Footsteps of the Hawk (7 page)

I dropped the international stuff and shifted to the local tabloids. A human on the Holy Coast fixed up his basement for his stepdaughter—soundproofed walls with a videocam set up on a tripod. Called it his War Room. He tortured the girl down there. When they busted him, he said he was trying to teach the girl right from wrong. That's what's wrong with kids today—they have no discipline. He was willing to plead guilty to child abuse, but not to any sex crimes.

It might have worked if the jury hadn't seen the tapes.

I turned the page. A man and woman—a male and female anyway—got all embarrassed about the woman's condition. She was about to give birth, but the baby wasn't his. So they took the baby home from the hospital and buried it in their back yard. Nobody knew anything about it until the woman got pregnant again…by the
right
man this time. A nurse asked her if she'd ever been pregnant before, and the woman said she had, but the baby had died. It didn't take them long to find the baby's body—the cops locked them both up.

When the man was produced for his arraignment the next day, his face was badly swollen. Some sanctimonious columnist wrote the story, smirking self–righteously about "jailhouse justice." Every time I read wishful–thinking garbage like that, I want to puke. I did time with a guy once—Mestron, his name was—he was a sex killer, and proud of it. None of the girls was over seven years old. The miserable freak would snatch the poor little things, take them back to the basement where he lived…grab their ankles, hold them upside down, then use his powerful arms to crack the little girls like wishbones…so he could slide in on the blood. I know the details because he told them to anyone who would listen. Over and over, doing it again in his mind.

Mestron was a short guy, maybe five foot six, tops. He weighed about two hundred and thirty pounds, all of it muscle. He was good with his hands and better with a shank. And he wasn't in population two weeks before he raped a bank robber—hundred–and–twenty–pound bank robber who couldn't bring his gun to prison with him. And Mestron? That baby–killer did
good
time—righteous indignation doesn't stack up too high against homicidal muscle. You want to see jailhouse justice? Just spend some time in a jungle…and pray
you're
not the prey.

The scumbag on the Coast, the one who tortured his stepdaughter—my hope for him was that he'd have something worth killing for in prison. It wouldn't take much.

I stopped reading the paper—I don't know why they call it "news." I got up from my booth, bowed a goodbye to Mama, and got back out into the world.

T
he next day was Friday. Still no sign of the Prof. I figured I could catch him at the fights, so I picked Max up and we drove over the Manhattan Bridge to the BQE, exited on Queens Boulevard and motored along, watching for the turnoff. All along the strip, the topless bars and storefront churches coexisted, each crew deluding itself it was competition for the other. I found the turnoff, followed the Prof's directions. The joint was off Skillman Avenue, an old arena that hadn't been big–time since World War II. We circled the area half a dozen times before Max spotted a parking place. I pulled in, secured the Plymouth.

"We're with one of the fighters," I told the guy at the door. "Where's the dressing rooms? I got a boy going tonight."

"Him?" the guy at the door said, nodding his head in Max's direction.

"Not this time," I told him.

"You're not gonna work the corner, you gotta pay like everybody else," he said.

I gave him a fifty for two ringside seats. "First come, first served," the guy said, gesturing toward the ring standing in the middle of the auditorium surrounded by rows of folding chairs.

One of the cable networks was setting up a trio of heavy cameras on massive tripods. I saw the lights had already been strung, the network's logo was firmly in place near the ceiling. They tape all the fights, but the four–rounders only make it to the screen if the main event ends early.

We walked around the perimeter until I found the entrance to the back rooms. The locker room was crowded with fighters—they were all in the one room, but separated by invisible lines, surrounded by handlers and hangers–on. The place smelled of fresh sweat and stale hopes. I spotted the Prof standing over to one side, saying something to Frankie as Clarence carefully wrapped the fighter's hands in tape.

"It's the first bout for the other guy too," the Prof was saying to Frankie, "but he's a Golden Gloves winner—they looking for you to be a sheep for the creep. But ain't the way it's gonna play, okay?"

Frankie nodded attentively, not speaking.

"You got to be quick, babe," the Prof continued. "Get off fast—don't let it last. On TV, KO is all they know. You ready?"

