“We’ll find you some,” said Travis.
Willie Granger was in Ireland at a meeting for the new edition of The Guinness Book of World Records, but he’d find a way to fit it in. He wouldn’t miss it for anything, he said.
Wilson Kelly was coming up from Jamaica. He had a week off and would use it to come back to Tamarack, he said, “for Sarah.”
Liz Moscovitz was already planning to do a brief internship in emergency surgery at the Tamarack Regional Hospital anyway, so she’d be in town and would be delighted to play – “I can even sew anyone up who takes a high stick,” she added.
Gordie Griffith was in the final weeks of the lacrosse season, but he figured he could make it, and he was, of course, in superb shape from playing the only game the Owls considered the equal of hockey.
Travis reached Jeremy Weathers through his agent in Toronto. The agent said no team had yet shown any interest in Jeremy for the coming season, so Jeremy had gone fishing in the Gulf of Mexico for a vacation. The agent was sure it was only a matter of time before some pro team realized they were short in goal, and in the meantime he was pretty sure Jeremy would love to get back with his old squad.
Travis contacted one of the old Screech Owls, Mario Terziano, who was now working in the oil fields of Alberta, and Mario said he’d be honoured to play in Simon’s place.
Then Travis turned his attention to the tough ones to convince.
Sam Bennett.
Nish.
And Muck Munro.
8
“I’m too busy,” Sam said.
Travis had no ready response to that. He’d known he’d find Sam and little Muck – and usually the mysterious used-book dealer, Anton Sealey – down by the shore on such a lovely day, but he had never for a moment expected Sam’s answer.
How could Sam be too busy? She had no job that Travis knew of. Her mother could take care of little Muck. She had the whole summer to do with as she pleased.
“Too busy with what?” Travis finally forced himself to ask.
Sam stared at a long time at Muck and Imoo chasing each other about in the sand. Anton Sealey, it seemed, was not around, but then he never seemed to be around – he would just appear out of thin air.
She turned to face Travis, her eyes pleading.
“There’s something rotten about this council, Trav,” she said.
Travis started. What on earth? he wondered.
“I know, I know,” Sam continued. “I know all about what the mayor has done, getting that fancy rink and all those other facilities. And I know what he’s done for Sarah, putting her name on it and making that special day for her. And I’m sure he’s been very helpful to you.”
“He has,” Travis agreed.
“But that’s the front,” Sam said. “I’m convinced of it. He’s still a developer at heart. Just look at what’s happening to our town!”
Travis looked around. It was an exquisite early-summer day, a light breeze rippling the water. There were boats out, and cyclists going through the park on the new paths the council had put in, and in the distance the traffic was backed up over the bridge – a sure sign that the summer visitors were beginning to flood in.
“A lot of people approve,” said Travis.
“Well, I don’t,” said Sam, the old fire leaping in her eyes.
Sam took a deep breath and sat down on the sand. Travis waited for her to speak again.
“Anton has a friend at town hall and he’s tipped us off that council has met several times behind closed doors to discuss this place.”
“This place?” Travis said. “The beach?”
“The beach. They’ve been talking about new zoning for it. It’s never been formally changed since the days when the trains ran through here, you know, so it’s not protected property. They ripped up the tracks to make walking and biking trails, and everyone calls it a park, but it’s not a park by law. It’s just industrial property they let go. Now Anton hears they’ve been talking about some big new project.”
“Like the community complex?” Travis said.
Sam didn’t say. “They say the bay beach is enough for the town and that this beach has ‘undeveloped potential.’;”
The scenery was spectacular, a great vista on the lake, with the sand beach meeting a rocky point that headed out into the deeper water. He could understand the attraction.
“You remember the snapping turtles I showed you?” asked Sam. “This is probably the best snapping turtle ecosystem in the entire province. The sand is soft enough for laying, and the temperature is perfect. There are hardly any predators. The Ministry of Natural Resources says it’s a national treasure.”
“That’s perhaps not what the public would say about snapping turtles,” Travis said.
“They’re harmless. And incredibly beautiful. They’re probably the most noble creatures in Canada.”
Travis wasn’t so sure. He remembered Nish’s terror when he went skinny-dipping and almost dove on top of one of the big monsters.
“But there’s more than that here,” said Sam. “Where do you think the lake trout lay their eggs?”
Travis didn’t know.
“Right off that point. Anton says there’s no fish in the province more fragile than the lake trout. Lake Tamarack has a good population, and the ministry thinks more than 90 per cent of the trout eggs are laid off the end of the point.”
“Then maybe it should be protected,” said Travis.
“Exactly,” said Sam. “That’s what we’re fighting for. Anton and I have Mr. Dillinger helping out, but it’s full time work for Anton, pretty much – he has no time at all for his bookstore. Anton needs all the help I can give him.”
Travis bit his lip. Anton! Anton! Anton! He was getting sick of the name.
“You won’t play, then?” Travis asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“But you’re not shutting the door completely?”
