Lightning's Run Read online

  The Crusher wobbles. I’ve never seen anyone take this much punishment. Lightning could have ended this in the first round. But I saw him start to pull his punches. He’s been teaching this man how hard it is to take him down. And he’s been enjoying it.

  But now, the lesson’s over. Lightning throws punch after punch, each one harder than the last. Blood flies everywhere. Finally, the Crusher vomits and hits the ground face-first. Silas rushes out with his medical bag while Lightning walks coolly away. The crowd cheers him on.

  I hand Lightning a towel. My temples are pounding. I don’t want to do this.

  I steel myself. Before I can say anything, I see a man moving toward Bulldog. He’s wearing a tailored suit and a fine hat. A black patch covers his right eye. He pushes against the crowd as they leave the back room. Coming here for weeks, I know just about everyone. I’ve never seen him before.

  “Looks like a new sucker,” I say to Lightning, handing him his shirt. “Think he’s planning on betting against you? The new ones usually do.”

  Lightning tosses the towel and glances at Bulldog. His eyes go wide. Without a word, he ducks down and runs toward the back door.

  Bulldog is talking to the man with the eye patch. When the back door slams, the man looks my way. He brushes past Bulldog and charges at the door.

  I don’t even think. I stand in his way. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Move,” he says through gritted teeth. But when he tries to step around me, I block him again. I’ve never seen Lightning scared of anything. If he’s afraid of this spindly man, there’s a good reason.

  “You don’t wanna go back there,” I say, pointing to the door where Lightning disappeared. “It’s where we do laundry. I’m about to go clean these.”

  I hold Lightning’s shoes up to the man’s face. He falls back, gagging on the smell.

  “Did a Negro boy go through that door?” he asks with a thick Southern drawl. “I was told he fights in this saloon.”

  Over his shoulder, I see Bulldog shaking his head at me. “No Negroes here, sir. I think you want the Seabreeze. It’s a pub just up the street. If you like, I can show you where—”

  “You’d better not be hiding him,” the man says, leaning in so close I can smell tobacco on his breath. “He’s wanted by the police. I’ll have this whole operation shut down if you’re hiding him.”

  “You heard the kid,” Bulldog says, coming up behind us. “Whoever you’re looking for, he ain’t here.”

  The man regards Bulldog with his one good eye. Bulldog’s beefy arms are folded across his chest. I wonder if the man is smart enough not to provoke him.

  The man reaches into his coat pocket and produces a ten-dollar bill. He stuffs it into Bulldog’s fist. “I am staying at the Hotel Afton near Union Square. Room 806. If you see any Negro boys looking to fight, be a gentleman and let me know.”

  The man turns and leaves. As soon as he’s through the saloon door, I exhale.

  “What was that about?” I ask Bulldog.

  The trainer shoves the money into his pocket. “None of my business, kid. Still, I better cancel Lightning’s next couple fights, just in case Mr. Union Square comes snooping around again. We’re all in trouble if the police show up.”

  Bulldog waddles off, cursing under his breath. I grab Lightning’s things. I think back to that night when I first saw Lightning fight.

  They say he’s an escaped convict, someone in the crowd had said. The man with the eye patch said the same thing. Is it true?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I climb the staircase beyond the back door. It leads to the roof, where I find Lightning. He’s sitting on the edge, looking down into the street. The man with the eye patch is leaving the Bowery.

  “Thanks,” Lightning says when he spots me.

  “Please tell me I didn’t just help a convict escape,” I tell him, taking a seat nearby.

  He lowers his eyes. “You really believe all the stuff they say about me?”

  “No,” I admit. “But even after all our training, I don’t know a lot about you.”

  “I’m an open book,” he says. “What do you want to know?”

  “What’s your real name?”

  He frowns. “Buford. See why I go by Lightning?”

  I laugh. “Fair enough. So why do you fight barefoot? Nobody else does.”

