Andrew Vachss: Footsteps of the Hawk

Mama made a clucking sound with her tongue. Then she turned and said something over her shoulder to one of the waiters. He bowed, disappeared. When he came back, he was holding a battered gray metal box. Mama opened the lid, reached inside without looking. Handed me a stack of hundreds.

"Five thousand," she said. "I get same piece as you and Max, okay?"

I nodded, awestruck as always with her ability to count money by feel.

Max and I played a few dozen more hands in our life–sentence gin game. Mama was more animated than usual, shouting advice at Max, once smacking him on the back of his head when he made a spectacularly boneheaded play. Max ignored the slap, but kept following her advice. As a result, I was up another three hundred bucks by noon. I made a steering gesture with my hands. Max flashed a smile— time to ride.

We took the FDR to the Triborough, exited at Bruckner Boulevard and motored peacefully until I found the block. It was dotted with Bronx burn–outs, abandoned buildings with that charred look they get after a while. The warehouse was set back from the street, past a concrete apron once used to load trucks. I pulled onto the apron, climbed out and activated the security systems. The Plymouth didn't look worth stealing and it came prevandalized— but even all that won't protect a car once you're into the Badlands.

Clarence was just inside the door, comfortable in an old easy chair, resplendent in a goldenrod silk jacket over a black shirt. He's always dressed to the nines— as in millimeter. The young gunman got to his feet, said "Burke" to me, bowed to Max.

"He's here?" I asked.

"Oh yes, mahn. My father is in the back, working with our gladiator."

Clarence led the way through a maze of young men. Some were skipping rope, others working heavy bags or speed bags. A makeshift ring was set up in the far corner. Most of the fighters were black, with a mixture of Latins and a pair of Irish kids who looked like brothers.

"Put that iron down, fool. You training for a fight, not a goddamn pose–off." It was the Prof, drawn up to his full height, which put him right around this kid's chest. The kid was holding a barbell in both hands, waist–high, listening intently. A big kid, maybe six two and a piece, looked like he went right around two hundred pounds. He had Rome stamped all over his features, especially his nose, but his skin was fair and he had blue eyes under black hair combed straight back from his forehead.

"Sammy said— " the kid started to say, but the Prof was on him quicker than you could bribe a politician.

"Sammy? That chump's game is lame. You listen to that big stiff, you be seeing your name in the obituaries, not on the sports page."

"Okay, Prof," the kid said.

But the Prof wasn't done. " This is what wins fights, boy," the little man said, pounding his chest with a clenched fist.

"I know," the kid said. "Heart— "

"I ain't talking about heart, kid— you didn't have heart, you wouldn't get in the ring in the first place. I'm talking conditioning, see? Pure conditioning. A good heart is a nice start, but a bad lung will get you hung. Got it?"

"Yes," the kid said. Serious, not sulky.

"Righteous. Now drop that bar and shake hands with my man. Burke, this is Frankie Eye, do or die."

"That's what he calls me," the big kid said, smiling. "It's short for Ianello."

He had a powerful grip, but he wasn't trying to impress anybody with it. His eyes were clear and direct, his stance respectful.

"And this here is Max the Silent. The life–taking, widow–making wind of destruction," the Prof told the kid, indicating Max. The Mongol warrior bowed. The kid had one hand stuck out but he quickly pulled it back, imitating Max's ceremony with a bow of his own. I didn't know if he could fight yet, but he was no dummy.

"Heavy bag's free," the Prof said to the kid. "Come on."

The kid followed the Prof over to the now–vacant bag, slipping on a pair of training gloves as he walked. He stepped up to the bag like a man going to work, started pounding it with alternating hands, left–right–left, a steady stream of hooks, breathing through his nose, well within himself. He had a perfect boxer's body— you couldn't see any muscle development until he moved.

The Prof stood to the side, watching the kid like an air–traffic controller with too many planes on the radar screen. The kid kept working the bag, steady as a metronome. When the Prof finally called a halt, the kid didn't look winded.

"We need a hundred punches a round. Hard punches. Every round," the Prof told the kid, tossing an old terry–cloth robe over his fighter's shoulder. "This whole game is about conditioning, remember what I said? You get tired, you get weak. You get weak, you go down." The kid nodded— he'd obviously heard all this before.

"What you think of our boy?" the Prof asked me.

"Don't know yet," I told him. The Prof knew what I meant. The world's full of good gym fighters— it's when they get hit that you find out the truth.

Max stepped forward, shaking his head in a "No!" gesture, pointing at the kid. He bowed to the Prof, pointed at the kid, then at himself.

"Forget that!" the Prof snapped at him. "Ain't no way in the world you gonna spar with my boy."

Max ignored the Prof, stepped close to the kid, guided him back toward the heavy bag. I pulled the robe off the kid's shoulders as Max turned him so he was facing the bag again. Max stepped behind the kid, put one hand on each side of the kid's waist, fingers splayed around to just below the kid's abdomen. When he nodded, the kid started to throw punches, slowly at first, then harder and harder. Max stepped away, bowed again, and changed places with the kid.

"Put your hands where Max had them," I told the kid. He tentatively put his gloved hands on either side of the Mongol, confused but going along.

Max ripped a left hook, a jet–stream pile driver that actually rocked the bag.

"Look at your hands," I told the kid. The kid's left hand was dangling in the air, his right still on Max's waist. He put his hand back, bent his shoulders forward so he was closer to Max. The warrior fired several shots with each fist. The kid lost his grip again. Max stepped away, pointed to the kid's hips, made a maitre d's gesture, inviting the kid back to the bag.

Frankie got it then. He took his stance, started slowly, driving each punch by torquing his hips, increasing the tempo as he felt it working. The heavy bag danced, the blows much heavier than when the kid first worked it. When he stopped, he was smiling.

"I never realized…" he said, turning to Max, bowing his thanks.

"Yeah, yeah— the mope can smoke," the Prof said, reluctantly acknowledging Max's expertise, guarding his own territory. "But fighting's a mind game. It's all in the head, Fred."

"When's he gonna go?" I asked.

"Friday night," the Prof said. "We got this showcase gig. Over in Queens. Exposure's good, and the purse could be worse."

"How much?"

"One large."

"That's not a whole lot to get beat on," I said, dubious.

"Look here, schoolboy. It ain't about bucks, not at first. Way I hear it, one of the cable scouts'll be there— it's their show. National, get it? There's a big–time shortage of heavyweights. And white heavies…hell, you can write your own ticket. They so desperate for white, they settling for some of those Afro–mocha, too–much–cream–in–the–coffee brothers. The heavyweights? I tell you, there ain't no bop in that crop. The ones they got, they just nursing them along. You see these clowns, records like thirty–two and oh. But they never fight each other, see? They got to have that undefeated record to get a shot. Then they score, but there ain't no more. One fight, that's right. And then it's over, Rover. We not going that route. Frankie's gonna fight anybody wants to play, all the way. So when he gets his shot, he drops the hammer."