“Never say never,” Sam said, smiling weakly.
Imoo and little Muck came running back, and Sam reached down and swung her laughing son high over her head. She seemed grateful for the intrusion, almost as if she might have burst into tears if the youngster and the dog had not distracted her.
Travis knew he should get going. He whistled for Imoo, and the retriever bounded over, eager to continue their run.
“You know what we think they’re doing, Trav?” Sam asked.
“Who?”
“The mayor and his lackeys. We think they’re trying to build a casino here. Doesn’t that just make you sick to your stomach?”
9
Travis wasn’t sure how he felt. He wasn’t against development, but he wasn’t for a casino, either. He’d worked enough bingos in his hockey and coaching career to know that there was very little, if any, pleasure to be had from gambling. Most of the bingo winners didn’t even smile when they won.
Bingos, however, involved pocket money. Casinos meant big dollars, and gambling and big dollars often meant organized crime. There were already rumours around town that a bike gang owned the newest golf course, but Travis couldn’t believe it was possible. Not in little Tamarack, where many people didn’t even lock their doors.
He had no time to dwell on what Sam had told him. He had more on his plate to worry about than snapping turtles and trout eggs.
He had a task in front of him so baffling he hadn’t a clue how to go about it: getting Muck to come back and coach the old Screech Owls.
He decided the best approach was the only one available to him. Go and see Muck.
It had been quite a while since Travis had been this far out on old River Road.
Muck had fixed up the Fontaine place nicely. He’d painted the old farmhouse a sunny yellow, trimmed the windows with an eggshell blue, and had planted flowers all over the property.
Apart from regular trips to the garden centre for bulbs and fertilizer, and to the library for the latest history books, Muck hardly ever left his home. He was becoming as
much a recluse as old Zeke had been.
Travis rode his bike, slowing down as he approached the old farm because he simply had no idea what to say. Would Muck even want to be involved?
He dismounted at the front gate and pushed his bike up the laneway, remembering how terrified Nish and he had been at this same spot years ago when they’d briefly become convinced that old Zeke had killed his own son and faked it to look like the bears had dragged the boy off.
But that had all worked out, and perhaps this would, too.
“Number eleven!” a familiar voice called out from behind the barn.
Travis felt immediate relief. Muck’s familiar voice. Travis’s old number.
“Hey, Muck!” Travis called back.
Muck was covered in … muck. He had dirt caked on his elbows, dirt covering his knees, dirt up his boots, and dirt smeared across his forehead where he’d wiped away the sweat when he rose from his planting.
Muck looked like his old self. Same stern face with those little flickers of emotion the Owls had all learned to read so they’d know when he was dead serious or just kidding. Same fur-thick hair, now snow white.
“What brings you out to no-man’s-land?” Muck asked.
“To see you,” Travis said, grinning.
“Well, you’ve seen me,” Muck said, dusting off his hands and preparing to go back to his planting.
“And to talk to you,” Travis said.
Muck turned, swallowed. He stared at Travis. “What about?”
“You heard about the new rink?” Travis began.
Muck nodded.
“You know they’re going to name it after Sarah?”
Muck shook his head.
Travis explained and Muck listened, intently.
“She deserves everything she gets,” Muck said. “Best kid I ever coached.”
Muck said it so matter-of-factly that Travis’s feelings couldn’t possibly be hurt. He knew what a bond there had been between Muck and Sarah. He only hoped that, just maybe, he might be Muck’s second-best, or third-best, even fourth-best.
“Sarah has set up this scholarship to help young women hockey players get to university when they might not otherwise be able to go,” Travis continued.
Muck said nothing.
“Data came up with the idea to have us play one more game – an exhibition game. A fundraiser. The Original Screech Owls … you know?”
Travis was almost certain he could see Muck’s eyes moisten. Muck looked down at his muddy boots and began kicking at them.
Travis continued. “We’ve been in contact with the old gang. Lars and Dmitri are in. And Willie’s coming up from Jamaica for it. Derek’s coming from Florida. Sarah says she’ll play, of course. Pretty well everyone is in … but you.”
Muck stared at Travis, a challenge rising in the old coach’s face.
“I’m no coach any more,” Muck said. “They stripped me of that, remember?”
Of course Travis remembered. The local association had decided to go the full “professional,” route, complete with classes for the coaches on everything from crossover skating to anger management. Muck, to no one’s surprise, had refused to have anything to do with it. The association, also to no one’s surprise, told him either he took the course or they would not let him coach. Muck refused; the association dumped him; and Muck had never coached again.
“It’s an exhibition match,” Travis said. “No official approval necessary – just stand behind the bench and open and close the door, like you always did.”
Travis was taking a gamble and knew it. He was joshing about Muck’s easygoing style, pretending that Muck really did nothing as a coach – though no one knew as well as Travis how ingenious Muck was, how brilliantly he knew the game, how well he used the players, especially Nish, to get the most possible out of them.
Muck bristled, then smiled.
“That’s all?”
