That night. The clubhouse of the Golden Dragons, a seven–room apartment on the sixth (top) floor.
(TONY and BILLY are the first to arrive from the Counts. LACEY motions him over to a quiet corner.)
LACEY: Listen, Tony, you want to be with us permanent, right?
TONY: Yeah, man. We proved that, I think.
LACEY: You surely did, brother. You a natural leader. But I got to talk somethin' over with you. The Black Barons sent The Messenger over to see us. Earlier. Before you got here. They not fuckin' around this tinge. They got the Egyptian Kings and the Harlem Raiders, plus a brother club, the Devil's Disciples. They got more than four hundred and fifty men, Tony, and they fixing to burn us all for what Rix did to Priest.
TONY: Holy shit, man! Can't you go to the Youth Board? Get them to cool it?
LACEY: Man, everyone knows the Youth Board ain't really for niggers. Besides, those Egyptian Kings, they just rumble, man…they ain't no social club. They even called off their war with the spic crews just to get at us. They got fuckin' guys in there must be thirty years old. I mean real gangsters, man. The Messenger said they emptied the treasuries of all the nigger clubs just to buy some death for us.
TONY: But first they got to call a War Council…
LACEY: They don't got to do shit! They say all the rules is gone for this one because they got to have the boy who blinded Priest. Man, they gonna go down without warning and they gonna jump guys in neutral turf and in school and even in they homes, man. They say vengeance by fire, man, you understand?
Nobody safe until they get Rix.
TONY: What…
LACEY: Yeah, that's like it is. The Messenger say they call the whole thing off if we give them Rix.
TONY: They want Rix to fight another one of their boys?
LACEY: Oh, man…they want to torture the cat. The Messenger says they have to cut off his balls and watch him bleed to death, pull out his eyes with pliers. They say he got to pay!
TONY: You mean like…fuckin' deliver him? Hand him over? What if we hip him and he cuts out…splits the neighborhood for good?
LACEY: Don't be crazy, man. They will know how he knew and we will all pay the fuckin' price. The niggers are crazy behind this one. Anyway, with all the shit on the street, the cops must know one of you guys burned that cop. Somebody got to pay for that, too.
TONY: I got to make a decision.
LACEY: I been talkin' to you like a brother, man. But the only decision you got to make is if Rix dies by himself, dig?
RIX arrives at the clubhouse to a party in progress. He is greeted like a conquering hero by the Dragons. Representatives from white gangs from all over the' city are there. At 2:30 AM.,
LACEY goes over to Rix, puts his arm around his shoulders.
LACEY: How's it feel, man? To be the baddest cat of all?
RIX: I'm feelin' no pain, man. I shoulda killed the fuckin' nigger.
LACEY: Listen, Rix. We got a pound of smoke and an ounce of snow stashed over near the border, in spic territory. And you know that fine spic whore, the one they call Rondella? Well, she wants to meet you, man. She heard what you did, baby, and she thinks she be safe from niggers, she was your woman. We always keep the stuff over at her home 'cause her mother works this night shift at the hospital. We called, man, and she wants you to pick up the stuff personally. She waitin' on you. Don't worry about the turf, either. I have ten good men go with you, like an escort for a king, man. They watch the house while you inside with her. And they be fully heeled, with pistols, man. Nothing but the best for my new Warlord.
RIX: Hey, beautiful, man. I don't need no escort, but if you want…
(The phone rings. One of the Dragons says it's for LACEY.)
LACEY: Man, I told you I will deliver and I will. Just hold tight for an hour or less. Yeah….
(RIX is putting on his neo club jacket. Beneath the embroidered golden dragon is the red legend WARLORD.)
LACEY: Rix, man, you gettin' ready to go?
RIX: Man, I gettin' ready to come!
(Laughter chases him out the door.)
Warrior
The Golden Boy was black. Twenty–one and 0, with seventeen KOs. He was as sleek as an otter—all smooth, rubbery muscle under glistening chocolate skin. He wore royal purple trunks with a white stripe under an ankle–length robe in matching colors, his name blazing across the back: Cleophus "Cobra" Carr.
Tonight he was the main event, a ten–rounder. Middleweights, they were supposed to be, but they called Carr's weight out at one sixty–four.
There was a lot of betting in the mid–priced seats just past ringside—betting how long the fight would go before Carr stopped the other guy.
Nobody knew the opponent—he was the last–minute replacement for the guy Carr was supposed to fight. He walked to the ring by himself, wearing a thin white terry–cloth robe. His trunks were black.
The announcer pointed to the opponent's corner first. Manuel Ortiz. Dragging the last name out way past two syllables—Orrrr–Teeese! Ortiz was fifty–six and sixteen, with thirty–two KOs. Originally a welterweight, he'd go up or down…wherever there was work. They had him at one fifty–nine tonight.
Maybe he had dreams for this once—now it was a part–time job.
I knew his story like it was printed in a book. He got the call the day before, finished his shift at the car wash, got on the Greyhound and rode until he got to the arena—I could see it in his face, all of that.
Carr was twenty–two. He'd gone all the way to the finals at the Olympic Trials before turning pro two years ago. They said Ortiz was thirty, shading it at least a half dozen. The guy who managed him worked out of a phone booth in a gym somewhere near the Cal–Mex border. His boxers always gave good value—they wouldn't go down easy, didn't quit, played their role.
The fighters stepped to the center of the ring for their instructions. Carr had three men standing with him, one to each side, the third gently kneading the muscles at the back of the middleweight's neck. Ortiz stood alone—the cornerman they supplied him with stayed outside the ring, bored.
Carr gave Ortiz a gunfighter's stare. Ortiz never met his eyes. That was for younger men—Ortiz was working. I could feel the Pachuco cross tattoo under the glove on his right hand….I knew it would be there.
The referee nodded to the fighters. Ortiz held out his gloves, just doing as he was told. Carr slammed his right fist down against them. The crowd cheered, starting early.
The bell sounded. Carr snake–hipped out of his corner, Bring a quick series of jackhammer jabs. Ortiz walked forward like a man in slow motion, catching the jabs on his gloves and forearms, pressing.
Carr danced out of his way, grinning. I dropped my eyes to the canvas, watching parallel as Carr's white leather boxing shoes ice–skated over the ring, purple tassels bouncing as Ortiz's black lace–ups plodded in pursuit.
Deep into the first round, Ortiz hadn't landed more than a half–dozen punches. He kept swarming forward, smothering Carr's crisp shots, his face a mask of patience. Suddenly, Carr stopped back–pedaling, stepped to the side, hooked off his jab and followed with a smoking right cross, catching Ortiz on the lower jaw. Ortiz shook his head—then he stifled the crowd's cheers with a left hook to Carr's ribs.
The bell sounded. Carr raised his hands, took a quick lap around the ring, like he'd already won. Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool. His cornerman held out his hand to take the mouthpiece, splashed some water in the fighter's face, leaned close to say something. Ortiz didn't change expression, looking straight ahead—maybe the cornerman didn't speak Spanish.