Warrior Angel (9 page)

J
OHNSON SAID
, “He makes everybody nervous.”

They stood in Johnson's office watching as Starkey moved around the gym, crouched, throwing quick looks over either shoulder as he scooped up used towels, refilled water bottles, mopped up pools of sweat. He looked different to Sonny, more like a scuttling crab than the confident loudmouth who had swaggered into the gym less than a week ago.

“Does his work,” said Sonny.

“Alfred says he's a time bomb.”

“Alfred's never seen him.”

“Told him about the boy. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

Starkey looked as jumpy as a Reservation dog. He was muttering to himself. But Sonny couldn't just let him be driven out of the gym. Where would he go?

“I can't just send him away.”

“You can't baby-sit him neither,” said Johnson. “Or expect me to.”

“Maybe I need to go to another gym.” Even as he said it, he knew it made no sense. Starkey had gotten him back here, where he belonged.

Johnson sighed and pulled his beard. “Sonny, you know I'm right.”

He knew Johnson was right. Title fight around the corner, he'd be out of the gym more and more for appearances and meetings and interviews. While Starkey was getting weirder and weirder.

 

Starkey was quiet that night at dinner. Hunched over the table, his body was a clenched fist, head down, elbows against his chest. His hands dangled from his wrists as he picked at chicken from Kim's. After a while he looked up and said, “You eating?”

“Eating at Johnson's,” said Sonny, “while we look at tapes.”

“Why not here?”

“Alfred can't get up these stairs anymore.”

“They don't like me.” Starkey's voice sounded flat, a computerized voice.

“Don't worry about it.”

“They want you to get rid of me.”

“Just be cool.”

“Cooool?” Starkey's voice changed, rose.

“Will you bag that crazy voice?”

“You don't lissss-ten to meeee.”

“Not when you talk like that.”

“You're not ready for The Waaaaaalllllllll.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Tooooo soooon.”

Sonny left him yelling at the ceiling. I owe this guy, he thought. But I can't deal with this right now.

 

Johnson had an apartment a few blocks from the gym, four bedrooms and three bathrooms and a living room big enough for a baby grand piano. One of his kids was a composer. Alfred and Marty were already there, parked in front of the monster TV, rewinding back and forth through the eighth round of the fight with The Wall.

Alfred barely looked up as Sonny walked in. “Here's where you won the title, Sonny. Floyd lost heart right here. He was running out of steam and you were getting stronger.”

“The jab—you never stopped pumping it in
his face,” said Johnson, coming in with plates of cold poached salmon and salad. “Eleanor cooked this. She had to go to a community board meeting. Said to say hello.”

Sonny tried to concentrate, but he kept thinking about Starkey, hunched over the table, alone in the gym. What was he going to do? And was Starkey right? Was he fighting too soon?

“He's going to be expecting the jab,” said Alfred, “and he's going to be looking for the hook to follow. That was the pattern here, and he'll be looking at the same tapes.”

Marty stuffed fish into his mouth. “Mmm, real moist. Fool him: Stay with the jab and hook combination, since they'll be expecting us to change the plan.”

“Don't complicate this,” said Johnson.

“Boxing is chess with blood,” said Marty.

“You better stick to chess,” said Alfred, poking Marty, “before I shed some of your blood.”

An old joke. They all laughed. Sonny felt warmed by being back with them, but trapped, too. Can you feel two emotions at the same time? Maybe I'm the crazy one. A part of me
wants to stay here, part of me wants to get out.

Sonny nodded, but he wasn't really listening as they argued strategy through dinner. His ears didn't perk up until Alfred said, “So what are you doing about the stalker?”

“He's not a stalker….”

“He tracked you down,” said Alfred. “Don't matter if he did it by shoe leather or e-mail.”

“It's my problem,” said Sonny.

Johnson said, “All our problem, Sonny. We got a fight coming up.”

“I'm not going to just dump him.”

Alfred said, “You done that before.”

He was grateful when Marty said, “Sonny wouldn't be here without the kid.”

“Find out where he came from,” said Alfred. “I'll call them to send out the butterfly nets.”

“He helped me,” said Sonny.

“So help him,” said Johnson. “Get him back where they can take care of him proper.”

