Footsteps of the Hawk

good manhunter needs except for one thing…patience. But maybe I'd underestimated him.

I couldn't do anything until tomorrow anyway I stopped back by the office, grabbed Pansy and took off for the Bronx.

'You are surely one beautiful girl,' Clarence said to Pansy, remembering her from a long–ago day in Central Park. Pansy doesn't understand words, but she reads tone of voice perfect— she rubbed her big head against Clarence's pants leg, purring deep. I left the two of them and went looking for the Prof.

'Sit down on those punches,' the Prof was barking at Frankie. 'This ain't no fencing match— drive those shots home. Come on!'

Frankie circled a thick–bodied black boxer in the sparring ring, stalking, not punching much. The other guy was so relaxed he looked almost sleepy, slipping Frankie's punches with practiced ease. Somebody rang the bell, and both fighters returned to their corners. The Prof was up on the ring apron in a flash, talking urgently to Frankie.

'You too light for the fight, boy? This ain't no aerobics class. Box the motherfucker, understand? Box him in. Punches in bunches, that's the ticket here. Now, go out there and dump that chump!'

Frankie nodded, never taking his eyes from the other guy, who was also seated, joking with his cornermen. When the bell rang, Frankie lumbered off his stool toward the center of the ring, holding out one gloved hand for the other fighter to touch. 'This ain't the last round, stupid!' one of the black guy's cornermen yelled.

'It is for you, sucker!' the Prof shot back.

Frankie bulled his way forward. The black guy backpedaled to the ropes, leaned against them easily, his sleek upper body glistening with sweat as if to emphasize how slippery he was. Frankie fired a left hook, grunting with the effort, then doubled with the same hand. The black guy slid away, but Frankie's overhand right was already launched. The black guy turned his head and the punch caught him on the neck. He stumbled once, and Frankie was on him like spandex, legs spread, knees locked, pounding hard enough to drive railroad spikes. The black guy tried to clutch Frankie but he was too late— the uppercut lanced between their bodies— the black guy's eyes rolled up and he went down face–first. Frankie turned away and came toward his corner, exposing his wrists so the Prof could take off the gloves.

Nobody bothered to count.

Frankie was breathing hard on his stool, but I could see he wasn't exhausted, just pumped up. The Prof kept up a steady patter of reassuring nonsense— Frankie didn't seem as though he was listening. He hit the showers. The Prof came over to where I was standing.

'Boy hits like a jackhammer, don't he?'

'Sure does,' I agreed. 'It's like a switch goes off in his head.'

'Yeah, that's the trick. That's what makes him tick. You trip that switch, he's one mean sonofabitch.'

'You know where the button is?'

'No. Sure don't, son. I thought it was a race thing when we first got started. But when Frankie goes on full boil, I don't think he sees color at all.'

'What, then?'

'I glommed his act, and that's a fact,' the Prof said. 'The kid would have been glad to have your father.'

'I never knew— '

'Right,' the Prof cut in, his tone closing the door. 'Look, schoolboy, Frankie's about ninety percent hate and twenty percent mean, but he only goes off inside the ropes. At least, now he does.'

'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