The Chief (5 page)

S
ONNY 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 pure 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?”

J
OHN
L. S
OLOMON
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 your 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.

“Now you happy?” Richie was standing next to me outside the ropes. He looked angry.

The only thing I could think of to say was, “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“You may think it's funny, but I'm trying to get John L. ready for the fight of his life. We don't need this.”

“We do.” I tried to sound as tough and raspy as Richie.

“You're a real mouth, you know that? Tomato Kid better have good insurance.”

“His hands're his insurance, pal. Be surprised if old Slug lasts the round.”

“Put your money where that fat mouth is,” rasped Richie.

“Five hundred.” All the cash we had. For our tickets home. I felt sick.

Richie grinned at me.

Sludge looked at Sonny the way Custer the dog looked at hamburger. There was foamy slaver in the corner of his gray lips.

“Don't kill 'im. Sludge,” yelled Richie, “just cripple 'im,” and Sludge grinned at the crowd with his pointy gray teeth, and then waved at Sonny to come on over the way a grown-up beckons to a toddler. The crowd laughed and popped their flashes. I was scared that Sonny would rise to that bait, the way I rose to the bet.

I yelled, “Stay away—dance him.”

John L. himself rang the bell, and Sonny walked right out and hit Sludge with everything he had, a powerhouse left hook that would have killed a Cadillac. Sludge shook his head as if a fly had landed on his nose. Solomon laughed. Richie gave me an elbow in the ribs.

Sonny stood there trying to figure out what to do next when Sludge fired a right into his
chest that knocked Sonny on his butt. Bang. Sonny got up slow, a red mark spreading on his chest.

“Whadya think,” yelled Solomon to the crowd, “enough's enough?”

When the crowd started chanting “E-NOUGH, E-NOUGH,” Solomon started climbing back through the ropes.

But Sonny was already charging Sludge.

“Move—stick and move,” I yelled.

“Run for your life,” yelled Richie.

Sonny took another hard shot to the body. It rocked him, but he stayed up and popped two quick jabs into Sludge's face. Sludge wrinkled his nose. The crowd laughed again.

They were whaling now, back and forth, throwing punches, in close, and then suddenly Sonny slipped a right; he just tilted his head so it whistled over his shoulder and he slammed a left hook into Sludge's liver. When the gray slab froze, Sonny stepped back, banged a right to Sludge's temple and slammed a hook into Sludge's jaw.

Sludge sank to his knees. The crowd roared—it had to be a joke. Sludge looked as though he was trying to pray, but couldn't quite
get his gloves together. His brow wrinkled, and the skin continued to ripple up his bald head. His eyelids dropped like window shades. The laughter faded, grew nervous. Sludge pitched forward on his forehead. I heard Richie gasp. Sludge rolled over on one side. The ring shook.

I gave Richie the elbow. “Bigger they are…” but he was through the ropes, with smelling salts. John L. helped him roll Sludge over. It was a while before Sludge got up, real slow, blinking. Another trainer helped him down from the ring and out of the room.

Sonny watched from a neutral corner, his elbows hooked on the ring ropes, looking nonchalant and arrogant at the same time. Once our eyes met, neither of us could stop grinning.

John L. picked up the mike. “Now I see why the Hubbards didn't want this boy in their camp. He's dynamite. Well, I want this boy on my side. What do you folks think?”

The crowd cheered.

John L. pulled Sonny out into the middle of the ring and threw an arm around his shoulders. “He's gonna spar with me, and if he don't hurt me too bad”—he led the crowd in a big chuckle—“I might let him in on a few secrets.
Who knows, when I'm ready to give up the title again, I just might give it to Sonny Boy here.”

“Bear,” snapped Sonny. “Sonny Bear.”

“See, he ain't even afraid of King Solomon. I like that.” Suddenly he pointed at me. “You, come up here.”

It took me a few seconds to understand. Richie goosed me with a water bottle, and I stumbled through the ropes and nearly fell down. John L. grabbed me in his other arm. “What's your name?”

I don't know why I changed my middle name on the spot, but I did. “Martin Malcolm Witherspoon.”

Sonny looked at me.

“Martin Malcolm Witherspoon. You Sonny's manager, his trainer?”

“No, they're still in New York. I'm his…” I stopped before I said third second again. “…writer.”

“Writer,” bellowed John L., winking at everybody. “I like that. I'm from the People of the Book myself. It's ancient and it's modern. Sonny Boy's gonna need a writer. This here's the future, folks, my new protege.

“Think of it, the fighter and his writer, the
people that Elston Hubbard, Junior, and that blowhard father of his are so afraid of, are here in the camp of the champ.” He squeezed us.
“Mazel tov, boychiks.
We are going to make history.”