When he needed to redirect his brain, Isaac often reminisced about the glory days of the Deep Six. Next to becoming a father, playing hockey with Alex and the other guys were his best memories, and he’d hung on to them over the years.
Now he was on top of the world and could see a life after this tournament. There was finally some light at the end of the tunnel.
During all the euphoria following his game-winning goal in Game 5, Isaac hadn’t forgotten the desperate state that Melanie was in, having been unjustly fired from her lucrative waitress job. He was unsure if he’d ever have another shot at getting back together with her, but she was giving him a chance to get reacquainted with their daughter and to be a part of their lives.
He was determined to do right by them.
In fact, he already had, and she would be relieved. Isaac had meant to show her before leaving for the game, but she had been out looking for a new job.
He climbed the steps to Melanie’s front door and entered the house. Isaac barely had a second to take in his surroundings before Melanie appeared and threw a large stack of cash right in his face, knocking off his sunglasses.
“Hey, what the –”
“I can’t fucking believe you, Isaac!” she raged. “Again? Get the fuck out!”
“Hold on a sec,” Isaac pleaded. “Let me talk.”
“How could you?” she demanded. “You think this helps?”
“Look, it’s not what you think.”
“How else would you get this? Huh? You’re playing in a hockey tournament for peanuts…you’ve got no job…where would you get real money?”
“I can explain.”
“Asshole!” Melanie snapped and pushed him again.
“I’m not the asshole here,” he said.
“Get out!”
“I want to see her.”
“GET OUT!”
Melanie took another few steps and pushed Isaac out the door. She inadvertently stepped on Isaac’s sunglasses and crushed them under her foot.
“You’re making a big mistake,” Isaac said.
Melanie picked up as many bills as she could and pressed them onto Isaac. “Take your stupid money. I should have known better.”
Isaac walked backwards across Melanie’s front lawn and looked up at the house before making his way to the subway in a catatonic state.
76.
Tom of Tom’s Fishin’ stumbled out of his truck at around 2:45 a.m. Most of the time when he returned home from the bar he was happy drunk. Tonight, however, he felt sick. It must have been those wings he ate.
He let out a loud belch and tried to stifle the gross taste coming up his throat. Struggling for balance, Tom managed to close the door to the truck. He dug into his pockets and found his keys. When he turned around, he was staring at the barrel of a shotgun that Mike had pointed right at his face.
“Hey Tom. How’s the fishin’ business?” Mike asked.
As much as Tom was coming down from being drunk, he recognized the danger and instinctively put his hands up. His eyes widened with fear.
“Hey man, I got like, two bucks on me,” Tom said.
“You shouldn’t drink and drive, Tom,” Mike advised.
“You a cop?”
“No, I’m not a cop. You really don’t know, do you?”
Tom blinked hard like he was trying to figure it out, but eventually shook his head.
“No, man,” he said. “I got no idea.”
Mike motioned to the wooded area in front of Tom’s house.
“Start walking.”
77.
Following the thrilling overtime victory in Game 5, Matt’s father had waited outside the dressing room for his son and was looking forward to another fabulous evening of food, sex and drugs. Or food, drugs and sex – the order didn’t matter, as long as business was discussed at some point. Matt had come around and was ready to personally benefit from The Tournament.
When Matt appeared from the dressing room beaming with excitement, his father congratulated him on the big win (it would be their last) and suggested they continue enjoying this memorable night in style. Matt suggested that he wanted to have a nice dinner before “getting down to business.”
Getting down to business. Matt’s father smiled. That was his boy. Matt was finally becoming the man his dad always wanted.
Another surprise was Matt’s request to go somewhere more upscale to eat. He was just not feeling bar food if that was okay. His dad didn’t flinch and said, “of course.” They ended up dining at an expensive steakhouse downtown and Matt wanted to eat everything in sight: the most expensive appetizer, a huge steak, dessert, and a few imported beers.
Afterward, they went to Matt’s father’s office, again on Matt’s request. He said something about wanting to discuss making money in the place where his dad made money. When they arrived, Matt was taken aback by how cramped, dimly lit and dirty the office was.
“Just going through a transition,” his father explained.
They sat on either side of the desk and his dad pulled out a spreadsheet from a messy pile.
“Okay, lay it on me,” Matt said excitedly.
Matt’s father laid it out clearly and with confidence. He was in his wheelhouse. The whole thing was simple. New York was going to win the next two games. Matt had to pick his spots and make sure he let in the odd goal at the right time, depending on the how the game was going. The fact that he’d tweaked his leg would make everything easier, his father explained. It was the perfect excuse because he could just blame everything on dealing with an injury. However, whenever a trainer or coach asked him, he had to say that he was okay to stay in the game.
“What choice do they have, Mattie?” his father asked rhetorically. “The backup sucks. There’s no Plan B if you go down.”
“I get it,” Matt replied. “What about the money?”
