Warrior Angel (6 page)

I
T WAS MORE THAN
Starkey had ever imagined, just the two of them, sitting on ring stools at a spindly card table, under a single naked bulb in the middle of the gym. They were eating barbecued ribs that Horace had sent over from his restaurant. Sonny ate the ribs carefully, turning them almost delicately in his big hands as he nibbled around the bone. Starkey tried to copy Sonny, but his fingers were not as nimble and the ribs slipped in his hands.

So close to Sonny that he had to remember to breathe. He tried not to stare. Sonny's face seemed softer than in the poster on Starkey's bedroom wall, his jawline not so bony. There were small scars around his eyebrows and mouth. But his eyes were as deep and dark as they were in pictures. The teeth picking at the meat on the ribs were large and white. His knuckles were scuffed.

There were a million questions he wanted
to ask, but Sonny seemed closed up into himself, focused on eating. Athletes are like that, Starkey remembered reading somewhere, able to zone in on whatever they were doing and shut out distractions. They miss a lot, but they get the job done. A Warrior Angel is a kind of athlete.

“So what's a Warrior Angel?” The rib, dripping sauce, was poised at Sonny's lips.

Thinking out loud again, Starkey. Now you better think fast. Another defining moment. But this may not be the time to go for it. Be cool, be steady.

“We help people.”

“How?”

“Support them in their strengths, protect them from their weaknesses.”

“What's that mean?” Sonny's brow was wrinkled. He looked like he wanted a real answer.

“If you've got a killer left hook, learn how to use it even more effectively. If your chin's weak, learn how to protect it.”

“Trainers do that.”

“Right. Now take that beyond boxing, to the whole person.” Starkey thought, Easy here,
don't want to spook him. “Say you're good at setting goals and never quitting till you get there. It's important that you set the right goals or you'll be off wandering on worthless journeys. Say you've got a tendency to be negative. You need to be reminded of positive things.”

Sonny nodded and went back to the rib.

Well done, Starkey. When you are cool, you are in control. Could have babbled on and blown it. But the fistful of pills he had swiped from the Family Place wouldn't last forever, even at the half dosage he was taking. To stretch it out I'll have to cut back to a quarter dose soon. Then the Voices will start drifting back. Got to get the job done before I run out.

Sonny glanced up. “What job?”

“Getting you ready for The Wall.”

Sonny seemed to like that. “You told Johnson you had a plan.”

“Mind and body. Both have to be in better shape. For starters, this is the last dinner of ribs till after the fight.” Starkey loved the easy authority in his voice. The Archies would be proud. “The Wall wasn't prepared for you last time, took you lightly. He won't make that mistake again.”

“It was a war,” said Sonny. He put down a half-eaten rib and wiped his mouth. “I was pissing blood and seeing double for a week. And I was ready last time.”

“Not so ready,” said Starkey. “You were distracted. All the stuff on the Reservation. Remember, somebody tried to shoot you. That can take you out of the zone.”

Sonny nodded. He was listening!

Starkey felt an electric surge. He was getting through. “Rocky'll get your rhythms and combinations back, and we'll work on focusing your head. Turn on the lights. Clear out the fog.”

“You think I'm a head case?”

Careful, Starkey. “I think you let yourself get down, the same way you let your conditioning slip.”

Sonny nodded. “I felt like I was digging a hole, couldn't stop digging the hole, just getting deeper and deeper in.”

“But you jumped out, Sonny.” Starkey swallowed his excitement. All the years of therapy paying off—I should be a shrink. “You shook loose of Hubbard, came back here.”

“You helped me do that.”

Starkey felt almost dizzy with the intensity of Sonny's stare. They were eye locked, nothing else happening in the world but the energy flowing between them.

Suddenly Sonny stood up, so quickly the stool toppled over behind him and ribs scattered on the table. Steel shutters snapped down over his eyes. “Better get some sleep.” He marched across the gym and piled three mats in a corner. He yanked off his running shoes.

“There's a couch in Johnson's office,” he said. “Up at six.”

He wrapped a big towel around himself and sank to the mats. He pulled his knees to his chest and was asleep before Starkey pulled the light cord.

The couch was old and stained and smelly, there were hard spots and soft spots, and it took Starkey a while to burrow his body into a groove. But he was too excited to sleep right away. He had made the connection. Sonny was listening to him. And he'd stayed cool.

But Sonny was going to be tough. The way he had suddenly jumped up to end the conversation. A warning bell had gone off in his head when he had felt Starkey getting too close. Was
it about accepting help from someone else? Maybe he had a fear of becoming vulnerable to someone else, and then abandoned, the way his mother had dumped him on the Res for months at a time.

