Free Warrior Angel by Robert Lipsyte Page A

away. The kid knew something about boxing.
    Sonny felt himself absorbed into the rhythms of the three-round flurries. He nodded encouragement at Starkey during the one-minute rests. “Way to go…pick it up.”
    After six rounds Johnson said, “Enough for today.”
    Sonny, breathing hard, dropped his arms and stepped back. For the first time, he noticed that trainers and boxers had formed a semi-circle behind him. Someone shouted, “Way to go, champ.”
    Sonny felt good. He was back.
    Cobra pushed out of the crowd, and said, “Dummy don’t have no arms to hit back.”
    Starkey said, “You’re the dummy with arms.”
    Laughter rippled through the gym. Cobra closed his fists, took a breath. He said to Sonny, “Your little brother got a big mouth.”
    Sonny glanced at Starkey, who looked proud of himself. You’re the dummy with arms was a line Marty Witherspoon had once used, Sonny remembered. It was in the book. So was a lot of information about Rocky, including one entire chapter on how to use the dummy to practice your offensive attack.
    So what, he’s read the book. Still, something felt a little creepy.

14
    T HAT NIGHT, WHILE they were cleaning up, Kim brought up Styrofoam containers packed with chicken, rice and beans, and salad from his takeout table. He fussed as he arranged the food on the table and left beaming as they dug in.
    Sonny seemed in a good mood, relaxed. He hummed over the food before he brought it to his mouth.
    â€œYou’ve got friends,” said Starkey.
    â€œKim liked Jake. Reminded him of his grandfather back in Korea.”
    â€œYou miss Jake?”
    Sonny shrugged.
    â€œWhat about Alfred?”
    â€œGot to call him one of these days.”
    Starkey felt a pinprick of anxiety. Sonny wants to see Alfred. Be careful, Starkey. Don’t forget that the Mission comes first. Saving Sonny, helping him reclaim his soul from the dark forces, means getting him back with hisold friends. You have to guard against your own feelings. Warrior Angels must not be jealous of relationships among Live Ones.
    Keep talking, don’t react.
    â€œOne thing I don’t get.”
    Sonny laughed. “Lucky, only one thing.”
    â€œChamps have people around them, bodyguards, entourages, posses to hang out with and do stuff.”
    â€œYou’re my posse.”
    â€œI’m serious.”
    â€œI know how to tape my own hands if I have to,” said Sonny.
    â€œWhat’s that mean?”
    â€œYou can’t depend on people.” He made it sound like the slamming of a door.
    When the classic-rock station Sonny had tuned in played a Beatles song, Starkey tried again.
    â€œBeatles,” said Starkey. “Do you like being named after a Beatle?”
    Sonny shrugged. When he doesn’t feel like talking, Starkey thought, he just locks up. That was in The Book, too.
    Sonny glanced over a drumstick. “You read the book?”
    Here we go again, the out-loud problem.
    â€œI read the entire book six times,” said Starkey. “Some parts I read a dozen times. I underlined the Running Braves stuff.” He saw that Sonny’s eyes were narrowing, his mouth tightening into a hard line, and he tried to stop but couldn’t.
    â€œThe Warrior Angels are sort of like the Running Braves. You try to help your people, too.”
    â€œMy people?”
    â€œThe Moscondaga Nation.”
    Sonny snorted. “Give me a break. Moscondaga Nation’s a joke. They spend most of their time fighting with each other. The old-fashioned Indians are waiting for the buffalo to come back and for the white man to go back to Europe. The new-fashioned ones are looking to sell out to the mob so they can get rich on a casino.”
    â€œAnd you tried to bring them together.”
    â€œBoth sides treated me like a cracker until I was champ.”
    â€œSo you feel more white than Indian?”
    â€œWhite people treated me