Frankie nodded again.

"We're up first," the Prof said to me. "Got about a half–hour." He turned to Frankie. "Just lie back, son. Relax. Don't bother trying to break a sweat until it gets close to game time."

Frankie obediently lay back on the table, closed his eyes.

"I got to ask you something," I said to the Prof, drawing him aside.

"After the bout, schoolboy. This is business now."

"Okay," I agreed, staying on his topic. "You know anything about this boy Frankie's going to fight?"

"Sure. See that guy over there? The one against the lockers? That's him. Jermaine Jenkins."

I looked over. Jenkins was a black kid, looked about nineteen. He stood about six four, looked like he weighed maybe two thirty. A real big kid. Big all over. He was admiring a neon–blue robe with his name on the back, rapping to a couple of guys in suits.

"We can take him easy," the Prof said, smiling. "Boy's got a nice wardrobe. Slick moves too. But his punch don't crunch. Only reason we got the date is they glommed Frankie's weight. We should be fighting cruisers, but there ain't no cash in the off–brands."

"What corner they give you?"

"Blue," he replied. "True blue."

"Frankie's ready?"

"He'll be on that pretty–boy like a ho' on dough, bro—nothing to it."

I walked back over to where Frankie was lying down. Noticed Clarence had placed a clean white washcloth over the fighter's eyes. "Be yourself," I told him, giving his shoulder a pat.

"I will," he said quietly.

Max and I went out, found seats near the blue corner. The place was filling up. I spotted a crew of dope gangstahs through the ropes, all sitting ringside. One of them was talking on a cellular phone, making a production out of it. A dark–haired man in his fifties in an expensive–looking midnight–blue suit sat a few places over to my left, his arm around the waist of a sharp–featured bottle–blonde about a foot taller and thirty years younger than him. Most of the crowd was local—blue–collar whites and flashier–dressed Latins. A group of Orientals sat by themselves, occasionally glancing over at the black gangstah crew. Hard looks, returned with interest.

The announcer stepped to the center of the ring, a middle–aged man with an elaborate hairdo wearing a bright–red tuxedo jacket with black shawl lapels. He held a microphone in one hand and a large index card in the other. Then he did the usual bit about welcoming us to the fabulous arena, announced each of the three judges by name, identified the State Boxing Commissioner and a bunch of other people. Then the referee. In the middle of his spiel, the two fighters walked toward the ring from opposite directions. Jenkins was resplendent in his pretty robe, surrounded by half a dozen different guys. Frankie's robe was wide black–and–white vertical stripes, like an old–time convict's uniform. Jenkins' handlers held the ropes for him to climb in the ring—Clarence did the same for Frankie. The cornermen removed their fighters' robes. Jenkins' blue trunks were a perfect match. Frankie's were striped the same as his robe too.

The referee called the fighters to the center of the ring, mumbled something. Jenkins looked much bigger than Frankie, a menacing scowl on his face. He glared at Frankie—Frankie gave him a blank stare back. The referee said to touch gloves. Frankie held his two hands out—Jenkins brought both fists down hard, said something I couldn't catch. The fighters went back to their corners, sat down.

Frankie opened his mouth for Clarence to insert the white rubber mouthpiece. The Prof leaned close to Frankie's ear, whispering something.

The bell rang.

Jenkins trotted out of his corner, circled to Frankie's left, up on his toes, firing a series of pretty jabs that Frankie caught on his gloves. Frankie shuffled forward methodically, working from a slight crouch, occasionally pushing a weak jab out.

"Let your hands go!" the Prof screamed.

Jenkins continued to circle, drawing cheers from the crowd with each flurry. Frankie cut off the ring, bulling Jenkins into a corner. But Jenkins spun away, slapping a glove to the back of Frankie's head as the crowd laughed.

Jenkins pop–pop–popped more jabs, then crossed with his right, catching Frankie flush on the jaw. Frankie stepped back, but quickly lowered his head and came on again. The bell rang with both fighters in the center of the ring throwing punches—Jenkins outspeeding Frankie by an easy three–to–one. Jenkins raised both hands over his head as he strutted back to his corner.