Maybe that's too simple, the quickie, Family Circle Jerk explanation. I'll need to get to the real Sonny. And then maybe he'll open up so I can save him.

I'll have to take it easy bringing him to that point. Starkey remembered once going fishing with Stepdad, who kept lecturing him to reel in firmly but slowly or the fish would snap the line and swim away. He'd listened to what Stepdad said and kept jerking on the rod all day long so the fish could break away to freedom.

He'd have to play Sonny slowly to bring him into the boat.

After a while the lights of a pink dawn bled through the dusty windows of Donatelli's Gym. On the Harlem street below, a garbage truck ground up metal to a chorus of drunks.

Sonny kicked over a metal bucket. “Let's go, Warrior Angel.”

Through gummy eyelashes Starkey saw the clock over Johnson's desk. It was just five-
thirty. He staggered out and watched Sonny wash his face and head in a mop sink, then shake off the water like a dog.

“We'll get coffee and oranges at Kim's.”

“Not even six,” said Starkey.

“Best time to run, before the car fumes.”

“You want me to run with you?” Maybe I can do it, he thought. I wasn't kicked off the cross-country team for being too slow.

“You're on the bike.”

O
NCE
S
ONNY FELT
the heat rising up his legs, the blood running free through loosening muscles, he could imagine toxins draining out of his body and the darkness slipping out of his mind. He always felt better when he was running, best of all on a crisp morning when the run was the start of a training day. He had a plan, he was in control. He knew what he was doing.

He could hear Starkey, hunched under his backpack, wheezing along behind him on the battered old gym bike, towels and water bottles in the basket, squeaking along a slalom course of garbage and broken bottles and ruptured concrete on the fifteen blocks down to Central Park. His steering was a little erratic, but he was pedaling steadily enough to keep up.

Been a while since I had someone I liked on the chase bike behind me, he thought. A long time since I opened up the way I did last night.
Warrior Angel? More like the president of the Sonny Bear Fan Club. That's cool. Just be careful. These touchy-feely types like to get into your head, and once they get in, they're hard to get out. They want to wake up all the sleeping dogs, make you think about all the things you don't want to think about.

He thought about Alfred. Be hard to just pick up the phone and call him.

The sounds of the city faded as they moved deeper into the park. The horns and the sirens and the car alarms grew distant. There were moments he could imagine himself back on the Res. When Jake was alive.

Someone else he didn't want to think about.

“Angel!” He waved Starkey alongside and grabbed a plastic water bottle out of the bike basket. “How you doing?”

“Fine,” Starkey gasped. Sonny lifted the bottle to hide his grin. “How many…miles…you run?”

“Don't know. Forty-five minutes good, like a twelve-round fight. You need to wear that backpack?”

“I do.” He said it sharply, a flicker of panic in his eyes.

Sonny shrugged, then tossed the bottle back into the basket and surged ahead.

 

After breakfast Sonny trained hard for two hours, finishing up in a three-round sparring session with Cobra Rasheed, a hard-punching light heavyweight. Cobra was training for a ten-rounder on the Hall undercard. If he won, he could move up in the rankings. If he won and looked good, he might even get a shot at the title.

Cobra had a lot of attitude, which was okay with Sonny, but he was trying to show off by scoring on Sonny, which was not okay. He knew Sonny wouldn't unload on him. It wouldn't look right, the champ with a thirty-pound weight advantage. So Cobra played the baby-bully game. He was supposed to give Sonny a speed workout, help him ratchet up his quickness to stay away from the slow but heavy-hitting Hall. But he moved in to punch, popping a short right that snapped Sonny's head back and pummeling Sonny's ribs in a clinch. Sonny was able to smother the body shots by clamping his arms over Cobra's and pulling him in close.

“You okay, champ?” Cobra sneered.

Sonny shoved him away.

At the bell Johnson said, “This is for speed-work, Rasheed. Just box, don't bang.”

Cobra snickered. “Sor-reee. Didn't mean to hurt the champ.” He winked at his trainers, who shook their heads in warning.

Sonny felt an old stirring, and it felt good. Was the monster coming back? Been missing that old slugger. The Warrior Angel had been right to get him back to Donatelli's.

Cobra swaggered out for the last round flat-footed, ready to mix it up. But Sonny danced away, batting aside his jabs, skipping in and out of range until Cobra dropped his hands and snarled, “Someday this be for real.” His cornermen crowed at that, and Johnson shook his head. Sonny just kept moving until the bell rang, but he felt frustrated. He would have liked to rattle Cobra's cage.