  He smiles and jumps up into a fighting stance, his left foot out toward me with his right foot back. “It’s a tempting target. Now, stomping is against the rules. But most of the men I fight think to themselves, ‘I’m wearing boots. If I step on his foot and make it look like an accident …’ So I look for it. Those quick glances at my feet. I know they’re more concerned with stomping than swinging. They’re distracted. And that’s when I move in.”

  He demonstrates with a fast, powerful jab that stops an inch from my nose.

  I take a deep breath. “Why was that man after you?”

  “His name is Nehemiah Beauregard the Third,” he says. “And up until a couple years ago, he owned a plantation in South Carolina.”

  “So you were a slave, and he was your master?” I ask. “But all the slaves were freed years ago. He’s got no claim on you.”

  Lightning shakes his head. “He wasn’t my master. My master was Mr. Johnson. He was a good man. He treated my mother and me with respect. I was thirteen when Mr. Johnson freed us. My mother and I spent years after the War Between the States trying to find my sisters. They were sold all across the South.

  “We only ever found my sister Ruth. She was on Beauregard’s plantation. He hadn’t freed any of his slaves. They were still working, hard as ever, where no one would find them. My mother and I tried to sneak Ruth out in the middle of the night. Beauregard caught us. He shot Mama and Ruth as we ran.”

  Tears streak Lightning’s face as he tells the story. “I couldn’t let him get away with that. I went back the next night and set fire to his house. Beauregard got out, and we fought. I had to run when his farmhands arrived to help.

  That was two years ago. He’s been hunting me ever since. Chased me from Charleston to Washington to Baltimore. Thought I was finally rid of him …”

  I don’t know what to say. Lightning has done so much for me. All I want to do is make sure he’s safe.

  “How can I help?” I ask.

  “You can’t. I can only help myself. I’ve got it all figured out.”

  Lightning kneels and pulls at some loose tiles in the rooftop. He takes a small wooden box from a hidden hole. Inside the box is a tight wad of money.

  “I’ve been saving my cut of the prize money,” he says. “I figure I only need to win one more match after tonight to have enough. Then I can buy passage to Europe and start a new life. Get as far away from Nehemiah Beauregard the Third as I can.”

  I suddenly remember what Bulldog told me.

  “Bulldog said he’s canceling your next couple fights,” I tell him.

  Lightning panics. “He … he can’t!”

  “Beauregard threatened to bring the police if he sees you here. And if you burned down his house, they could arrest you.”

  He pounds on the roof. “I need another fight. Maybe I can find somewhere else …”

  I want to offer him my wages from the brick factory. But what would I tell Mama and Papa? Then I think of the only real solution.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. I can’t believe I just said that.

  “Do what?”

  “I’ll fight your next match. And I’ll give you the prize money.”

  “You have to win to get the money.”

  “I’m getting better. You said so yourself.”

  “Hiram, I’ve been teaching you to fight a bully in the street. That’s completely different. Bulldog puts me up against bigger, stronger guys because he knows I can handle it. But you …”

  “Beauregard is just going to keep coming back until he finds you. We need to get you out of New York. This is the
only way.”

  I forget about my promise to Papa. After everything Lightning’s done for me, I owe him this.

  Lightning stands and pulls me up with him. “If we pull this off, I’ll owe you—”

  “We’ll be even,” I tell him and offer my hand. When he shakes, he squeezes extra hard. It’s a warning.

  “You should go get some rest,” he says. “Starting tomorrow, we’ve got some serious training to do.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “What were you thinking?” Bulldog demands, yelling louder than I’ve ever heard him. “One word from that Southern swell to the cops and we could all be in jail!”

  Bulldog gets louder with every word, filling the soda shop with his voice. I can’t help but cringe. Lightning, though, is calm and collected.

  “I said I was sorry,” he says coolly.

  “Sorry?” Bulldog barks. “People come from every borough to see you fight. Try telling Lew you’re sorry when his business drops off because my star fighter can’t come around no more. Because until I know for sure that guy won’t be snooping around, you can’t set foot in the Woodrat.”

