Warrior Angel by Robert Lipsyte

out.
    â€œMan, you nailed that sucka, Elston,” said Malik, “you—”
    â€œShut up. Sonny—who this Warrior Angel?”
    â€œSome fan, I guess.”
    â€œYou give him a private e-mail?” Hubbardwas advancing again.
    Sonny remembered a moment late one night in the latrine at Whitmore, the X-Men advancing on him, demanding he join their gang. He’d stood up then, and ended up stabbed on the white tile floor. Be cool, Sonny. Swallow the monster down.
    Sonny shrugged.
    Malik said, “Must be a hacker, right? Hacked in.”
    Hubbard didn’t look convinced. “Fight in less than five weeks, Sonny. No time for deestractions. You got to focus, get your game back. You got to be like a monk.”
    Sonny thought, Like a prisoner, but didn’t say anything.
    â€œSo. No more e-mail, he-mail, she-mail, just rest and train,” said Hubbard. “Any video games you want, movies, CDs, you just tell Boyd or Malik. Booked a gym across town, no one bother us, start running tomorrow morning. Okay?”
    Boyd and Malik nodded like bobblehead dolls.
    Hubbard pointed down at the laptop. “Lose it.”
    â€œNeed it for my work,” squeaked Malik.
    Hubbard mimicked him. “Need it for my work.” He stomped on the laptop, driving the heels of his boots into the screen until it cracked. “Your work is what I tell you to do.”
    Hubbard picked up the computer and hurled it against the wall so hard, it gouged out a chunk. He marched out of the room and slammed the door. Sonny could hear him shouting at the guards in the hallway that there were terrorists out to get Sonny, to shoot on sight.
    Malik was down on his knees, cradling the broken laptop like a doll. “Why he have to—”
    â€œWe’ll get another one,” said Boyd. He put his hand on Malik’s shoulder.
    Sonny edged past them, scooped up the two pieces of Dr. Gould’s torn business card, and slipped back into his bedroom. Got to think.
    He was twenty stories up. The windows were bolted shut. Think. Marty always said, Sonny’s not as dumb as he looks. Miss that fat owl. Got to get out of here. Even if I could punch my way off the floor through the guards outside, they’d stop the elevators or nail me in the lobby.
    Running Braves could think.
    So think.
    He called room service, ordered enormous meals for three.
    He took his time showering, dressing. The wallet he had locked in the room safe before the fight was still there, with eighteen hundred dollars and his credit cards. He was ready by the time the food arrived, a bathrobe over his clothes.
    â€œHey, Sonny, you order this?” Boyd was at the door. Malik was in a corner, still mourning over his laptop.
    â€œFigured you guys could use a good meal. Send mine in. I want to eat in bed.”
    When the room service waiter in his Vegas-style Arabian robe and hood rolled the food cart in, Sonny closed the door behind him and pressed a roll of cash into his hand. “I need your uniform and twenty minutes.”
    The waiter understood right away. “It’s my job, Sonny. But you could tie me up.”
    The best they could find were the long laces on old boxing shoes to tie the waiter’s ankles and wrists behind him. Just before Sonny taped his mouth shut, the waiter said, “Good luck, champ.”
    Malik and Boyd were pigging out and didn’t look up as Sonny rolled the empty food cart out of the suite. In the hall one of the guards said, “Nothing for us?” but Sonny kept his head down and deep inside the hood. The service elevator was empty. He left the cart in the basement, stripped off the flowing robe in the parking lot. The boxing ring and the chairs were gone. Like the fight had never happened. Okay with me.
    He walked to another hotel before he hailed a cab. With his ponytail tucked into a baseball cap and his hand on his face, no one recognized him at the airport. He’d catch an