“Hands too slow,” said Johnson, toweling him off. “Got to snap those jabs out.”

“I'll get on Rocky.”

“Be with you in a—”

“Let's see what the Angel got.”

Johnson looked dubious, but he shrugged.

Starkey looked panicky at first, staring at
the life-sized dummy. From forehead to waist its canvas skin was divided into numbered sections. The point of Rocky's chin was marked 1. Seven was his right eye, 8 was his left. His nose was 3. The middle of his belly was 17.

Starkey started slow, his calls tentative. “Jab…one. Jab…seven. Hook…nine.”

Sonny felt impatient but wanted to give him a chance. It took a few minutes for Starkey to warm up, but then the pace picked up. “Jab, seven, jab, nine, right, thirteen.”

Soon there was a logic to the calls, combinations that started with crisp jabs to put an opponent off balance, body shots to drive him back to the ropes, hooks to the head to put him away. The kid knew something about boxing.

Sonny felt himself absorbed into the rhythms of the three-round flurries. He nodded encouragement at Starkey during the one-minute rests. “Way to go…pick it up.”

After six rounds Johnson said, “Enough for today.”

Sonny, breathing hard, dropped his arms and stepped back. For the first time, he noticed that trainers and boxers had formed a semi-circle behind him. Someone shouted, “Way to go, champ.”

Sonny felt good. He was back.

Cobra pushed out of the crowd, and said, “Dummy don't have no arms to hit back.”

Starkey said, “You're the dummy
with
arms.”

Laughter rippled through the gym. Cobra closed his fists, took a breath. He said to Sonny, “Your little brother got a big mouth.”

Sonny glanced at Starkey, who looked proud of himself.
You're the dummy with arms
was a line Marty Witherspoon had once used, Sonny remembered. It was in the book. So was a lot of information about Rocky, including one entire chapter on how to use the dummy to practice your offensive attack.

So what, he's read the book. Still, something felt a little creepy.

T
HAT NIGHT, WHILE
they were cleaning up, Kim brought up Styrofoam containers packed with chicken, rice and beans, and salad from his takeout table. He fussed as he arranged the food on the table and left beaming as they dug in.

Sonny seemed in a good mood, relaxed. He hummed over the food before he brought it to his mouth.

“You've got friends,” said Starkey.

“Kim liked Jake. Reminded him of his grandfather back in Korea.”

“You miss Jake?”

Sonny shrugged.

“What about Alfred?”

“Got to call him one of these days.”

Starkey felt a pinprick of anxiety. Sonny wants to see Alfred. Be careful, Starkey. Don't forget that the Mission comes first. Saving Sonny, helping him reclaim his soul from the dark forces, means getting him back with his
old friends. You have to guard against your own feelings. Warrior Angels must not be jealous of relationships among Live Ones.

Keep talking, don't react.

“One thing I don't get.”

Sonny laughed. “Lucky, only one thing.”

“Champs have people around them, bodyguards, entourages, posses to hang out with and do stuff.”

“You're my posse.”

“I'm serious.”

“I know how to tape my own hands if I have to,” said Sonny.

“What's that mean?”

“You can't depend on people.” He made it sound like the slamming of a door.

When the classic-rock station Sonny had tuned in played a Beatles song, Starkey tried again.

“Beatles,” said Starkey. “Do you like being named after a Beatle?”

Sonny shrugged. When he doesn't feel like talking, Starkey thought, he just locks up. That was in The Book, too.

Sonny glanced over a drumstick. “You read the book?”

Here we go again, the out-loud problem.

“I read the entire book six times,” said Starkey. “Some parts I read a dozen times. I underlined the Running Braves stuff.” He saw that Sonny's eyes were narrowing, his mouth tightening into a hard line, and he tried to stop but couldn't.

“The Warrior Angels are sort of like the Running Braves. You try to help your people, too.”

“My people?”

“The Moscondaga Nation.”

Sonny snorted. “Give me a break. Moscondaga Nation's a joke. They spend most of their time fighting with each other. The old-fashioned Indians are waiting for the buffalo to come back and for the white man to go back to Europe. The new-fashioned ones are looking to sell out to the mob so they can get rich on a casino.”

“And you tried to bring them together.”

“Both sides treated me like a cracker until I was champ.”

“So you feel more white than Indian?”

“White people treated me like a Redskin until I got to be champ. That's why the title's crap, too. Doesn't mean anything except money. And Hubbard steals most of it.”

“So why are you fighting?”