Alfred said, “You know where he was running from?”

Sonny lied. “No.”

 

On his way up the stairs he heard Starkey grunting in the darkness. When he turned on
the gym lights, he saw Starkey on his hands and knees, scrubbing old bloodstains. He was wearing the ratty old red cap backward.

“What are you doing?”

“Gotta finish before they come.”

“Who?” He knew he didn't want to know.

“The Legion.”

“Better not talk like that in front of Johnson and the others.”

“It doesn't matter, Sonny. The Legion got to them. They're not on your side. They're using you.”

“Get some sleep.”

“They want you to lose. Hubbard wants you to lose, set up the third fight, the big one.”

Sonny felt a cold spot in his stomach. Can't hear this now. “They wouldn't do that.”

“They know you're not ready for this fight. You're not in shape, your head's not there yet.”

“You're talking crazy.”

Starkey stood up, swaying. “Listen to meeeeeeeee.” He kicked over the metal bucket. Ammonia fumes rose off the water sloshing over the wooden floor.

Sonny grabbed his arms, but Starkey wrenched free. He began running around the
gym, kicking over buckets, hurling water bottles against the walls, beating the bags. “Listen beeeforrrre they get meeeeeee.”

It took longer than Sonny expected for Starkey's energy to run down. He waited until Starkey stopped and hugged a heavy bag, then wrapped his arms around Starkey's waist. Starkey moaned, “Nooooooooooooo,” but he didn't struggle as Sonny pried him loose and carried him into Johnson's office. He dumped Starkey on the couch and held him until he fell asleep.

The cold spot grew to fill Sonny's stomach and chest. Stalker, savior, both. What am I gonna do? I owe him. But I can't baby-sit him.

Maybe Alfred and Johnson are right. Get him to the people who can help him.

T
HE
V
OICES WOKE
him, murmuring so softly, he could not understand what they were saying.

The meds were all gone but that didn't matter. He would never be free of the Voices.

As long as he lived, they would be in his head.

It was the longest day he could remember. He was hanging on by his fingernails. Riding the bike behind Sonny, he felt the streets flow under the quivering tires, oceans of streets in unending waves. He hid in the laundry room as reporters and camera crews clustered around Sonny, watched him spar with Dave the Fave, interviewed everybody in the gym, even Cobra. The red cap helped, but its powers were failing.

The snakes were sticking their tongues out at him.

Through the afternoon Starkey watched the clock, but the hands mocked him, quivering, spinning backwards. I can't hold on much longer.

I can't let the Legion take me over.

At five o'clock Sonny said, “You'll be okay?”

He'd never asked that before. What's he mean? We can smell trouble, Warrior Angels and Running Braves. Is he trying to warn me? What is he trying to tell me?

“I'm not trying to tell you anything. Be back real late. The boxing writers' dinner at the Hilton.”

Then he was gone.

Then everybody was gone.

Starkey held the cap down on his head, pressing his thumbs into his temples. That helped sometimes, quieting the throbbing inside his skull. Not this time.

He checked the backpack—laptop, The Book—before he slipped it on. Better be ready for anything.

It was dark in the gym. He heard the old bloodstains bubble up from the wooden floor. He was looking for the mop when the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

The door burst open and the lights exploded on.

“Stay calm, Richard. Everything's going to be all right.”

Three big men dressed almost identically
in double-breasted black blazers and black T-shirts were marching across the gym. They wore radio headsets. They looked like the security goons that Stepdad's company hired for parties and concerts.

A middle-aged couple was right behind them, jumping around to peer over and around their broad backs. Somebody's parents, Starkey thought.

Somebody's mother shouted, “Richard…”

Starkey heard himself wail, “Nooooooo…”

The head goon shouted, “Collect 'im.” Fire came out of his eyes.

“Don't hurt my son,” screamed Somebody's Mom.

“For God's sake, Cynthia, let them do their job,” yelled Somebody's Stepdad.

Starkey found the mop and swung it, but the goons surrounded him. They were dancing and laughing, black lava pouring out of their open mouths, chanting, “Gotchagotchagotcha, angel.”

You're no Warrior Angel, said the Voices. You're a simpleton, a fool, a crazy boy.

