The Chief (4 page)

T
HE RES LOOKED DIFFERENT
to me every time. At first it was like a foreign country, every sight and sound exotic. I still have my notes from those first days, two years ago.

I filled three audio cassettes with Jake's stories about how the Moscondaga fought in
every American war since the French and Indian, how they were cheated out of their lands and squashed into what was left of their reservation as the city of Sparta grew around them, and how the Nation lost its spirit.

Of all his stories, I liked best the ones about the Running Braves, a secret society of warrior-diplomats, always on call, always in training. A Running Brave could run a hundred miles, negotiate a hundred hours, fight to the finish, and speak with wisdom. The best of them could smell the breath of their prey a mile away and slow the beating of their hearts so an enemy would mistake them for dead. That was the “little death.”

Jake's grandfather, Sonny's great-great-grandfather, was the last of the Braves. Supposedly he'd been killed by a hit-and-run driver while he was out on his daily run. But Jake said he was murdered by government agents who were afraid the Braves would liberate the Moscondaga from the corrupt chiefs who had sold them out. According to Jake, the government thought that they had finished off the Running Braves when they killed Jake's grandfather.

But Jake knew the secrets of the Running Braves, their training techniques and the way of the Hawk, the spirit that can lead a Brave to his destiny. He had taught Sonny. In the beginning, the stories sent chills up my spine.

But by the third and fourth trips, the stories got old and the Res looked like a raggedy slum of sagging cabins and rusted trailers. Jake's house was a shabby yellow box in a sea of rust and chrome. The Clan Mothers started to sound like nagging grandmas.

I decided that the Running Braves were just a redskin gang. Great-great-grandpa was probably a drunk run over by another drunk.

By then, I was noting all the empty beer cans and whiskey bottles along the shoulders of the rutted, dusty roads, and the scrawny dogs that never stopped yapping at the pickup trucks burning rubber. I couldn't stand the smell of those greasy sausages.

It was a while before I began to see the Res as a community, a poor neighborhood where the people were lighter-skinned than in my neighborhood and with a different accent.

Indians are just people. What a revelation, Professor Marks!

Jake picked me up at the bus station in Sparta. He didn't look good; since the Viera fight, his face had gotten puffy and his eyes were almost shut. When his diabetes and heart trouble kicked in together, he swelled up and lost the lightness in his step. He was glad to see me, but we didn't talk much on the drive in. You have to shout with the windows open in his noisy old pickup truck, and he didn't have the energy.

I noticed that some of the cabins had been painted and there were more TV satellite receivers around, and a few new cars I hadn't seen before. We passed a backhoe and cement mixer on the road.

“What you seeing?” On the Res, Jake was always teaching, testing.

There was a brand-new Mercedes Benz outside the log cabin of one of the subchiefs, Joe Decker, whose grandfather had been one of the chiefs who took the government side when it banned the Braves. Now Decker was smuggling cigarettes from Canada and selling them in Sparta. Jake and Decker had words one time, and the next day Decker drove past Jake's place a couple of times in an open jeep with an Uzi on
his lap as a warning. I fired my finger at the Benz.

“I see that Decker and the cigarette gang got themselves a lucky strike.”

Jake shook his head. “Bingo money.”

“That's nickels and dimes.”

“Not if you lease your land for a bingo hall.”

“I don't understand. I thought the Nation voted against bingo.”

“Council of Chiefs said no bingo on the Res, but some folks said it was their land, not the Nation's, they could do what they wanted.” He jabbed a bony old finger down a road. I heard a bulldozer snarling. Dust drifted up over the trees. “Clearing land for a casino. Be poker, maybe slot machines.”

“Can't the chiefs stop it?”

“Not without people get hurt. Decker and his crowd think they gonna get rich.” He spat out the window. It was one way he punctuated sentences.

“Maybe they will,” I said. “People got rich in Atlantic City and Vegas.”

“Crooked white people. They'll come in here make Grandfather's Reservation into Godfather's Reservation.”

I laughed. “Great line, mind if I use it?” I jotted it down.

“Joke for you, maybe.” He clamped his mouth shut the rest of the way. When we pulled into his yard, his dogs scampered out, mean junkyard dogs, but once they recognized me they started whining to be rubbed. Especially the big white one called Custer. I always got a laugh out of his name.

Jake jabbed his thumb at the yellow house. “Up to you now. He won't talk to me. He's flyin' out in the morning.”

