The Chief Read Free Page B

fights, only…”
    â€œI know what smokers are,” says Robin, annoyed.
    â€œThey found out about them at the last minute and disqualified Sonny because he wasn’t an amateur. Hubbard went on to win the Olympic gold medal and here we are, picking up meatball fights in nowhere towns.”
    I suddenly realize I’m doing all the talking. Jake’s eyes are closed; he could be sleeping, he could be going into the Moscondaga “little death,” he might just be resting his eyes. Alfred has wheeled off to the bathroom. He’ll be gone for a while. After a long, tough day the tubes and plastic bags that catch his wastes could be backed up, or at least tangled.
    â€œYou’re kind of an interesting group,” says Robin. Her pen is poised over her notebook. “How’d all you guys get together?”
    â€œThat’s another book,” I say. I notice that one of Jake’s eyes is open a crack. “Ask Jake—it goes way back.” His eye shuts.
    The waitress bustles up. I can do this order in my sleep: deluxe burgers for me and Sonny, sausage and eggs for Jake, dry toast and tea forAlfred. Win or lose, always the same food after a fight. Robin orders yogurt and coffee.
    Sonny stomps back. “Got any quarters? Don’t even have a bill changer here.”
    â€œAll the quarters you need in Vegas,” says Robin.
    Alfred wheels back. “What am I missing?”
    â€œYou should go to Las Vegas and make Hubbard fight you.”
    Jake’s eyes open.
    Sonny snorts. “What kind of TV shows you make? Fantasy?”
    â€œThat’s what Muhammad Ali did,” says Robin. “Made so much noise they had to fight him. It’s all publicity and connections.”
    â€œJust what we don’t have,” says Alfred.
    â€œYou’ve got to make your own publicity and connections. Marty’s got a big mouth.”
    Sonny looks at her as if she’s crazy and Alfred rolls his eyes, but Jake says, “Keep talking.”
    â€œWell, what’s Sonny’s big selling point? What makes him different from every other wanna-be champ?”
    â€œThe Indian card doesn’t always play,” I say. “You media types may love Indians, but out in the boonies…”
    â€œWe’re talking big-time media now, New York, L.A. Stories in USA Today, on CNN, then the Times and the networks.” Her dark eyes were snapping. They’re all out there in Vegas looking for things to write about. The champ is boring, Hubbard’s a lox, and after you’ve seen John L. Solomon do his Yiddish shtick, it’s over. They’d love a real live native warrior.”
    The food comes and I say, “So what do we do, ride out to Vegas on our pinto ponies and threaten to scalp Hubbard if he won’t fight us?”
    â€œI’m serious,” she says.
    â€œSo are we,” I say. “You may think this is kind of cute, hustling Sonny like a lounge act, but he’s no sidewalk Indian, he’s got the blood of the Running Braves….”
    Sonny drops into his seat. “C’mon, not you, too.”
    â€œRunning Braves?” The eyebrows almost touch her hairline. “What’s Running Braves?”
    â€œForget that,” says Alfred. “You got a plan?”
    â€œNot really, I just think you guys have to go out there and make things happen. Put yourselves into play.” When the food comes, Robin grabs the check. “When you’re champ, you’ll owe me.”
    â€œDon’t save your appetite,” says Sonny.
    â€œIf you get off your butt, you’ll make it,” she says. “Because in your heart you really want it.” She bores right into Sonny with those dark eyes. “You’ve got the killer instinct, Sonny, and what looks like a helluva left hook. You fought hurt and you would’ve put him away, without a right hand, without a left eye, you still would’ve won, if the