That's why Sonny bailed on you and ratted you out.

S
ONNY WAS HUNGRY
, clearheaded, on edge. He was up on the balls of his feet, jiggling, making it hard for Johnson to tape his hands. But Johnson was grinning and so was Alfred. Like old times almost. Malik and Boyd were sulking in a corner of the dressing room with nothing to do. Red Eagle had been banished to the corridor. Next fight they'll all be gone, out of my contract, out of my life.

“Jab,” said Johnson, holding up a hand. He nodded as Sonny's taped fist smacked into his palm. “That's it. Again. Just like that. You'll take down The Wall one brick at a time.”

“Hold that thought, young gentleman,” said Alfred. “Only one thing in your mind. How we gonna make The Wall come tumbling down? Again.”

Now they never stopped talking, low and urgent, as the commissioner signed the tape, as the gloves went on, as the door banged open
and someone yelled, “Five minutes,” and then they were out in the arena, the television lights cooking the air.

He thought of the last time he had walked out into this Vegas parking lot, a zombie in a murky brown cloud. This time his nerves tingled, the thoughts bounced against the inside of his skull. He wondered if Starkey was listening to the fight. Been three weeks since I saw him last.

He probably thinks I called the people who snatched him. Kim saw them driving away in two limos that night. Dr. Gould said it would have been all right if I had called them. He's okay, that shrink. He didn't want to get involved, but he found out that Starkey was in the hospital. Some girl from the Family Place spotted him on TV and helped his parents arrange the snatch. Felt relieved that somebody else was taking care of Starkey. Back from the writers' dinner that night, when he wasn't there, I was almost glad. And then I had to focus on the fight.

Alfred's voice broke through. “Stick and move.”

“To the left, always to your left,” said Johnson, and then Sonny was in the ring,
nodding back at The Wall, they were both too professional to glare like gangstas, that man is HUGE. Sonny heard a voice, sounded just like Starkey, “Bigger the wall, the harder they fall,” made him laugh, and Johnson grunted, “Don't get cocky on me, boy,” and Sonny let the parade of celebrities slap his gloves, the rap singer and the action hero, “Sayonara, snotface,” they said in unison, they are friends now, but Sonny kept thinking, Jab and go left, not letting the tattoos and the breasts and the gold teeth steal his concentration. Cobra got a round of applause from the crowd as he swaggered into the ring. He'd won his fight with a second-round knockout. As he tapped Sonny's gloves, he whispered, “Win, baby. I got next.”

Bells rang, the ring was cleared. The announcer pulled down the microphone. “And now, the main event, for the heavyweight championship of the world…in the blue trunks, the former heavyweight champion, at two hundred twenty-eight pounds, Floyd…The Wallllll…Hallllll.”

The crowd was up and stomping, cheering, whistling.

“In the red trunks, youngest heavyweight champion in history, at two hundred ten pounds, the Tomahawk Kid, Son-neeeeeeeeeeee Bear.”

In the avalanche of sound sweeping over the ring, he heard Johnson's needle-sharp, “First round, feel him out,” and Alfred, shouting up from his wheelchair at the ring steps, “Stick and move, stick and move,” and then they were standing in the middle of the ring and the referee was giving the usual instructions about neutral corners and break when told, and The Wall nodded, the mother blocked out the light, he is HUGE, let's get it on already, and then, finally, the bell.

 

Through the earpiece of the tiny radio, Starkey heard, “The Wall acts like Sonny's jabs are just green flies at the picnic.”

He closed his eyes and imagined that Sonny looked sharp, nothing like the zombie who had fought Navy Crockett. But The Wall is too strong to push around in the early rounds. No quick knockout here. Yet even if Sonny has the patience, does he have the endurance to go the distance? Is he ready?

“Richard?” said Dr. Raphael.

Reluctantly, he pulled out the earpiece. It had taken a week of begging and good behavior to get the little radio. Don't blow it now.

Dr. Raphael said, “I thought we had trust.” He was holding up the little plastic specimen cup. The daily urine test. “I'm very disappointed, Richard.”

They always say something like that. To make you feel guilty. Like bagging meds is a crime against them.

“I wouldn't have been able to concentrate on the fight.”