S
ONNY WAS SPRAWLED
in a reclining chair Jake had made from the bucket seat of a Volvo. There were empty beer cans around his boots. He didn't say anything when I walked in, didn't even look up, but that's the way he gets sometimes. I sat down near him. He was staring at two ESPN commentators blabbing about the heavyweight division. They said that everything was up for grabs, there hadn't been this much excitement since the days of Muhammad Ali.

“Got to get a piece of that action,” I said.

Sonny didn't twitch. But I knew there was still a chance to get to him. He was waiting to be convinced, he hadn't made up his mind yet. The Indian part of him was going to listen to everything before he made a decision. That's how Indians are—they can sit in a Longhouse for days, listen to everyone, examine every possibility. Which doesn't mean they always make
the right decision. But there was a chance. Jake knew that when he asked me to come up.

One of the ESPN commentators said, “The pot of gold at the end of the heavyweight rainbow has even drawn an old champion out of retirement. John L. Solomon, who admits to being thirty-nine years old, thinks he has a chance against Elston Hubbard, Junior, the twenty-one-year-old favorite in the big-boy sweepstakes. Here the great John L. trains with sparring partner Sludge Wilson.”

John L. Solomon looked pretty good for his age. He shuffled around the enormous gray-brown Sludge, popping punches at a shaved skull that resembled a mud bowling ball.

The picture dissolved into Solomon looking right into the camera and saying, “Sometimes kids need a
zetz
in the
tuchis,
as my Yiddishe momma used to say. That's why I'm coming back, first to spank Elston, then Floyd (The Wall) Hall, who is not worthy to wear the crown.”

Elston Hubbard's father came on the screen. “Old John was a worthy champion in his time but his time ain't this time, which is the fine time of my boy, Elston, Junior.”

Junior started sparring on the screen.

I said, “Alfred says Junior's dumb as a rock.”

Sonny finally looked at me. “You came all the way to tell me that?”

“Yeah.” The champion, Floyd (The Wall) Hall, appeared on screen and said something boring. “Floyd's not too swift either. He's the world's least colorful man of color.”

“If it was brains, you could be champ,” Sonny growled. I felt encouraged.

“You could whip any of these clowns.”

“So get the match.”

“You got to get it. You can't just sit here.”

“Not gonna just sit here.” He dug around the chair and brought up a fat envelope. He threw it to me.

The return address was for “Sweet Bear's Kiva,” so I knew right away it was from his mom. I took my time poking through the twenty-dollar bills and the one-way ticket to Phoenix and a newspaper clipping about the opening of Sweet Bear's third Indian crafts boutique. They were all in the lobbies of fancy hotels managed by her new husband, Roger Russo. I'd never met either of them, but in the
pictures they were a flashy couple. They'd made a ton of money with Indian crafts that Sonny's mom designed and then had manufactured in Singapore and Korea.

“You don't like Roger,” I said.

“Don't have to live with them.”

“Gonna work for them? Sell blankets?”

He sat up. “Don't want to talk about it.” After a while, he said, “What are you gonna do?”

“Go back to school.”

“What about your book?”

“You just knocked it out.”

“Sorry.” He actually sounded sorry, which made me feel bad, as if I'd purposely guilt-tripped him. Well, not all that bad.

“Doesn't matter. My professor doesn't like it anyway. Says I write like a white man.”

“Which one?” asked Sonny. “Shakespeare?”

I laughed. “Wish I'd thought of that.”

“Should of popped him.”

“I wanted to.”

Baseball players moved onto the screen, and Sonny started channel surfing until he clicked up MTV. A group called Dung Beetle was going nuts.

“Got some good fish for dinner,” said Jake, shuffling in. “Gonna start cookin'. You boys go feed the dogs, close up the yard.”

It was twilight. The cars and trucks in the junkyard were twisted animal shapes against the gray of Stonebird. Jake had always talked about Sonny doing his solo for three nights on the top of Stonebird, part of the ritual of a Running Brave. I pushed my luck.

“Can't leave—you haven't done your solo yet.”

“Got to get out of this dump before it blows,” said Sonny. “Gonna be big trouble behind this bingo.”

“Be something for the Res if you fought for the title.”

“Like they care. Decker told Jake last week he wanted only full-bloods living on the Res.”

“Your mother's father was a chief.”

He shrugged. We chased the dogs into the yard and closed the gates after them.

“What about Jake?” I asked.

“He can take care of himself.”

After we fed the dogs and locked the gates, we washed up under the outdoor pump. It was dark now, and somehow not seeing him clearly
made me feel closer to him, more confident.

“We're not done yet. Sonny. It's not over.”

“It's over. Gave my stuff away.”

