“There is someone who can help you,” said Rasho. “He is one who is kept in transition as an angel so that he may return to speak to mortals.”
Rondon turned and saw a man, looking very American, dressed in khaki pants and shirt and holding a Stetson hat in his hands. “Hello,” said the man in the first language. “I’m the mortal father to Alaal.”
“That is very good,” said Rondon. “Let us sit in council and reason together.”
Rondon, the former Russian peasant who died greatly loved by everyone who knew him, sat at a golden, oblong table with Alaal’s mortal father and others placed under Rondon’s leadership. In the center of the table stood a cylinder shaped crystal object about two feet high and three feet around. They all watched as the image of Ruben Barlow shown in the crystal. Some of his decisions displeased them, but he was young and his heart was excellent. He would learn. In the crystal cylinder they could see the past, the present, and the future, to a point.
“You have done well, Ernest Barlow,” said Rondon. “He is a good boy and will be a fine man.”
Ernest Barlow nodded. “Yes. He will do well.”
“The Deceiver will do everything he can to conquer him,” said Rondon. “We must provide help for him.”
“Who can we send?” asked a woman.
“We will send Tesho,” said Rondon.
“Tesho?” said the woman. “The great warrior of warriors?”
“He is now on the earth and can protect Alaal against the great evil which is sent to destroy him.”
Rondon waved his hand and the dirty streets of Spanish Harlem appeared in the cylinder. A young man wearing an old coat walked the streets. He moved easily and with great power.
“We will call him to help Alaal,” said Rondon. “Bring the female angel.”
A beautiful Aztec looking woman with long black hair stepped forward. Bowing her head, she said, “I am here for you to command.”
Chico De Leon
New York City, April, 1967
Chico De Leon, at twenty years old, was an up and coming middleweight contender. He had six professional fights since he turned pro at eighteen and was still undefeated.
He was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico, but came to New York when he was six months old. His father worked on the docks to support his wife, his mother, his three-year-old son, Pablo, and little six-month-old Pedro, nicknamed Chico.
When Chico was a little over two years old, his mother and father were killed in a bus tragedy. An insane man had hijacked the bus and blew up himself and seventeen other people near the George Washington bridge. Pablo and little Chico were left to the care of their grandmother.
Chico and Pablo did not speak English until they entered school. It never occurred to Rosa, their grandmother, that they should learn English before going to kindergarten. Wasn’t that what school was for?
School was difficult for both the De Leon boys, but especially for Chico. Pablo was bright and happy and drew friends naturally. He was handsome and the clubfoot he was born with didn’t seem to affect his social standing. Even the pretty girls in Catholic school uniforms liked being around him.
Chico, on the other hand, preferred to be alone. And, much to the dismay of Rosa De Leon, Chico would fight anyone, anytime, at the drop of a hat. He seemed to enjoy it and soon had the reputation as a brawler and people kept their distance.
“Chico,” his grandmother would say in Spanish, “why do you fight so much. It hurts your mama grande to see you hit other boys. Their mothers come to me and say that my grandson, my little Chico, hurts their sons and makes them bleed from their noses and mouths. Chico, mi hijo, can you not stop?”
But Chico couldn’t stop because it was his nature. He felt it always in his fists and in his heart. While his big brother was born to be a friend to everyone, and to talk to them and make them feel better about themselves, Chico was born to fight.
Chico knew what was right and what was wrong. In fact, it was crystal clear to him. He never hit anyone he thought was a good person, no matter what they might say to him in anger or frustration. He only hit people who were doing means things – like big boys who bullied smaller children, or kids who hurt dogs and cats, or kids who strong-armed milk money. He would hit them very hard and they would stop doing mean things. It was simple. He enjoyed feeling the crunch of bone and cartilage under his hard fists. He enjoyed seeing their eyes roll back and he loved to see them bleeding from their mouths and noses while they were lying on the ground as he stood over them asking if they wanted more. The way he saw it, he was a weapon for what was right.
When his grandmother would cry after a phone call from school, or after a mother complained about her injured son, Chico would put his arms around her and say, “Grandmother, I feel this is what God made me. He has given me this gift to help people. I believe that. Those boys I hit were bad. Their mothers say they are not but that is because they love them. But they are bad boys doing bad things. I would never hit anyone who was good.”
Before he was twelve years old, he went to the boxing gym near his apartment and asked if he could clean up in exchange for boxing lessons. The manager felt it was a fair trade so agreed, and Chico began what he believed was his life’s calling: to be a fighter.
Chico spent as much time at the gym as he could. He went after school and on weekends and would stay as late as he could. Most of the fighters there, because of the neighborhood, were Hispanic. They were lean and hungry and Chico fit right in. He learned from anyone who would teach him. He learned to skip rope and to work on a speed bag while standing on a crate because he was too short to reach it, and he learned to use his feet and slip punches and counter to the head and body with devastating power.
After a few years, he boxed Golden Gloves and won the city championship three years in a row. When he was eighteen and a high school graduate, a promoter asked him to go pro.
“Chico, I’ll pay you one thousand dollars for your first fight. That’s a lot of money for you.”
Chico agreed, wondering how difficult the fight was going to be. He fought a White fighter from New Jersey and knocked him out in the first round. The man was older but he was slow and acted like he had been hit too many times. It was easy. Just a few jabs and a rock-hard right hand to the chin and it was over. He gave the thousand dollars to his grandmother.
“There’s more money to be made, Mama Grande. I am very good at what I do.”
“I know,” she said. “But I worry, mi hijo. Please do not get hurt.”
The next fight was for fifteen hundred dollars against a Black fighter from Baltimore. Chico knocked him out in the second round. It was a little more difficult but not much. Chico watched the man in the first round and saw he dropped his left hand a little after a jab. Chico waited until the beginning of the second round and, after the fighter threw a series of jabs, Chico followed the jab back with