“You got a better job for a mixed-blood high school dropout?” He glared at Starkey. “Maybe president of a dot-com?”

Starkey decided to take a chance, see if Sonny had a sense of humor. “Sure. We'll call it Dot Combinations. It's just what you need.”

It took Sonny a beat to realize Starkey was making a joke, and another beat to get the joke, but he laughed and reached out to cuff him lightly on the shoulder. “That's a good one. Got to tell Marty.” He scowled. “Someday.”

Starkey couldn't control the little jolts, first of delight, then jealousy. Martin Malcolm Witherspoon, author of
The Tomahawk Kid
, was another friend who could be used for the Mission. Mr. Johnson, Alfred, Martin, one by one, bring them back to help save Sonny.

And squeeze you out, whispered a Voice.

Stay cool. Focus.

He thought of the dog-eared copy of The Book in his backpack. “I know some of that book by heart. ‘The best of them could smell the breath of their prey….'”

Sonny growled, deep in his throat.

He couldn't help himself—he plunged on.
“Your great-grandfather was the last of the Running Braves; he was murdered by—”

WHAP! Sonny's big hand smacked the spindly table so hard that rice and beans jumped out of the Styrofoam boxes. “No Redskin crap.”

“Not crap, it's—”

“That's where you got the idea for Warrior Angels? From the book?”

Starkey felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach, the breath wheezing out of him. “You…you think I made it up?”

“Somebody made up the Running Braves, right?”

“But they existed,” said Starkey. “Everything was made up by somebody. And the Creator made up everybody.”

Sonny shook his head. “You sound like Jake. So, where you from?”

“North of here.” Starkey jerked a thumb toward Upstairs. It was the first personal question Sonny had asked, and he didn't want to scare him.

“You a runaway?” Sonny didn't look concerned when Starkey nodded. “What you running from?”

“I was in a…group home. For kids having problems.”

“What's your problem?”

Take a chance, tell him the truth. Well, one true story of many. “I was in boarding school and I pulled down the water tower behind the dorm.” Don't mention that the Voices had told him that the water was poisoned. When he tried to warn the headmaster, he wouldn't listen and the other kids made fun of him, beat him up.

“How'd you do it?”

“Middle of the night, I looped cables around the wooden stilts that held up the tower and I attached them to the tow hook of the maintenance truck.” Starkey was thrilled with Sonny's rapt attention. “I was in first gear when the stilts cracked, then I shifted to third and gunned the motor. Pulled it right down behind me.”

“Lucky you didn't drown.”

Don't tell him you were prepared to drown to save the school from the poisoned water. That's what Warrior Angels do. We sacrifice ourselves when there's no other way to complete our Mission. “Turned out there was no water in the tank.”

“Did you know that?”

“You think I'm that crazy?” He made himself laugh. Don't tell him how surprised you were to find out the tank was dry. It had been a test from the Creator.

“What kind of test?”

“A test for my stepdad's lawyers. Cost him plenty to keep me out of jail. I was expelled and they sent me to the Family Place.” Was it the Family Place or some other place? He suddenly couldn't remember. There had been so many places. None of them had meant anything until he found The Book, and discovered Sonny and his true Mission.

“The Family Place?” Was Sonny really interested or was he trying to trip me up?

“The group home. I eloped.”

“Eloped?”

“That's what they call it when you run away from a loony bin, an elopement.”

Sonny nodded. “They looking for you, your folks, cops?”

Starkey looked at him warily. “Probably. Does that make you nervous?”

Sonny smiled. It was the first time Starkey had seen him really smile. He even had dimples.
“Nervous? You came to save me, right?”

He felt pure joy surge through his body.

 

The next day a TV crew showed up to shoot Sonny boxing Rocky.

“You want me to call the shots?” asked Starkey.

“You think you should be on TV?”

The Voices snickered. He doesn't really want you.

“Sure I do,” whispered Sonny. “But people aren't supposed to know where you eloped to.”

“No problem,” said Starkey, relieved.

“Let's do it,” said Sonny.

“Jab, two,” said Starkey, trying to sound crisp as Sonny's left snapped out into the dummy's mouth. “Jab, seven. Right, four. Hook, nine.”

He forced his mind into a laser beam, thinking through the combinations, a jab, sometimes three to set up the big punch, a straight right or a hook, then quickly follow with another punisher or shake up the rhythm with another jab. He could see Sonny was getting into it, appreciating that he wasn't just calling out shots, he had a plan, the Warrior Angel knew what he was doing.

“Jab, seven, nine. Right, four. Hook, thirteen.”

