Free The Chief by Robert Lipsyte

that a hook?”
    â€œIsn’t that the tribe having all those gambling problems?”
    â€œI’m on a deadline, pal. You covering boxing or politics?”
    After a while the mob broke into little discussion groups, Alfred describing how he first met Sonny in a drug bust in the Port Authority in New York, Jake talking about the Nation, Richie explaining how he and John L. had taught Sonny everything he knew. Sonny was going over the fight, nanosecond by nanosecond.
    Suddenly, bodyguards started pushing people aside to make a path for Elston Hubbard, Senior.
    â€œEee-ficient work, young man, that was eee-ficient work.” Senior swam like a big black shark through the crowd. “We need to have a talk.”
    â€œTalk to my manager,” said Sonny, pointing to Alfred, wheeling up.
    â€œUh-huh,” said Senior. “But does he have the a-bility to take you to the top of the mountain,the men-tality, not to mention the mo-bility?”
    Alfred caught that last word, and his jaw clenched. I tried to think of something to say, but before I could, someone yelled, “It’s John L.,” and all the cameras swung around.
    John L. Solomon, in the famous black robe he wore when he was starting out, the Star of David over his heart, MACCABEE KID on his back, was moving toward Sonny, his arms open. His hands were already taped.
    â€œNever seen this before,” one of the reporters whispered. “Right before his own fight.”
    â€œBeautiful, Sonny Boy. You made me proud as a papa. Make me want to go out and do the same thing.”
    They hugged. Could those be tears in Sonny’s eyes? That would be an upset.
    â€œYou can do it, John L.,” said Sonny. “Beat Hubbard and beat the champ, and then…”
    â€œThen Sonny Boy gonna come after his papa,” roared John L.
    Everybody in the room laughed, but I looked at Sonny’s face and I suddenly knew what Sonny was thinking about: our first night in Vegas, he was thinking about Junior andSenior, his own dead father and John L., and then I thought, Now wouldn’t that be something—John L. and Sonny fighting for the heavyweight championship of the world.
    What more could a writer want?

16
    W E WATCHED THE MAIN event in John L.’s section with his family and friends. They pinched Sonny’s cheeks and pulled his ponytail. He just laughed along with them. A different Sonny. He seemed relaxed, easy in his skin. The sun setting behind the Oasis cast a sweet pink light over his face. I’d forgotten how good-looking he was. Strangers stopped to introduce themselves, give him business cards, notes. One woman tried to give him her hotel room key.
    â€œGonna get worse,” said Jake.
    â€œHope so,” said Alfred. They laughed.
    The ringside seats were swarming with women who would have worn more clothes in the pool and guys who were either actors playing gangsters or the real thing. Packed with jumpy, murmuring people, the parking lot was a theater-in-the-round now. The ring was the stage. It was still hot.
    Elston Hubbard, wearing a blue silk jacket that had SENIOR in white letters on the back, led his son down the aisle. The kid had JUNIOR on his back, and all the handlers had HUBBARD.
    â€œYou think Hubbard’ll try to muscle in on Sonny?” I asked Alfred.
    â€œCount on it.”
    â€œYou worried?” asked Robin.
    â€œIf he can help Sonny more than I can…” Alfred shrugged.
    There were endless introductions, athletes, actors, singers, comedians, and then the ring announcer, who looked like the father of the guy who’d announced Sonny’s fight, said, “And now, someone you’ll be seeing lots more of in the future—the sweat hasn’t dried on his one-round kayo of Dave Reynolds—let me introduce to you the Fighting Chief from Moscaloosa, Sonny Bear.”
    â€œMoscaloosa.” Robin made a face at Jake. “Chief.”
    â€œDon’t