, purple tassels bouncing as Ortiz's black lace–ups plodded in pursuit.

  Deep into the first round, Ortiz hadn't landed more than a half–dozen punches. He kept swarming forward, smothering Carr's crisp shots, his face a mask of patience. Suddenly, Carr stopped back–pedaling, stepped to the side, hooked off his jab and followed with a smoking right cross, catching Ortiz on the lower jaw. Ortiz shook his head—then he stifled the crowd's cheers with a left hook to Carr's ribs.

  The bell sounded. Carr raised his hands, took a quick lap around the ring, like he'd already won. Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool. His cornerman held out his hand to take the mouthpiece, splashed some water in the fighter's face, leaned close to say something. Ortiz didn't change expression, looking straight ahead—maybe the cornerman didn't speak Spanish.

  Over in Carr's corner, all three of his people were talking at once. Carr was grinning.

  A girl in a gold bikini wiggled the perimeter, holding up the round–number card. The crowd applauded. She blew a kiss.

  Carr was off his stool before the bell sounded, already gliding across the ring. Ortiz stepped toward Carr, as excited as a gardener. Carr drove him against the ropes, firing with both hands, overdosing on the crowd's adrenaline. Ortiz unleashed the left hook to the body again. Carr stepped back, drew a breath, and came on again, working close. Ortiz launched a short uppercut. Carr's head snapped back. Ortiz bulled his way forward, throwing short, clubbing blows. Carr grabbed him, clutching the other fighter close, smothering the punches. The referee broke them.

  Carr stepped away, flicking his jab, using his feet. The crowd applauded.

  The ring girl put something extra into her wiggle between the rounds, probably figuring it was her last chance to strut her stuff.

  Halfway through the next round, the crowd was getting impatient—they came to see Carr extend his KO record, not watch a mismatch crawling to a decision.

  "Shoeshine, Cleo!" a caramel–colored woman in a big white hat screamed. As though tuned in to her voice, Carr cranked it up, unleashing a rapid–fire eight–punch combo. The crowd went wild. Carr stepped back to admire his handiwork. And Ortiz walked forward.

  By the sixth round, Carr was a mile ahead. He would dance until Ortiz caught him, then use his superior hand speed to flash his way free, scoring all the while. When he went back to his corner at the bell, the crowd roared its displeasure—this wasn't what they came to see.

  A slashing right hand opened a cut over Ortiz's eye to start the next round. An accidental head–butt halfway through turned the cut into a river. The referee brought him over to the ring apron. The house doctor took a look, signaled he could go on. The crowd screamed, finally getting its money's worth.

  Carr snapped at the cut like a
terrier with a rat. Ortiz kept playing his role.

  Between rounds, Carr's handlers yelled into both his ears, urging him to go and get it. Ortiz's cornerman sponged his cut, covered it with Vaseline.

  The ring girl was really energized now, hips pumping harder than Carr was hitting.

  Carr came out to finish it, driving Ortiz to the ropes, firing a quick burst of unanswered punches. Ortiz came back with his trademark left hook, but Carr was too wired to get off–tracked, smelling the end. A right hand landed Hush on Ortiz's nose, a bubble–burst of blood. Ortiz spit out his mouthpiece, hauled in a ragged breath and rallied with both hands. A quick look of surprise crossed Carr's face. He stepped back, measuring. Ortiz waved him in. Carr took the challenge, supercharged now, doubling up with each hand, piston–punching. Ortiz's face was all bone and blood.

  The referee jumped in and stopped it, wrapping his arms around Ortiz.

  Carr took a lap around the ring, waving to the crowd.

  Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool.

  The announcer grabbed the microphone. "Ladies and gentleman! The referee has stopped this contest at two minutes and thirty–three seconds of the eighth round. The winner by TKO, and still undefeated…Cleophus…Cobra…Caaaarrrr!"

  The crowd stood and applauded. Carr did a back flip in the center of the ring.