  We guessed Bulldog would say this. And just like we rehearsed it, I square my shoulders and look Bulldog right in the eye.

  “You want a new champion?” I ask. “You got one.”

  Bulldog blinks. Then he throws back his head and laughs. It sounds more like he’s drowning.

  “He’s good,” Lightning says, jumping in. “And he’s been trained by the best.”

  “Well,” I say, “second best, after you, Bulldog. Look, you spread word that Lightning’s protégé is fighting, that’s bound to attract attention. All I have to do is win a couple fights—”

  “All you have to do?” Bulldog’s laughing so hard now he’s crying. “Listen, protégé, you got no idea what you’re getting into.”

  “People will be curious what I can do,” I tell him. “By the time the curiosity wears off, that Southerner will be gone. Lightning will be back fighting for you.”

  We choose not to mention that as soon as I win one fight, Lightning is leaving the country. Bulldog will never agree if he knows it really means losing his champion forever.

  Silas, who’s been standing quietly nearby, pipes up. “Aw, give him a chance, Bulldog.”

  Bulldog pivots to face Silas, murder in his eyes. “When I want your opinion—”

  “I seen this guy train,” Silas says, nodding at me. “He’s the real deal. If nothin’ else, think of the money people will pay to see him get creamed.”

  I remind myself that Silas is trying to help.

  Bulldog plants his thick fists on his sides as his lips curl. He spits. “Lemme think about it. Now get out of here. And take the back door, so no one sees you.”

  Behind Bulldog, Silas nods at the door as if to say, Go now, before he changes his mind. Lightning and I duck out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “How do I look?”

  Lightning and I are walking between the tenements. He’s dressed in the one nice suit he owns. He looks like a proper gentleman, not a bare-fisted brawler.

  I straighten his bow tie. “Your clothes look great. You look terrified. I promise my family doesn’t bite.”

  He licks his lips. “It’s been forever since I had a home-cooked meal. Thanks for the invitation.”

  I felt I had to invite him, after I saw the terrible building on Delancey Street where he lived. A room like a closet, not even a kitchen. Mama would be ashamed if she knew how my friend lived and that I hadn’t invited him.

  We enter our apartment to find Mama and Leah preparing the Sabbath table. Papa looks up from the Torah and greets us at the door with, “Shabbat shalom.”

  “Mama, Papa, this is …” I realize I have no idea how to explain his name is Lightning. So I swallow and say, “Buford.”

  Lightning doesn’t blink. He bows to Mama and shakes Papa’s hand.

  “This is Leah and Ezra,” I say, pointing to my siblings. Ezra shakes Lightning’s hand. Leah’s watchful eyes go to Lightning’s calloused knuckles. She always knows.

  “Hiram tells us you’re a good friend,” Papa says. He’s clearly impressed with Lightning’s clothes and manners, but that won’t stop him from digging for information. “Where did you two meet?”

  “I deliver clay to the brick factory,” Lightning says, using the story I gave him. Papa must believe it. He nods once and motions for us to gather around the table.

  “Hiram,” Papa says, “will you lead the prayer?”

  “May I, Mr. Goldfarb?” Lightning asks.

  Nobody moves. Papa raises an eyebrow, then nods.

  To everyone’s surprise, Lightning sings, “Baruch atah Adonai Elohenu melech ha-olam …” He hits every note correctly. His pronunciation is perfect. Papa’s so shocked he almost forgets to light the candles. At the end of the prayer, we all take pieces of challah and dig in to Mama’s dinner.

  “How did you … ?” I whisper to Lightning.

  “When I was on the run, I stayed with a Jewish family in Baltimore.” He winks. “I can also read a haftorah after dinner if you want.”

  I glance at Mama and Papa. They’re both beaming at Lightning. “I think if you did that, my parents might adopt you.”

  After dinner, Mama and Leah go into the bedroom as Papa takes out his Torah. Lightning asks if he can join the lesson. Papa agrees.

