Footsteps of the Hawk

After a few minutes of product–pushing perjurers, I got lucky— an old episode of the Andy Griffith show— one I hadn't seen before. There was this guy, came to Mayberry from some other place. And the townspeople, they really treated him like shit, like he was a foreign spy or something. Finally, Sheriff Andy read them all the riot act… about how they should be flattered that this guy picked Mayberry to be his home town… how most folks don't have a choice. Kind of like the difference between adoption and birth.

I don't have a home town. New York isn't anybody's home town. It's different in other places. If you're a Chicago boy or a Detroit girl, the local papers treat you special. You're home–grown, and that counts for something.

Not here. In this city, PTA groups are more worried about the metal detectors' working than whether their kids are learning to read. Confidence is crumbling faster than the infrastructure. People with options flee this city— then they sit around in the suburbs whining about how much they miss the 'energy.'

When I got out of prison one time, I went over to Two Dollar Dominick's to get a haircut. I don't know why they called it that— there never was a guy named Dominick there. It was a little two–chair shop. Full service, though— you could get a manicure, your shoes shined, bet on a horse, borrow some cash…the works. Anyway, a haircut always used to be two bucks, but I'd been away a long time. When Angelo was finished cutting my hair, I asked him, 'How much does a haircut go for now?'

The old man hadn't seen me for five years or so. He just looked me in the eye, said, 'For you, it's still two bucks.'

That was the closest I ever felt to having a home town.

Angelo, he's gone now. To the one retirement community where everybody gets the same pension.

I slept in late the next morning— I knew I'd be up a long time once it got dark. I had breakfast with Pansy, then I went over to the restaurant to find Mama debriefing Max about last night's fight. The Mongolian was showing her each and every move, acting it all out. Mama's eyes had that glazed–over look people get when they're stoned on boredom, but Max was relentless. I never saw Mama so glad to see me.

'Burke! Our boxer won, yes?'

'Did it easy,' I told her.

'How much money we make?'

'Mama, we didn't make any money. The whole purse was only a thousand dollars and— '

'So! A thousand dollars. How many investors?'

'No, Mama, that's not the way it works, okay? We have to pay the training expenses…like for the use of the gym and all. And we have to keep getting Frankie money so he can pay his rent and eat and all. This isn't any part– time gig with him— he has to be in training all the time. He's gotta go a long way before we can start taking money out.'

'But what if he wins championship? That is worth millions, yes?'

'Sure. But that's a long dark road to walk. And it's booby–trapped too— if he keeps winning, the other guys won't want to fight him. You need connections to move up in that business.'

'Boxing is crooked?' Mama asked, as though shocked by the very possibility.

'Sure. The big thing is, you gotta know people, understand?'

'Oh yes, understand. I know people too.' She smiled.

I shook my head sadly. Mama knew money was the grease that lubed the gears of government, but she was used to Hong Kong style, where a bought politician stayed bought— that kind of honorable corruption doesn't play down here. 'It's pretty tricky, Mama,' I told her.

'Oh, okay,' she said happily. 'You fix it, yes?'

'I'll do my best,' I promised.

I explained what I needed from Max, but he acted like I wasn't coming through clearly. I tried to change channels on him— he wasn't going for it. He kept it up until I signed we could go up to the gym….All of a sudden, he was reading me perfect.

I wasn't sure Frankie would be back to work so soon after last night's fight, but as soon as I spotted Clarence at the door, I knew he was.

'We got another bout. Two weeks,' the Prof said, watching Frankie spar against a big, flabby Latin guy. The gym was quieter than usual, most of the fighters watching the action in the ring. Frankie wasn't as quick as you'd think for his size. He was only a few pounds over the cruiserweight limit, but he slogged along like an out–of–shape heavy. The Latin guy was leaning all over Frankie, smothering him with his bulk, crowding away Frankie's punching power.

'Give him angles!' the Prof screamed. Frankie stepped to his left, dropped his left shoulder, but instead of the left hook the Latin guy figured was coming, Frankie looped his right hand over the top, catching the Latin flush on the chin. The Latin guy grinned to show he wasn't hurt, opening his hands wide to invite Frankie in. Frankie accepted the invitation…and stopped in his tracks when the Latin flashed a quick left to the heart. Frankie's knees trembled, but his body kept moving forward. Both fighters were still punching when someone rang the bell.

The Prof stepped to one side of Frankie, me to the other. 'That's enough rounds for one day,' the Prof said to the kid. 'Three is the key.'

'One more round, blanquito?' the Latin yelled across the ring.

'What's that mean?' Frankie asked.

'Means 'pussy,'' the Prof said before I could tell the kid the truth.

Frankie came off his stool, gloved hands fumbling with the chin strap to his protective headgear, pulling it off his head. He spit out the mouthpiece halfway across the ring. 'Come on, bitch!' Frankie shouted.

The Latin launched off his stool, spit his own mouthpiece to the floor as the crowd started cheering. He was probably forty pounds heavier than Frankie but his hands were faster. He caught Frankie two quick ones to the face— blood blossomed around Frankie's mouth, his teeth flashing white underneath. Frankie drove the bigger man backward with a relentless barrage of punches, finishing with a vicious shot just below the belt. The Latin went down cupping his groin. Frankie loomed over him, right hand cocked, not retreating to a neutral corner. Half a dozen people jumped into the ring, but Max was first, throwing his body between Frankie and a pair of Latins who wanted to pick up where their pal had left off. Max wrestled Frankie back to his corner, and then out of the ring entirely. The warrior kept his grip on the kid, walking him over to a bench against the far wall.

Clarence dabbed at Frankie's face with a rag that smelled of peroxide.

The kid was breathing easily, but his eyes were still wild. 'Nobody calls me a— '

'He didn't,' I interrupted. 'Blanquito just means 'whiteboy.' It ain't no gesture of respect, true enough, but it's a long way from 'pussy.''

'So why'd the Prof— ?'

'To see if you went lame when they called your name, fool,' the Prof said over my shoulder— I hadn't seen him come back.

'You got to— ' the Prof started, then stopped when he felt Max's paw on his shoulder. The warrior stood in front of Frankie, making sure he had the fighter's attention. Then he pointed at me, flattening one hand so he could sign without the kid seeing what he was doing. Max made one of the few universal gestures, the kind that you don't need either sign language or speech to understand— he gave me the finger, hidden behind his other hand. Then he nodded rapidly and stood back. Max and I were facing each other so Frankie was looking right between us.

Max held up his index finger. One. Then he nodded at me again. I shot Max the finger— he responded by cowering, covering his face as if in terror. After a few seconds, he shook his head from side to side. NO.

Max held up two fingers. Two. He nodded at me. I repeated the finger gesture— Max leaped forward, snarling, perfectly miming a man out of control. Then he shook his head again. NO.

Then Max held up three fingers, but this time the warrior turned to face Frankie flush, extending his right arm as far forward as it would go, one finger pointing out from his closed fist. Then he did the same with his left arm, two fingers pointing out in that direction.

Max took a small step backward, bringing his two hands together in a flowing gesture of harmony. When his