Clarence took the mouthpiece from Frankie, held a sponge to the back of the fighter's neck. A girl in a gold thong–back bikini pranced around the ring in matching spike heels, holding up a white card with a red 2 on it.

The Prof was saying something in Frankie's ear—I couldn't make it out.

The bell for the second round sounded. Jenkins was off his stool quickly, covering most of the distance between the fighters before Frankie took a single step. Jenkins flicked the jab. Frankie didn't move his feet, but he dropped his right shoulder, shifted his weight way over and exploded a pair of right hooks to Jenkins' ribs. Jenkins staggered backward, hands up to protect his face. Frankie threw another right hook, legs spread apart, feet planted for power. The crowd screamed as Frankie came on, hooking with both hands now. Jenkins dropped to one knee. The referee started to count. Jenkins was up at eight. The referee asked him if he was all right. Jenkins nodded, held his hands up to show he was ready. The referee wiped off Jenkins' gloves on the front of his white shirt, waved Frankie in.

Frankie shuffled forward as Jenkins retreated behind his flicking jab, maintaining distance. It didn't work—Frankie swallowed the jabs, a flash of white showing at his mouth. Either a smile or a snarl—I couldn't tell.

Jenkins still had his hands up, elbows against his chest, armor–plated. Frankie pounded away at what he was offered, smashing blow after blow to his opponent's forearms. Jenkins backed into the ropes. Frankie threw a left just below Jenkins' elbow, then followed with an overhand right to the temple. Jenkins lost his legs—his knees wobbled as he tried to pull Frankie into a clench. The referee separated the fighters, pushing Frankie back a few feet.

It didn't help. Frankie drove a right into Jenkins' kidneys and the other man went down—this time he didn't get up. A doctor came into the ring as Frankie walked slowly back to his own corner.

M
ax and I found Frankie back where he'd started the night. He had just stepped out of the shower and was toweling himself off.

"Good job," I told him.

The kid kept his head down, mumbled "Thanks." The Prof pulled himself up onto the table, used it for a chair as he spoke to Frankie. "You got to get
off first,
" he said to the fighter. "You was all warmed up before you went out there. What happened?"

"I…dunno," Frankie replied.

"That boy was all flash," the Prof said. "He couldn't hurt you with a fucking tire iron, right?"

"Yeah."

"Look, kid, you don't want to get a rep as a slow starter. You can't be giving away the first round every time—that makes the other guy brave."

Frankie's head came up, looking the Prof full in the eyes for the first time. "I know," he said.

A smile broke across the Prof's handsome face. "You hear that, schoolboy?" he said to me. "My man's got a plan. The other boy raps,
my
boy sets the traps. Beautiful!"

"You cannot be defeated, mahn," Clarence said to Frankie, as gravely as quoting the Bible.

Max tapped Frankie's shoulder to get his attention. Then he mimed throwing a right hook, bowed to Frankie. Frankie returned the bow. "How do I tell him thanks?" he asked me.

"You just did," I told him. I turned to the Prof. "You about ready to go?"

"I want Frankie to see the rest of the fights, all right? Only a fool cuts school."

We all went back outside, just in time to see another four–rounder come to an end, this time with both fighters standing. When the decision was announced, one of the fighters leaped into the air, waving a gloved fist in triumph—the other made an emphatic gesture of disgust. The crowd booed them both.

Frankie sat to my left, Max to my right. The Prof and Clarence went off somewhere, probably to arrange Frankie's next fight. Or to collect some bets.

We watched some paunchy heavyweights waltz around the ring to the thunderous boredom of the crowd. It was so bad that the ref tapped one of them on the shoulder when he wanted to cut in. I knew cable TV was desperate for product, but this was obscene—if it wasn't for the 10–point–must system, the sorry bout would have ended up a 0–0 double–draw loss. The crowd booed and hissed at the decision, disgusted that either of the slobs won. Like New York voters, wishing there was a Fuck–All–a–Youse choice on the ballot.

Finally, they announced the main event. Frankie sat up straight in his chair, taking it all in.

T
he Golden Boy was black. Twenty–one and zip, 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.