Warrior Angel (7 page)

A
LFRED'S WIFE
, L
ENA
, was waiting for Sonny at the railroad station. He felt his nervousness drain away when she hugged him and said, “He was so happy you called.”

The familiar white HandiVan was out in the parking lot. “How is he?”

“Good days and bad days. He keeps getting these infections. They can knock him down for a week. But he bounces back—you know Alfred.”

Alfred was in the driver's seat. He was thinner than Sonny remembered, dark circles around his eyes. A year ago he would never have waited in the car, no matter how hard it was to climb out and into his wheelchair. He must be in a lot of pain.

Lena opened the front passenger door and pushed Sonny forward. All he could think of to say as he climbed in was “Alfred.”

Alfred glanced casually over to him and
said, “You hungry, young gentleman?” as if they were picking up a recent conversation. They hadn't seen each other in months. The van was moving before Lena had shut her door.

“Sure.” He relaxed into the seat. Alfred was going to make it easy, leave the past alone.

“Lena's made some of that sesame chicken you like.” Alfred poked a button on his CD player. Old rock music poured out. Sonny could tell he didn't want to talk right now. Fine.

“Where are you living?” Lena leaned over from the backseat.

“The gym.”

“Want to stay with us for a few days? Girls be thrilled.”

Sonny peeked at Alfred out of the corner of his eye. He was staring straight ahead. Lena must be talking for him, too. Sonny felt his neck muscles soften and relax. “Don't have clothes or—”

“We didn't throw your stuff out,” said Alfred. “Yet.”

They all laughed.

The house looked the same, a two-story white box on a quiet, shady street of two-story white boxes. Alfred had grown up in Harlem and wanted his kids to grow up in the
suburbs. Little lawn out front, big backyard with grill and stone patio. Sonny had set the stones of the patio one weekend. It seemed like a long time ago. Two years?

Tamika and Lysa came home from school just as Sonny and Alfred settled in the den to talk. They burst in, squealing, and began hugging Sonny and throwing mock punches at his jaw. He got up and sparred with them until Lena dragged them out.

“You gonna be ready for the Wall?”

“I'll be there.”

“Not my question.”

Sonny shrugged. “Should be in shape. But I don't know what happened with Crockett.”

“Never saw you like that. Fighting in slow motion.”

“Felt like I was drugged.”

“Looked like you didn't want to be there,” said Alfred. “Hubbard call you?”

“Doesn't know where I am,” said Sonny.

Alfred laughed. “ESPN knows, everybody knows. He called me.”

“Why?” Sonny felt uneasy. Too much going on behind my back.

“Wanted to find out if I was going to be
your manager again.”

“What did you say?”

“Been there, done that,” said Alfred.

Sonny wasn't sure if he liked that answer or not, but he said, “That your final answer?” just lightly enough for them to both chuckle and move on. It felt like the early sparring in a fight when you're looking for openings and weaknesses and blind spots.

“Who this kid you took in?”

“Starkey? He follows me on the bike, calls Rocky, cleans up the gym.” It was the first he had thought of Starkey since he saw Alfred. He felt a twinge of guilt.

“How old is he?”

“Seventeen?” He realized he wasn't sure.

“Henry thinks the boy's not playing with a full deck.”

“Starkey made things happen. Never would have broken loose from Hubbard without his e-mails, never would have gotten back in the gym without Starkey showing up.” He was surprised to hear himself talk so much, with so much energy.

There was still doubt in Alfred's eyes. “He doing what you want or pulling strings for his own reasons?”

“He talked me into calling you.”

Alfred blinked at that. “Well, keep your eyes open. Sometimes rich kids get hung up on fighters, rappers, even thugs. He's a jock sniffer.”

Sonny wanted to say, I feel good when he's around, like having a little brother who can help you. But he settled for a quick jab. “You rather I'm still with Malik and Boyd?”

It scored. Alfred's lips tightened, but he moved on. “Sure he's not using?”

Sonny thought about the way Starkey slipped in and out of moods, the way his voice got weird sometimes, muttering. But he said, “Never saw anything.”

“Just don't be carrying for him.” Alfred winked.

Sonny let himself laugh, a little loudly, he thought, but it was good to let it out on something deep in the past that only he and Alfred could laugh about. It was less than four years since Sgt. Alfred Brooks and his Port Authority narcotics squad had busted him for carrying drugs. Dumb seventeen-year-old right off the Reservation, a mule for a Times Square dope dealer.