“I’ll take care of that, don’t you worry,” his father said as he held up the spreadsheet. “It’s all off book and people are betting with their hearts instead of their brains, a big mistake.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means everyone around here wants you guys to win, like they’re going to get something out of it,” Matt’s father chuckled. “There’s a sucker around every corner, Mattie.”
They laughed together.
“Hey, just wondering, but have you ever had any contact with Mom?” Matt asked.
Matt’s father looked confused. “No, of course not. Why are you asking?”
“No reason, really. Just wondering.”
An awkward moment passed as Matt continued to smile at his father.
“Well, looks like we have a deal,” Matt’s father announced.
“Cheers to that, I guess,” Matt replied.
Father and son stood and shook hands.
“Want to grab some ass?” Matt’s father asked.
“I’m kinda tired. Think I’m just going to crash. Thanks, though.”
“Okay, sure. Next time.”
Matt let go of his father’s hand and shook his head. “No, not next time.”
“Huh?”
Matt swung his right arm around quickly and connected with a vicious punch across his father’s jaw. As big as he was, Mr. Richards stumbled and fell over his chair onto the floor. Matt pulled the chair away. Clearly rattled from the blow, his father tried to sit up.
“I should have done that a long time ago,” Matt said.
Matt swung his leg back and kicked his dad in the stomach for good measure. Mr. Richards grabbed his sizeable midsection and shouted in pain. He managed to drag himself over to the wall and leaned against it with blood dripping from his mouth.
“Hey, Dad?”
Matt’s father looked at him and coughed in response.
“She didn’t see it coming either, did she?”
The piece of paper Freddy Rozelli had crammed into Matt’s coat pocket in Ottawa had his address and phone number on it. It turned out that Freddy’s waterfront condo
was close to Matt’s boat.
After leaving his father in a heap, Matt made his way over to Freddy’s place and knocked on the door. When Freddy answered, Matt looked at him.
“I could use your help,” Matt said.
Freddy opened his door wider for Matt to come in.
“I could use yours,” Freddy replied.
78.
The wooded area in front of Tom’s house ran for about two acres and appeared to be completely isolated. Mike had a large-beam flashlight and made sure Tom was trudging along about ten feet ahead of him.
Tom was stone cold sober now. On Mike’s instructions, he kept looking straight ahead and did not turn around.
“I don’t feel good,” Tom managed to say.
“Makes two of us,” Mike responded.
“Can we take a break?”
“We don’t need one. This is far enough.”
Tom stopped and slowly turned around to face Mike with his arms raised. The flashlight shone brightly on Tom’s face and made him squint.
“Can I at least know what this is about?” Tom asked.
“Turn back around and get down on your knees.”
Tom tried to focus his eyes.
“You look familiar,” Tom said.
“I should.”
Mike’s arms were getting tired from holding the heavy shotgun up for so long, but he was running hard on adrenaline.
“Come on, man,” Tom protested. “This ain’t fair.”
“You have more of a chance than he did.”
Tom’s eyes widened as a deep realization sunk in.
“You’re that Indi –”
“That what?” Mike said, cocking the gun loudly. He hadn’t fired one in a while, but he knew how. It was kind of like riding a bike.
“Y-y-you’re that guy’s son.”
“You mean the guy you killed with your car?” Mike asked. “Turn around and get on your knees.”
“Listen, man, that was an accident. Please. I got a wife and kids.”
“So did he. And grandkids that he never got a chance to meet.”
Perhaps feeling as though he only had another few moments to live, Tom pleaded hysterically.
“I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry!”
“And what kind of man are you anyway?” Mike asked. “Husbands, fathers, they don’t run half-assed businesses. They don’t hang out in bars every night and go back home drunk at two in the morning.”
Tom did not say anything, and Mike could hear him choking on sobs.
“I remember your uncle,” Mike continued. “Isn’t he on welfare? You guys talk a big game but you’re the laziest, biggest pieces of trash around.”
The sobbing and choking momentarily stopped.
“You want to know the truth?” Tom called out.
“Sure. Let’s hear it.”
Here it was. In his last moment, Tom of Tom’s Fishin’ was going to try and salvage his soul by confessing that he’d targeted Mike’s father, that he and his uncle were part of an inbred cluster of racist dirt bags and that he hoped to be forgiven in the afterlife.
“That night,” he said, “I was so plastered I took a wrong turn on my way home and ended up on that street…the light, outside the store there…it wasn’t working.”
“You making excuses?”
“Naw, man…I’m just sayin’…it was out!” Tom exclaimed. “And I’m telling you ’cause that’s the last thing I really remember. The rest is like little flashes here and there.”
Tom’s version now was consistent with what Mike remembered hearing in court.
“You always thought I ran over your dad ’cause he was Indian, right?” Tom asked. “But I didn’t. I was just drunk.”
With trembling arms, Mike held the gun up a little higher and prepared to shoot.
79.
Following the game, Diana had approached Alex on his way to the dressing room. The atmosphere was still raucous and fans were lingering, but she managed to give him a kiss before telling him that she’d been paged to the hospital because they were busy and short-handed. She and Alex would catch up in the morning before he left for New York City with the team. She would hurry so she could give him something to remember while he was on that long bus trip.