Travis nodded. “That’s all.”
“One game?”
“One game.”
“I’m in.”
10
“I’m busy that week, man.”
Nish’s voice sounded distant and distracted. He was no doubt calling from a hotel room and flicking through the TV channels with the remote.
Some things never change.
But some things do. And it struck Travis at that moment that Wayne Nishikawa was no longer the Nish of old. Perhaps he had soured completely on hockey. Nish was in show business – something he’d always dreamed of – and if it wasn’t quite his own action hero movie, it was still something. The Flying Elvises were a big deal on the state fair circuit, even if no one cheering for them actually knew who they were behind the big hair, the stick-on sideburns, the silver sunglasses, and the ridiculous costumes.
Nish was a star. A minor star, but a star all the same, and he seemed to have moved on from the life he knew in little Tamarack, a town so small and insignificant not even the Flying Elvises would visit.
Travis listed all the players coming.
“Um hum …,” Nish said after hearing about Andy.
“Ohhh …,” Nish said after hearing about Willie.
“Mmmmmmm …,” Nish said after hearing both Jesse and Rachel Highboy were coming.
He wasn’t listening. Travis knew his old friend well enough to know when Nish had tuned out. He’d obviously found something far more interesting on the television.
“You’re not listening, are you?”
“Ummmmmmmm,” Nish said. He seemed almost asleep. “… What?”
“You weren’t even listening, Nish. You don’t care, do you?”
“I care. I care. It’s just that we’re booked solid that week, Trav. Contracts, you know. You don’t get out of them that easy.”
“But I get the feeling you wouldn’t come even if you could.”
There was a long pause on the phone. Nish coughed, clearing his throat.
“I don’t know whether I could play,” he said, finally.
“It’s not a real game,” Travis pressed on. “It’s going to be like shinny. No contact. Some of them haven’t even skated in years. Then there’s Lars and Dmitri – and Sarah, of course. It would hardly be fair to have a real game.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Nish said, his voice growing very small and quiet.
Travis was going to ask Nish to explain, but then he realized he already knew what Nish meant. Nish didn’t know if he could ever face lacing up his skates again. Hockey had meant everything to him. Then fate had taken it away, and Nish had never fully dealt with it. For him, it was like a death he had never confronted.
“It’s … just … that …,” Nish began, fading out.
“I know,” said Travis. “I know. I understand. Look, if you change your mind, you have my number, okay?”
“I have it.”
“You’ll call if you have a change of heart?”
“Sure.”
But Travis knew Nish wouldn’t be calling. He hung up the phone just as Imoo came running into the room to shove his big head into Travis’s lap for an ear scratch and some friendly play-fighting.
Had Imoo not come along, he might have started crying.
It wouldn’t seem right without Nish in the lineup.
Not right at all.
11
The headline took up most of the top half of the Tamarack weekly newspaper:
NUMBERED COMPANY BUYS REZONED WATERFRONT
Travis read the story over breakfast – twenty-three years old and he still began each day with sugar-coated cereal – and tried to figure out what it all meant.
A numbered company – an investment business known only as #3560234, its number of incorporation in the province – had paid $3.2 million for nine acres of shorefront property running from the mouth of the river along the beach and past the rocky point.
Council had tentatively approved the purchase. The mayor had given his word that under no circumstances would any factory be built on the site, and that
any development would be in keeping with Tamarack’s continuing growth in the tourism industry.
“This is a great day for Tamarack,” the mayor told the paper. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the detailed plans of the company, but let me assure the people of Tamarack that this will mean increased business for the downtown core, more permanent jobs for area workers, and a clean, environmentally safe attraction that will bring visitors from all over the world.”
How, Travis wondered to himself, could that be a bad thing?
“It’s a casino,” Sam said, her voice drained of emotion. “Just as we thought.”
She was standing out on the farthest rocky ledge of the rugged point that had just been sold to numbered company 3560234. Travis had come by at the end of his morning run with Imoo and been not in the least surprised to see Sam and little Muck already there.
Anton was also there, fiercely tacking up signs on every tree within sight:
Stop the Destruction!
Citizens Against Corruption!
Save Our Beach!
March for the Turtles!
“Anton has a sleeper in the town hall,” Sam went on.
“A ‘sleeper’?”
Sam looked up, blinking in surprise at Travis.
“A spy – okay? A friend of the environmental movement. I think I mentioned him before,”
Travis nodded. He remembered.
“They had to submit detailed plans before the purchase could go through,” Sam continued. “He says it’s a huge casino. They plan to spend close to a hundred million on it. So, put two and two together, eh? A casino, a secret deal, a numbered company.”
“What do you think it means?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sam snapped, her green eyes flashing. “Mafia. Mob money. Gangs.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Maybe not. But one thing I do know for sure: they build here – a good part of it out into the water on stilts, our guy tells us – and that’s the end of the turtle laying ground. It becomes a parking lot. And it’s the end, too, of the trout habitat.”
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 5 Page 27