“Long time ago.”

“Things happen. You're the champ. I got a
permanent ride.” Alfred slapped his wheelchair. “And Jake's gone.”

Sonny lost breath. That was a sucker punch, he thought. “I never got the message.”

“You didn't want to—you weren't in touch. You running away again, Sonny.” Alfred's thick forearms bulged as he wheeled the chair closer. “Ran off the Res, ran away from us, running from Hubbard.”

Sonny's tongue was dry and filled his mouth. Finally, he said, “Starkey got me to come back.”

Alfred's eyes narrowed. “Why?”

That stopped Sonny. He had never thought to ask that question, to even think about it. He didn't have an answer.

Tamika opened the door and stuck her head in. “Mom says dinner's on the table.”

Saved by the bell.

He didn't make eye contact with Alfred during dinner, but he didn't have to. The girls had to catch him up on their lives. Tamika was on the basketball team, Lysa won the science fair, and when they found out he had met the rapper and the short movie star, they had a million questions. Lena kept telling them to let
Sonny eat, but she looked happy. Alfred was quiet, but he was smiling, too. When the girls had to go to bed, they hugged him and whispered in his ears, “Sayonara, snotface.” Then they fell down laughing.

He watched the sports news with Alfred until he went off to take care of his catheter. Sonny remembered from the old days how much maintenance Alfred's paraplegia needed: the bags and tubes and creams, the careful planned movements required for a bath.

Lena made up the bed in the den. She left a towel and a toothbrush on his pillow.

“We're glad you're here, Sonny.” She opened a closet in the den. His clothes were still hanging there. There were boots and running shoes on the floor, underwear and socks in a pullout wire basket. “Knew you'd be back.”

I'm glad I'm here, he thought. He enjoyed the comforting sounds of the house settling into nighttime, the whispers of TV from Alfred and Lena's bedroom, the girls stomping off to the bathroom, the gurgle of water through pipes, the scamper of squirrels on the roof. He imagined Starkey curled up in Johnson's office, dealing with the sounds outside those dirty
windows. Give Starkey a call? To say what? Starkey can take care of himself. I didn't force him to come to New York. He's got Alfred's number—he can call if he needs me.

It took him a long time to fall asleep, and then he had a dream.

He was fighting a smoker in a hillbilly town, but the ring was set up outdoors, Vegas style, in the middle of Jake's auto junkyard on the Moscondaga Reservation. Half the faces in the crowd were cracker and half were Redskin, and all their mouths were open and dripping saliva, and they were all booing him as he came into the ring. They cheered as his opponent climbed up the ring steps, but Sonny couldn't see his face—it was covered with the hood of his robe. Jake and Alfred and Johnson and Hubbard and Malik and Boyd were all in his opponent's corner.

Sonny was alone. He gave the crowd the finger, but no one could see it because his boxing gloves were on. He pulled off his robe and whipped his ponytail against his bare shoulders. The crowd was laughing. He looked down. He was wearing only his jockstrap and his protective cup. He had forgotten to put on his trunks.

Doesn't matter, nothing matters.

He came out for the ring instructions. Somehow he wasn't surprised that his opponent was Starkey.

S
TARKEY WOKE UP
jumpy. He felt a cold prickle among the hairs on the back of his neck. Jake said that was a signal that enemies were about to strike. It was in The Book. Running Braves could sense events before they happened. Like Warrior Angels.

Sonny had left Alfred's phone number in case of emergency. Starkey thought about calling, but what would he say? I'm nervous? Yeah, right. Some emergency.

A night's sleep had helped, and a quarter dose of meds.

He had found a few more pills deep in the backpack.

He decided to wear the Tomahawk Kid cap. He'd been careful not to waste its powers, but he just might need it today. He slipped on the backpack and rode the bike to keep the routine going. He pedaled even harder than he did when he was following Sonny. That cleared his
head, made him feel better.

Energized, he scraped some of the crusty old grime off two front windows. Johnson showed up, noticed the windows right away, and gave Starkey a little nod. Starkey wished Johnson would say something nice, but a little nod was a good start.

While Johnson drank coffee with the early birds, mostly middle-aged businessmen who hit the bag and skipped rope before work, Starkey got down on his hands and knees to scrub at some old bloodstains on the splintery wooden floor. He hoped Johnson was looking.