  “Tonight,” Papa says, “I will tell you the story of a rabbi. One day, the rabbi went to his students and asked, ‘When is the precise moment when night turns into day?’ The first student said, ‘Rabbi, I know that night has turned to day when there is enough light for me to tell a walnut tree from an olive tree.’ But the rabbi shook his head. ‘No, that is not the answer.’

  “The second student said, ‘Rabbi, I know that night has turned to day when there is enough light for me to tell a goat from a sheep.’ Again, the rabbi said, ‘No, that is not the answer.’ Finally, the students asked, ‘What is the answer?’ And the rabbi replied, ‘The precise moment when night turns into day is when you can look into the face of a stranger and instead see your brother.’”

  “That would truly be a new day,” Lightning says, nodding.

  But I’ve heard the story before. I know why Papa is telling it. He’s reminding me to be compassionate toward others. That we are people of peace.

  I can’t concentrate on the Torah lesson. One thought keeps running through my mind: He knows what I’m doing.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next morning, I toss and moan on the mattress. I keep it up until Mama is convinced I’m not well enough to go to the brick factory.

  “I’ll stay home and watch him,” Leah offers. She can tell I’m not sick.

  “Nonsense,” Mama says. “Leah, your brother needs rest. You’ll come with me to sell the preserves.”

  After breakfast, she and Leah leave for the market while Papa and Ezra go to the brick factory. Now that I’m finally alone, I throw on my clothes, run downstairs, and meet Lightning behind the tenement.

  “You ready?” he asks. I take a deep breath and nod.

  Since we can’t use any place Nehemiah Beauregard might be watching, the rest of New York becomes our training room. And Lightning really puts me through my paces.

  We run down the streets. Every five blocks, he makes me get down and push up off the ground twenty times. We run down along the river, past the new bridge they’re building. One day soon, it’ll connect Brooklyn with Manhattan.

  We go onboard a ship in the docks to see a friend of Lightning’s. This friend lets me throw shovel after shovel of coal into the ship’s boiler. After an hour of that, we’re back to running. Lots of running.

  We charge up and down the stairs of every brownstone we pass. As a reward, we take a break in Central Park to spar. I’m exhausted. Lightning has no problem pounding me into submission.

  After a particularly brutal punch to my chest, I collapse onto the grass and wave my hands in surrender.


  “I don’t know how I’ll be able to do this,” I say, fighting for every breath.

  Lightning kneels next to me. “Are you kidding? You’re doing great. Most guys would have given up after the boiler. We’re only just getting started. Keep this up for a week, and you’ll be ready. I promise.”

  I lean back on my elbows. Lightning’s barely sweating. He’s in much better shape than me. I’m starting to think this was a bad idea.

  But Lightning thinks otherwise. “If Bulldog lets you take over my next fight, you’ll be up against James Boyd.”

  “What do we know about him?”

  “From the Bronx. They call him the Mauler. He’s vicious. You can’t let him get close. He bites.”

  “But that’s against the rules.”

  “Yep. And he’ll probably get disqualified for it. But you’ll still be missing a chunk of skin, so don’t give him the chance. That’s what we’re working on next: how to keep your opponent away. Get up!”

  Groaning, I let him pull me to my feet.

  I slip into the back room of the soda fountain a couple hours before the evening’s fights. Bulldog still hasn’t said if he’s swapping me out for Lightning. It’s time to nail him down on it.

  I can hear grunting in the ring before I turn the corner. This is usually Lightning’s time to train.

  What’s Bulldog doing?

  The answer almost sends me to my knees. Monty, the guy who normally spars with Lightning, is in the middle of a beating. His opponent throws punch after punch without rest. He’s tall, dark-haired, and has the most muscle I’ve seen on anyone since Lightning.

  Sparring is supposed to be light, but this guy’s not letting up. Poor Monty looks ready to drop. As they turn, I see the new guy’s face for the first time.

  It’s Carter.

  A vicious left cross sends Monty to the floor. Silas hops down from the shelf where he was watching and drops to Monty’s side.

  “Out cold,” Silas says.

  Bulldog steps from the shadows, grinning and clapping.