“Henry's still got it.”

He took some deep breaths before he said, “You been a real friend. Got to face it.” His voice seemed small, faraway. Unsure? “We gave it our best shot.”

“We blew it.” I said it as harshly as I could. “We didn't go all the way.”

“You think so?” He was unsure. I had him on the ropes. Did I have the killer instinct?

“Remember that TV producer?”

“The one you got the warms for?”

“C'mon, that skinny little…”

“Sure.” He bumped me with his shoulder. “That old black owl head of yours did a three-sixty when she did that thing with her eyebrows.”

“You noticed.”

He laughed. “That girl was trouble.”

“But smart. We could go to Vegas and do the Muhammad Ali number.”

“Be serious.”

“I am. You saw those guys on TV. It's all gimmicks.”

“How would we get out there?” When I flapped my arms like wings, he asked, “How do we get the money?”

“You could cash your Phoenix ticket, and I got some money.”

“You into mugging now?”

“Put away.”

“School money?”

“Green money, what's it matter….”

“Look at you, fat black boy with glasses. If you don't go to college, you'll starve to death.”

“If it works, I could have a best-seller. Both be champs.” Had to give him my best shot now, the money punch. My left hook.

“Look, Sonny, this is for me as much as it is for you. If I'm really your friend, let's just do it.”

“You got a plan?”

Almost had him. “I'll figure it out on the way.”

He gave me a shove. “Let's eat first.”

Bingo.

T
HE WING DIPS,
and I follow it down through the clouds toward a sea of neon.

“Wake up. Sonny.” I shook his arm. He was already the world sleeping champion. “Vegas.”

“Later.” He burrowed deeper into the Moscondaga medicine pillow Jake made us take for luck.

“History, man. Your life.”

“I'll read about it in your book.”

“Here's the first line.” I snapped open the laptop. I hadn't given up on the present tense yet. No matter what Professor Marks says, it pulls you right into the action. “The wing dips, and I follow it down through the clouds toward a sea of neon.'”

“Sea of neon—I got to see this.” Sonny grunted and leaned across me to squint through the airplane window. “Looks more like all the crayons in the world melted down.”

“That's not bad.” I tapped it in. “You write the first draft.”

“You fight Hubbard.” Sonny laughed and went back to sleep.

Wish I could. I never liked Junior Hubbard. The old man was a windbag, a better TV actor than he was a fighter, even though he had won the middleweight championship, but the kid was just a dumbo who got lucky. Ever since he won the Olympic gold medal that should have been Sonny's, he got ink and airtime he didn't deserve, not to mention the best training money could buy and a steady supply of opponents, punching bags with arms, to fatten his self-confidence and his record. Hubbard was sixteen wins, twelve by knockout, and nothing close to a defeat. All the experts said that once he got past old John L. he'd get a crack at the champ.

“Give it a rest,” rumbled Sonny, closing the laptop on my fingers. Las Vegas rose to meet us, blinking like a crazy bloodshot eye. That was better than crayons, even better than sea of neon. You out there listening, Marks?

There were slot machines at the airport in Vegas, and they were getting plenty of action in the middle of the afternoon. We moved fast through the terminal, just carrying gym bags,
traveling light and loose. I hated to spend the money, but we jumped in a taxi. Couldn't chance missing Elston Hubbard's workout and having to waste another day. Besides, I was starting to feel nasty, ready to rock. Didn't want to lose the Fever. Don't get it that often. This was my show.

The land was flat and scrubby, sandy desert washed in a shimmering yellow light I'd never seen before. Riding into town we passed a huge billboard with Hubbard's picture on it. I elbowed Sonny. “Should be you up there.” I liked the gravelly sound of my voice.

The cabdriver said, “He's gonna win.”

“How come?”

“Old John L. ain't hungry no more. Once Jews get rich, they lose heart.”

“How you know I'm not Jewish?” I snapped.

He laughed.

“Sammy Davis, Jr., was Black and Jewish. So was Rod Carew, Major League Baseball Hall of Fame. The college professor and writer Julius Lester. Michael Jordan. So?”

He nearly drove off the road. “Michael Jordan?”

“How you think he made all that money?”

That shut him up for the rest of the trip. I didn't tip him. When we got out at the Garden of Eden Hotel, Sonny said, “Michael Jordan?”

“Made that one up. What does that redneck peckerwood honkie white trash cracker know?”

Sonny mimicked Jake. “That kind of talk don't get us anywhere.”

“Got us here,” I growled.

He squinted at me, as if he was seeing something new.

I liked that.