“Mercy,” Alex replied.
Before the game started earlier that night, Alex had known there was something going on with broadcaster Cole Foster. When he realized that Cole hadn’t come over to the dressing room after the game like he usually did, Alex went looking for him while still sweaty and wearing most of his equipment. There was no sign of Cole, but Alex eventually found one of the production assistants and asked her where Cole was.
“Mr. Foster didn’t want anyone to know,” she said, “but his wife passed away today.”
“What?”
“He got a call right before the game.”
“And he didn’t go home?”
“He said that his wife would’ve wanted him to stay and do his job. Next to her and his grandkids, this is what he loves the most. He is absolutely devastated, though.”
“I don’t doubt it. If anything ever happened to the woman I love, I don’t think I’d be able to handle it.”
Out of all the late nights Alex spent wide awake and alone on his apartment balcony in the past year, he could not remember ever feeling as restless as he did right now, but in a good way. It was late and he’d hoped to be with Diana. It would have been a perfect way to end a perfect night, but since things were going so well, he really had nothing to complain about. They were together again and would remain that way. In fact, Alex was going to propose marriage soon. He did not want to waste another minute.
Alex closed his eyes and replayed Isaac golfing the loose puck into New York’s net for the overtime winner. Mr. Big Time. That moment when Isaac danced over to Alex and jumped on him with the crowd roaring in the background…Alex never wa nted to forget it.
He thought about how difficult it must have been for Cole to call Game 5 after receiving the news of his wife’s death. He would make sure to express his condolences the next time he saw Cole, and he wondered if the legend would return for the sixth and possible seventh games.
There were some well-done tribute videos on the internet of Cole’s best calls, and Alex decided he would watch those to unwind before finally turning in. He pulled his phone out and noticed a text from Diana from about half an hour ago.
Loved the flowers…and the note…What’s up, Doc??? Veeeeery funny.
Alex read the message, puzzled. Flowers? What note?
He was about to text Diana back when his door buzzer went off. Then again…and again. After a brief pause, it went off twice more. Alex jumped up and leaned over his balcony to look down below. He didn’t see anyone standing in front of the building. There were a few parked cars on the street, but nothing looked out of the ordinary.
The buzzer continued to ring incessantly. Alex grabbed his baseball bat before putting on his shoes. He glanced at the time.
3:00 a.m. Of course.
Alex took the stairs all the way down again and ran through the door toward the building’s main entrance. He spun around quickly and looked every which way with the bat in his hand, ready to strike anyone and anything.
He was startled by a raccoon rifling through a garbage can nearby, but other than that everything else was quiet. Alex worked on catching his breath and continued to look around. It could just be a bunch of teenagers hitting random buzzers and running away, but Alex had his usual weird feeling.
He noticed a black car parked across the street. Had he not seen that car before? Alex gripped the bat tightly. The windows were tinted, but Alex fearlessly and perhaps stupidly approached the car and peered inside.
It was empty.
He went back inside the building and was considering talking to his landlord. He started to think that he didn’t want Diana there until he knew what this was.
When he entered the lobby area, Alex saw three men in dark suits st
anding between the elevators and the door to the stairwell.
Alex stopped in his tracks. He and the men exchanged tense stares.
“Well, I’ll give you credit, Alex,” a voice said from the couch in the lobby. “You’re not a pussy like your old man. I mean, you started out that way, but you turned out different, that’s for sure.”
Alex turned and saw Havock sitting on the couch. Havock smiled and pointed to a chair. Alex had always wondered if those men who destroyed his family would ever come out of the shadows like that detective suggested so long ago. He could stop wondering. Here they were, apparently led by this sinister old man. Alex had also wondered if he would be ready for them should that day ever come. He thought of his mother and could still hear his father’s shrieks echoing in his ears. Alex gripped his bat even tighter.
He sat down on the chair while keeping an eye on the three men who were Havock’s muscle.
“You know who I am?” Havock asked.
Alex concentrated on trying to keep his breathing even. He nodded.
“I gotta tell you, son…”
“I’m not your son.”
“Yes, well…I gotta tell you, Alex,” Havock said, continuing to smile, “I am really enjoying this tournament. You’re my favourite player. No word of a lie.”
“Thanks. Want an autograph?”
Havock broke out laughing. As if on cue, his three henchmen laughed as well. Havock took out a handkerchief and wiped away at his eyes.
“Do I want an autograph? That’s funny. Sure.”
“Why are you here?” Alex asked through gritted teeth.
“Good question.” Havock ended his laughter with a raspy cough. “I’ll take the autograph, but I’m here because we have unfinished business.”
“We do?”
“Yes, Alex, we do. You see, your old man never settled his debts.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“He was into me for close to eighty grand. Looking at it conservatively, inflation, interest, et cetera, twenty-five years or so, let’s call it an even hundred K.”
The Tournament Page 44