Someone rang a bell and Sonny ended with a flurry of belly punches, then threw up his arms. The fighters and trainers applauded and whistled.

“You got enough?” said Johnson. “This is a workplace.”

“We're good,” said Dick, a silver-haired sportscaster Starkey had seen on ESPN. “Quick interview with the champ and we're out of here.”

Johnson grumbled and shooed the boxers and trainers back to work. While his crew set up for the interview, Sonny asked, “How'd you know I was here?”

“Little bird,” said Dick. “Actually a big one. I was eating at Jelly Belly's. What about Hubbard? Don't you have a contract?”

“He'll get his cut, all he cares about,” said Sonny.

“When he sees this, he'll be on the next plane,” said Dick.

“I'm a free man,” said Sonny. “I'll tell him I'm back with Henry Johnson. And my little brother here.”

This time the joy made Starkey dizzy.

 

They watched the news while they ate spaghetti with meatballs and a salad, a gift from the Italian restaurant up the street. No question the word was out that Sonny was back. People dropped by to watch him train. Sonny seemed cool about the attention. Starkey thought he accepted it as his due. He wondered how long before other people would start getting between Sonny and him, how long before the private dinners would be over, before Sonny would be staying somewhere else. Would there be time to complete his Mission?

The anchor introduced an exclusive on the sports report.

Dick's face filled the screen. “If, as I did, you wondered where the heavyweight champion of the world, Sonny Bear, disappeared to after that last stinker in Vegas, here's some good news for a change. He's back in his home gym in Harlem and back to basics, preparing for his rematch with the ex-champ Floyd (The Wall) Hall.”

As Rocky appeared on the screen, Dick said, “That's not just any dummy Sonny Bear's beating up, that's Rocky, the target of thousands of
his training punches over the years.”

On-screen, Sonny began hammering Rocky as Starkey called out the punches off camera.

The Voices whispered, Sonny told Dick to keep you hidden so he can get rid of you later.

The camera pulled back to show Starkey at Sonny's side. Dick said, “That's Sonny's young assistant trainer, calling the punches.”

Sonny elbowed him. “Assistant trainer.”

The Voices again: Sonny told Dick to put you on TV so Stepdad'll know where to find you.

The broadcast cut to Dick interviewing Sonny.

“What happened to you in Vegas?”

“I was flat. Couldn't get off.”

“We've known each other awhile, Sonny. That wasn't you. There were rumors that you were seeing a psychotherapist.”

“Do I look crazy to you?” snapped Sonny.

“Hostile, just hostile,” said Dick, smiling. “And that's your job.”

The broadcast cut to the anchors, chuckling. One of them said, “Maybe you have to be a little crazy to fight the Wall.”

Starkey thought, They're always doing that.

“What?”

“Jokes. About being crazy.”

Sonny shrugged and kept eating.

“Never bother you?” said Starkey.

“Might, if I was crazy.” Sonny thumbed the remote.

The Voices whispered, He thinks you're crazy.

Starkey struggled to keep control, to squeeze the Voices out. A quarter dosage isn't enough. Finally he said, “What…doooooo you meannnnnn?”

“You okay?” Sonny's face lengthened, his eyes turned red. He hit the mute button on the TV. “Man, you sound weird. You doing anything?”

Starkey tried to answer but nothing was coming out that he could understand. He narrowed his mind, focused, pushed the Voices to the nooks and crannies of his skull. It was exhausting, but it was working. Slowly he found a clear channel to think and then speak.

“I'm okay.” He tried to smile. “Better not have dope. Not when Alfred comes around.”

Sonny's body jerked. “Alfred's coming around?”

Starkey felt the clear channel vibrating.
Don't want to lose this moment. “He's waiting for your call.”

“You don't even know him.”

I know you all from The Book, Starkey wanted to say, but he said, “Alfred knows you're here. Johnson would have told him. But he can't call you because you walked out on him. You have to make the call.”

Sonny shrugged.

“Yooooou heeearrrr meeeeeee?” Starkey took deep breaths, but the gym floor wouldn't stop rippling, the heavy bags were swaying in a cold wind up from Hell, and the Voices were back now and they wouldn't quit anymore tonight.

Sonny stood up. “I'll think about it.”

They cleaned up silently. Sonny was back inside himself. Did I drive him there? But I had to. Don't have much time left to save him. Not unless I can get more meds. I had to go for it. Can't read him right now. Is he thinking about calling Alfred? Or is he just shutting me out for going too far too fast, blowing the Mission?

Before he tried to sleep, Starkey checked his backpack. Laptop, red cap, The Book. He fingered the ridge in the binding over the razor blade.