“The medicine shuts down the voices.”

“But I need to hear the Voices so I can counteract them.”

“That's courageous, Richard, but it might not be in your best interests right now.” He had a needle.

“This is really important to me, Dr. Raphael. You've seen how I behaved so I could hear the fight. As soon as the fight's over, I'll take whatever you want.” The doctor was flicking the air out of the syringe. I don't want to have to slug him. Talk fast, Starkey. Angels have magic tongues. “I want to get better, Dr. Raphael. You
think I want to be trapped in this Warrior Angel fantasy the rest of my life?”

That stopped him. “You were making progress.”

“I still am. But I know I need to hear this fight if I'm to make more progress. I need to bond with the reality.” That was good. Made him blink. “And tomorrow, you can start any protocol you want, with my total cooperation.”

Dr. Raphael lowered the needle. “Your parents agree with me that electroconvulsive therapy could be useful.”

Starkey winked. “I'm shocked.” Cool?

It took the doctor a minute to chuckle. Too dumb to be Legion. “I have faith in you, Richard.”

He squeezed Starkey's shoulder on the way out.

Starkey got the earpiece back in. He hadn't missed much.

 

Sonny jabbed and moved away from The Wall's powerhouse left hook, keeping his own left up to block The Wall's straight right. He danced on the balls of his feet as The Wall kept turning, flat-footed. By the third round the crowd in the arena was booing. No hard
punches had been landed. They wanted some action, some blood. They always do. Someone in the front row sang a waltz tune, and the section picked it up.

Keep jabbing and moving, sure, but how long before The Wall just bulls forward, clinches, tries to drive me into the ropes? Have to confuse him, get The Wall angry, frustrated, have him lunge and commit himself to bad punches, humiliate him, bang him around, run him into a corner.

Sonny sidestepped right, paused just long enough to bait The Wall into throwing a quick, clumsy hook. He let it slip past his ear, then stepped forward and drove a right into The Wall's stomach. As the big man leaned forward, Sonny stepped back and chopped two lefts to his temple, then a hard right to his chin. The Wall staggered back and the crowd roared. He shook it off. It meant nothing, but it was a start.

 

Starkey imagined the hugeness of The Wall pressing in on Sonny, cutting off the ring, trying to surround him. He seemed even bigger than the last time. This time he hadn't taken Sonny lightly, dismissed him as an overhyped
kid he could easily crush. The Wall had trained hard, rebuilt himself into the immovable object who had never lost a fight, who had never even been knocked down, until Sonny took away his title.

It feels, thought Starkey, as if Sonny is…as if we are…as if I am pounding on bricks.

The new night nurse's bearded face appeared in the doorway, mounted on an enormous body draped in white. He looked like a bobblehead snowbank. Like to melt his nasty ass. Even after Dr. Raphael okayed the little radio—a Stepdad special that picked up the Armed Forces radio signal that got free title fights—the nurse had his grubby hand out. It had taken more than a few Locs 'n' Bagels CDs to buy him off. He wouldn't give Starkey the backpack with the red cap and The Book and the laptop, even though Dr. Raphael said Starkey could have it back. The nurse was holding out for a few bucks. At least the man was too lazy to feel around the binding of The Book. Dishonest and dumb. Lucky me. I can work with that.

Starkey smiled and waved at him. He scowled and lumbered away.

 

It seemed to Sonny as if every jab was answered with a stiff right hand from Floyd. In the beginning he skipped easily out of the way, jabbing and dancing back or to the side, letting Floyd lurch awkwardly after his missed punch. Then, almost imperceptibly, as the pace of the fight slowed, Sonny would slip the punch by tilting his head to the right and let Floyd's glove fly harmlessly over his left shoulder. By the eighth round, the rights began to make contact, glance off his shoulder, first skim away, then bounce, then bruise bone.

He welcomed the pain, breathed into it, tried to use it to stay zoned, up on the balls of his feet, to keep his combinations rattling. But he was tired. He was losing concentration. He felt The Wall grow and surround him. Trapped inside The Wall. How do I get out? And where do I go?

“Stick and move.”

 

Starkey felt Sonny's shoulder grow numb. A razor edge of pain sliced down his arm to his fingertips. Sonny was pushing the jab more than firing it. He was tired. He wasn't ready for this fight.

