Blossom

number where I can call him tomorrow night— anytime he says. And have the Prof leave a number with you too. I need to talk to him.'

The hum hung up.

42

I LOOKED AT more racetrack sites until lunchtime. Found one that looked good. Stock-car track at Illiana, right on U.S. 30. In Schererville, close enough to Virgil's house so I could be in the neighborhood.

The Lake County Public Library was on the same highway. Ultra-modern, all glass. The young black woman at the reference desk showed me where to find the back issues of the Post-Tribune on microfiche. I scrolled through. Whenever I came across a story on the sniper killings, I pushed the button for a copy. My attache case was stuffed by the time I left.

43

THAT NIGHT, we started Lloyd's survival school.

Virgil taped the kid's hands from wrists to knuckles. Slapped a wide band across Lloyd's mouth.

'That's to teach you to breathe through your nose,' I told him. 'When you get scared, you breathe through your mouth— take in too much air. It helps you panic. That's not what we want, okay?'

The kid nodded, watching.

'You're going to start on this heavy bag. No jabs. That's okay for the ring, not for inside. Hooks. That's all we want. Both hands. Nothing to the head. Everything to the body. Stand close. We want a hundred punches in a row. Without stopping. You're not going to get it right away— it takes time. But a hundred punches. Real punches. That's what we're working for.'

Virgil stood behind the heavy bag, steadying it with his hands. The kid walked over to it, drew a deep breath through his nose, fired a left hook, a right, another left. His arms dropped— he was out of breath.

I put my hands on the back of his shoulders. He was covered with sweat under the T-shirt. 'Don't take a big breath and hold it. Nice shallow breaths. In and out. You stop breathing, you stop punching, okay?'

He nodded, weak but game.

'And stand closer, Lloyd. You'll always be fighting bigger guys. Get close so their arms reach over your shoulders.' Virgil left the bag, came over to stand in front of me. He was taller. I stepped into him, face against his chest, dropping my shoulders, hooked toward his body in slow motion. Virgil's long arms reached past me, hands slapping against my back.

Lloyd nodded. Stepped into the heavy bag, firing hooks, right, left, right, over and over. This time he went a good fifteen seconds before he ran out of gas. The kid raked air into his nose, holding his stomach.

'Much better,' I told him. 'But stop punching with your arms. You're doing this…' I stood in front of the bag, feet planted, launched a hook as I twisted my shoulder into the punch. The bag popped. 'That look pretty good to you?' I asked him.

He nodded, eyes sharp on the target.

'Looks don't get it in a fight,' I told him. 'That was an arm punch. Like you've been throwing. The power comes from here.' Putting my thumbs on my hip bones, fingers spraying down to my upper thighs. Twisting my hips in slow motion as I got off another hook. 'See? Turn your hip into the punch— what you got from the waist up isn't enough to really drive, all right? Watch…' I double-hooked the bag with my left hand, popped in a right, switched back to the left. Virgil nodded approval.

Lloyd came back to the bag, stepped in, and launched a jet-stream hook from somewhere around his ankles. Virgil pushed the bag against him as the blow landed and Lloyd hit the floor. He jumped to his feet and swung even harder. This time he stayed on his feet, but he was so off-balance he couldn't throw another punch. I went back to work.

'Plant your feet. Spread 'em apart. Yeah, that's it…a little more. Don't punch at the bag, punch through it. Yeah! Drive those shots, Lloyd! Balance, balance.' I kept my hands on his hips, not letting him get too far out of alignment. 'Alternate the punches. Double up on the left. Drive, damn it! Drop down with those shots— lower. There's no below- the-belt crap where you're going. Don't be admiring your work, drive!

'The kid staggered forward, face green. I ripped the tape off. Vomit rushed out. Virgil wiped him off with a damp rag. Patting him on the back. 'You doin' good, Lloyd. I felt those punches, son. Hit the showers, okay?'

The mountain man looked at me. 'He was throwing up inside that tape…never even thought about ripping it off himself.'

'He'll get it. He's got the hate, just needs some technique.'

'He's one of us,' Virgil said. Pride in his voice.

44

TRAINING A FIGHTER isn't all inside the ring.

'How much time we got?' Virgil asked me.

'I'm seeing the lawyer tomorrow. Tomorrow night, I'll make a call to the city. Ask this cop I know if he'll front me some references. It all comes together, it's time for Lloyd to come in.

'We're good here till forever. Just say the word.'

When Lloyd came back inside, we started on the hard part.

45

'PRISON'S NOT like jail,' I told Lloyd. 'Prison, there's nobody coming to the gate with bail money. You're down for a long time. You count the days. Some guys, they got too much time to count for themselves, so they look to take a piece of yours.'

The kid nodded, focused like he'd never been in school.

'It's like the street, only…compressed, you got it? Everything happens close up. There's no place to go. No place to hide. So you give nothing away. Nothing. Never. Look down or look hard. Your face stays flat. You don't smile, you don't cry. And you protect your space…the space you carry around with you…the space around your body.'

'Don't take nothing from nobody,' Virgil put in. 'Nothing good, nothing bad. Inside, it's all the same. Guy offers you a smoke— no, thanks. Guy tells you the only way to get along is get down on your knees, you don't argue with him— you got to hurt him. Before he finishes the sentence. Right then.'

'The counselors…'

'Guards, son. Hacks, screws, cops…don't matter what you call them. But they ain't no counselors inside. What a counselor does, you tell him this booty bandit got your name on his list, he asks you maybe you want to talk about it. You talk about it, you end up in PC. Protective Custody. Only it ain't protected, just custody. Close custody. Like solitary.'

'Okay.'

My turn. 'There's three ways to survive inside, Lloyd. Remember what the Prof used to say, Virgil? Cold, crazy, or connected— that's the only way to play.'

'I miss that man.'

'Who's the Prof?' the kid wanted to know.

'He's this little black dude,' Virgil told him. 'Tiny. Got the magic in him. Like some preachers got.' I felt Lloyd stiffen. If Virgil noticed, he didn't show it, continuing on in the same voice. 'Most of the time, he talked in rhyme.' The mountain man chuckled. 'Like I guess I just did. He's been jailing since they made jails. I never had much truck with black folks till I went down. Didn't hate them or anything, like some did where I'm from. Just never knew one to really talk with, understand? Anyway, the Prof, it's short for Professor. Or Prophet. He's a truth-teller. And a