It was a long, slow morning without Sonny, mopping and fetching water and doing the laundry. Starkey wondered when Sonny was coming back.

If,
said the Voices.

 

Two strangers showed up at the gym that afternoon, black guys in black leather with a lot of heavy gold around their necks and wrists. One of them had the same snake tattoo coming up his neck that Cobra Rasheed had on his chest. Johnson was out, or he'd have been at the door in a flash to check them out, Starkey
thought. But none of Johnson's assistants made a move, and once Cobra hugged the two men, it was too late.

Starkey watched them swagger around the gym, making comments to each other and laughing. Sonny had told him there were rumors that Cobra was still a member of an L.A. gang he'd joined in prison. He wondered if these were fellow gang members.

Starkey forced them out of his mind and went deep into his mopping rhythm. He was starting to get it, dragging instead of pushing the ropy tangle. He needed to concentrate. He had sent Sonny back to Alfred—it was part of helping him break loose from Hubbard. It was part of his Mission. But Alfred was an old cop—those guys are paranoid. He wouldn't like Sonny having a friend. He might poison Sonny against me.

Just mop, Starkey, those are the Voices whispering to you, trying to mess you up.

“Hey, chicken chest, where's my water?”

It took him a moment to realize Cobra was yelling at him. No problem. Starkey could take Cobra yelling at him. It was almost an honor, because it was Cobra's way of getting at Sonny. It made Starkey feel closer to Sonny to take the
abuse. Cobra bullied the champ's pal because Cobra was afraid to go up against the champ.

“Afraid? What planet you on, Looney Tunes?”

Cobra's friends laughed.

A rough, unfamiliar voice said, “Save it for the fight, Rasheed. You'll need it.”

“Wha' you say?” Cobra looked surprised.

The rough voice said, “Chill.”

It took Starkey a moment to realize that the voice was coming out of his own mouth. He must be channeling an Archie. He felt light-headed with the honor of it.

“I'm talkin' to you,” said Cobra.

That didn't register until one of the gang-bangers said, “He's talkin' to you,” and flicked the bill of Starkey's Tomahawk Kid cap.

The snakes on Cobra's chest moved. Starkey hoped it was just Cobra flexing his pecs. He didn't want to go down in flames now, just when he was getting a grip.

“What do you want?” It was Starkey's normal voice now, sounding small and weak.

“You brain dead?” asked the gangbanger who had touched the cap. “The Snake needs water. Move your little gay butt.”

The other fighters and trainers in the gym
were suddenly very busy. No one wanted a piece of this. Starkey felt alone. He wished Sonny were here. How do you handle a psycho thug? Even as he thought it, he knew he was saying it out loud.

“What you call me?”

Starkey's rough voice said, “You deaf as well as stupid, psycho thug?”

Cobra touched his friend's arm. “Slip it, Trey, his elevator don't go to the top.”

Trey jerked his arm away. “You hear what he call me?” The snake on his neck opened its mouth and lunged at Starkey, fangs dripping with black venom. It knocked his cap off.

Starkey watched the red cap skitter across the floor before he raised the mop. He was amazed at the clarity of his mind, the Warrior Angel clicking into battle mode. He slapped the soapy, wet ropes of the mop into Trey's face, stepped back, turned the handle, and drove the stick deep into Trey's gut. The gangbanger fell backward.

Starkey broke the handle over his knee. He held the jagged end out like a sword and screamed, “Dare you challenge a Warrior Angel?”

Cobra was whispering to his friends,
“Easy, homes, no trouble here.”

“There will always be trouble until the Legion of Evil surrenders to the Forces of Good.” He loved hearing his thundering words echo in the hushed gym.

“See, boy's crazy,” whispered Cobra, trying to herd his friends toward the door. “You don't want no piece a this.”

Starkey felt the broomstick wavering in his hand. It was getting heavy. The snakes were shrinking back, mouths closing.

“What's goin' on?” Johnson stormed across the gym, dragging his leg and pulling his beard. “Put that down!”

Starkey dropped the stick as if it had been slapped out of his hand.

“Who these guys?”

“They just leavin',” said Cobra, pushing his friends toward the door.

Cursing, rolling their eyes, they swaggered out of the gym.

Starkey felt small, empty. The Archies had abandoned him, Sonny had abandoned him, the Voices had taken over. He bent over to pick up his cap and the room tilted, the floor came up into his face.