Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

"You think he's bent?"

"He ain't no saint, but that don't mean he's gonna start stomping citizens. I think he's okay. Far as I can tell, anyway."

"You got another TV fight for him?"

"Yeah. Over in Jersey. At one of the casinos. Another undercard thing, but the exposure's great."

"You got a minute, talk about something else?" I asked.

"We're off the yard, but I'm still on guard," the little man said. "Run it."

I was almost through the entire rundown when Frankie came outside to where the Prof and I had been sitting on the loading dock— it's not a good move to smoke inside a working gym.

"Am I…?" Frankie let his voice trail away.

"You're cool, kid," the Prof said. "Me and schoolboy here was just discussing old times."

"How far back do you go?" Frankie asked.

"To the beginning," I told him. "When I met the Prof, I was doing time. It wasn't a big thing to me— I'd been doing it all my life, since I was a kid. The Prof showed me the ropes, showed me how I could get out. Stay out, too. Before I met him, it was just the jail–house or the graveyard— that was my whole future."

"He taught you all that?" Frankie asked, his face close to mine, really wanting to know.

"More," I assured him.

"I was inside," he said quietly. "How'd you get past the…race thing? I mean, inside, you can't…"

"I come from a different generation," I said. "When I was inside, you measured a man by what he did on the bricks. What his fall was for, right? And how he did his time. That's what you looked at. I don't mean there wasn't racial stuff. You got that out in the World too— it's always around. But the Prof had…I don't know, status. He was respected. A professional. He was the only one to really look at me. The only one who could see what I was."

"It's different in there now," Frankie said.

"I know," I told him. "It doesn't matter— I'm not going back."

"Me neither," the kid said quietly.

"You was mad at that boy?" the Prof asked Frankie. "Your sparring partner?"

"No," Frankie said, honestly puzzled.

"Then what set you off?"

"I…don't know. It's always something. I see…colors, like. Bright colors. Not with my eyes, inside my head. When that happens, I feel the blood in me. Only it's not like blood, it's like…acid or something."

"It's okay," the Prof reassured him. "Inside those ropes you can do anything you want. Except lose. There's no room for that, honeyboy. You get jobbed on a decision, you get flattened, it won't matter— the blame's the same. You lose and we can still get you fights, but then you're just working for a living, getting beat on. I don't tell lies, we want the prize. The big thing, see? One real score, then we don't need no more.

"What would I do if I didn't— ?"

"Fight? Fuck, what do I care? Take up fishing, go into group therapy. Find a good woman and have a dozen kids. Join the motherfucking Peace Corps. It don't matter what you do, you'll have choices, see? That's what it's about. That's your trip ticket, Frankie. First day you walk out of the joint, freedom looks as fine as a brand–new Cadillac, don't it? But that kitty ain't going nowhere 'less you got the gas money, right? The honey's in the hive, son— ain't no way you get nice without paying the price. You with me?"

"Yeah," Frankie said slowly, nodding his head, a heavy lock of black hair falling over his forehead. He looked closer to sixteen than twenty–six.

"We fight this Cuban guy next," the Prof said. "Montez. Big stupid fuck, got a whole bunch of KOs against patsy setups. Fights like a schoolyard bully— looks for the fear in your face. And he can't hit backing up. But he's got a nice record, maybe eleven straight. We take him out, the next one's for real cash, see? Do him in one, and the deal is done, got it?"

"I got it, Prof," Frankie said.

"Go run your sprints," the little man replied, turning back to me.

"Sprints?" I asked the Prof. "I thought fighters did road work."

"That's all bullshit," he responded. "It ain't no marathon the kid's training for. He runs fifty yards full tilt, then fifty half–speed. Then he jogs for a couple of hundred, then he starts again. What you need in the ring is not to get tired, but this ain't no footrace— the other guy's hitting you, all right? Frankie's got to be able to go in bursts …full–tilt, all–out, pedal–to–the–metal. And he's gotta be able to do that every round. He does that and, sooner or later, the other guy goes to sleep. I been studying this all my life— I know what I'm doing."

"Did you ask Max— ?"

"I ain't asking that Mongolian misfit nothing , understand? I'm training a fighter, not a fucking Zen Buddhist."

"Okay, Prof, don't get worked up. I was just— "

"Flapping your gums," he finished for me. "How many times I saved your sorry ass, schoolboy?"

"Too many to count," I acknowledged.

"And now you come around asking me to do it again, right? And you're gonna give me advice? Fuck a whole bunch of that!"

"Hey, I'm sorry, Prof. I was just trying to help."

"You want to help, stay on the shelf. I'll handle Frankie."

"Okay," I surrendered. Then I went back to telling him about Belinda.

"What the fuck is that ?" I heard a voice asking just as I turned the corner to the doorway area of the gym. I took another couple of steps and saw a Latin bantamweight with a kit bag in one hand. He was facing Clarence, who was seated at the front desk, one hand idly scratching behind Pansy's right ear. Pansy eyed the Latin like she had a taste for Mexican food, but she didn't make a sound.

"This is a pit bull, mahn," Clarence told him, straight–faced.

"There ain't no pit bull in the world that big," the Latin guy challenged.

"This is a West Indian pit bull," Clarence told him, embellishing the lie to give it texture. "Direct from the Islands."

"Damn!" the Latin guy responded. "You know where I could get one?"

"No, mahn, that is not possible. Listen to me now It is not enough that you go to the Islands, you must be from the Islands, understand? These are very, very special dogs…"

The Latin eyed Pansy dubiously, indecision all over his face. "You…fight him?" he asked.

"That is not done," Clarence said, his tone dead serious, not bothering to correct the Latin's gender error. "On the Islands, these dogs are not for fighting other dogs. We love our dogs."

"Yeah, but— "

"These dogs only fight people, mahn. Understand?"

"I guess…" the Latin said, walking past me, shaking his head.

I took a seat on the desk, looked at Clarence. "A West Indian pit bull?" I asked.

"I think that is probably true, mahn," Clarence replied, deadpan. "You see how royally she stands. You see the pride in her carriage. That is nobility, mahn. It does not matter where she came from, Pansy is a West Indian in her heart. I know this."

"Yeah, okay," I agreed, being reasonable.

But Clarence wasn't going for it. "I can prove it, Burke. You watch this. Watch close now." He reached into one of those little iceboxes that look like tool chests, came out with something that looked like a fat dumpling. Pansy immediately started salivating, eyes almost spinning with rapture. "May I tell her the word, mahn?" he asked.

I nodded. Clarence said " Speak!, " tossing the dumpling in Pansy's general direction. She snapped it out of the air like an alligator— a perfect one–bite chomp.

"That, mahn, was a Tower Island beef patty. Pure Jamaican. I tell you something else, too. Pansy, she loves Red Stripe. You see, her natural diet is West Indian."

"You might be right," I acknowledged, not bursting his bubble. Truth is, Pansy would eat damn near anything— she has a digestive system like a trash compactor and no taste buds. I snapped the lead on her collar, threw Clarence the clench, and got back into the Plymouth.