The radio announcer's voice was hot and urgent. He sounded excited at the possibility that The Wall might win back his title. He kept saying that Floyd had been a popular champion, a soft-spoken African-American Christian, a home-loving family man who visited hospitals and Army bases and did public service commercials on the importance of learning how to read. Just the kind of person who should be heavyweight champion of the world.

“A real role model,” he said. “As a man, The Wall is solid. And he's looking solid in the ring tonight.”

Too much up against us, thought Starkey. If the radio announcer feels this way, the referee and the judges probably do, too. That means Sonny is going to have to knock out The Wall to win, he's not going to get the benefit of points.

Go for it, Sonny, take him, knock down The Wall.

 

Sonny thought, I'm going to have to go for it. Try to knock him out. The bricks are not coming loose. And I am getting tired.

Alfred was yelling, “Reach down, Sonny, don't be fading now,” and Johnson, nose to
nose, said, “Suck it up,” and slapped his face. The cut man waved a bottle under his nose that sent a chemical hot wire up into his brain. When the bell rang for the next round, he dropped an ice cube down Sonny's trunks.

His legs felt like cement poles. The Wall shook him with a quick left-right, but he managed to duck away from the hook. That could have ended it, Sonny. Wake up!

 

Starkey felt cold and hot. It was now or never, forget about dismantling The Wall brick by brick, there was no time for that anymore, it was knock him out in this round or lose the title, youngest former champion in history, and then who are we?

If Sonny loses, I lose.

The Voices win.

And then there will be only one way left to save Sonny and complete the Mission.

 

Sonny could see The Wall was tired, too. His tree-trunk legs were taking root, the enormous chest was heaving for air, his right eye was closed from a hundred jabs that had gotten through his guard. His face was lumpy and bloody. He grunted from the pain and effort of
raising his cannon arms.

Sonny felt a surge of energy. The power ran down his shoulders into his arms, down his spine into his legs. He danced into range, easily blocked Floyd's slow, looping hook with his right arm, and slammed a hook of his own deep into Floyd's side. The Wall wavered.

“Right, one,” screamed Alfred.

Sonny set his feet and fired the short right to Floyd's jaw, put his legs and hips and butt into it, watched it slam into the top of The Wall and drive him back against the ropes.

“Do it,” screamed Johnson and Alfred and Starkey.

The roar of the crowd pushed him forward like a surfer's wave, to finish him off. Sonny tried to pound Floyd off the ropes, to hammer him into the ground, but his arms were so sore and the gloves on his hands were so heavy and punching through the water was so slow. He didn't have enough left to knock down The Wall.

The Wall stood up and they were toe to toe and forehead to forehead and banging each other in slow motion, pawing each other until the bell rang and they fell into each other's arms murmuring, “Good fight.”

Their cornermen swarmed into the ring to wait for the officials' decision.

 

Listening to the radio announcers read their scorecards, Starkey felt sad but not surprised. They liked The Wall because he was a better interview subject, friendlier. Sonny was a quiet guy, a loner. He didn't even have a posse! Hard to figure.

They don't understand him, thought Starkey. Who knew him better than I did? And now…

The crowd cheered the decision, unanimous for The Wall.

At ringside, a radio reporter asked, “How do you feel, Sonny Bear, youngest ex-champion in heavyweight history?”

What sounded like Alfred's voice shouted, “Dumb question,” but Hubbard quickly took over and said, “Gooood question! Sonny will answer that when he tries to become the youngest man ever to regain the throne.”

“There's a rematch?”

“The Wall has a contract with me,” said Hubbard.

Starkey felt a prick of admiration for the promoter. Hubbard is the pick of the Legion.
The Archies chose me to best him, and I can't let them down.

 

Sonny was too tired to think. “What you think?”

Alfred said, “We'll deal with Hubbard in the morning.”

“That's what I think,” said Johnson.

Sonny said, “Where's Malik? I need his laptop.”

He knew there would be a message telling him what to do next.

 

The night nurse came in with a paper cup of pills.

Starkey said, “I need to send an e-mail.” The message was already moving around inside his head like a buzzing fly:
Pick up the stones.