by Bryan Gruley
By now, I thought, the police might have caught up with Leo. Or maybe they weren’t even pursuing him. Maybe he’d left for some other reason, something that had nothing to do with Coach. Maybe he’d gone because he could no longer bear staying in Starvation Lake now that his old friend had returned, albeit in shadow.
I got out of the chair and called Mom, whose mile-a-minute message informed me that she was out. I couldn’t tell where. I left a message that I’d try to stop by Tuesday evening. I didn’t want her to know I was going downstate. She’d worry. I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m.
I had to tape Eggo’s thumb. I unzipped my hockey bag, set the glove on the table, and rooted in my bag for the shiny black tape I always used. Barely any was left on the roll. I’d been meaning to buy more. I peeled off Saturday’s tape and started winding the fresh stuff on. I ran out before I’d gotten around the thumb twice. Even though the tape didn’t really hold anything, I liked to have it go around at least three times. Tonight, two would have to do.
When I walked into dressing room 3, the Chowder Heads were having the sort of discussion that passed for philosophical in a place that reeked of old sweat and mildew. Wilf was telling of a friend who’d skated on a minor-league team where it was customary for a rookie, as part of his ritual initiation, to come to a game and find his skates filled with a veteran’s dump.
“Jesus, Wilf,” Stevie Reneau said. He was smearing toothpaste on the inside of his plastic face shield so it wouldn’t fog. Stevie had no stomach for these sorts of stories, which was one reason why Wilf took such glee in telling them. We never knew whether Wilf was making stuff up just to make Stevie sick, but this particular story was, unfortunately, plausible.
“So this rookie’s cleaning out his skates, you know, while my buddy and all the other dudes are laughing their balls off,” Wilf said. “Then the guy goes out and-what do you know? — scores a hat trick. No shit. First of his career, eh?” He grinned widely, knowing Stevie would reach the conclusion any superstitious hockey player would.
“Don’t tell me,” Stevie said.
“Oh, yeah,” Wilf said.
Stevie’s face contorted with pain. “The guy had to keep putting shit in his skates? Get the fuck out of here.”
Wilf laughed while Stevie impulsively grabbed his own skates and stuffed them back in his hockey bag. “You’ve been in a bit of a scoring slump, Steve-O,” Wilf said. “You never know what might help.”
Although Zilchy thought it bad luck to speak a word just before games, this opportunity was apparently irresistible. “What do you think, Stevie? Would the guy have to have the same guy’s shit in his skates before every game?”
“And what if the shitter got traded?” Danny Lefebvre chimed in.
Wilf’s eyes lit up. “I guess the rookie’s career would go right down the shitter!”
“Goddamn it, Wilf,” Stevie groaned.
Soupy walked in, dragging his hockey bag and a cooler.
“Soup,” Danny said.
“Spoons,” Wilf said.
Soupy dropped his bag and slid the cooler to the middle of the room. He sat down, as always, to my left. He looked tired. It wasn’t like him to be late for a championship game, even if it was just the Midnight Hour Men’s League.
“Soup, you got to hear this,” Wilf said. He started to retell his story, but Soupy stopped him in midsentence.
“Not now.”
Wilf looked offended. “Fuck’s your problem?” he said.
“The Zam’s on.”
“Leo finally show up?” Danny said.
Soupy kept his head down as he pulled gear from his bag. “Ronny’s doing the ice,” he said. Ronny was a high school kid who worked for Leo.
“So the ice’ll suck,” Wilf said. “Where the hell is Leo? It’s a championship game, for fuck’s sakes.”
Soupy gave me a sharp sideways glance, as if I knew the answer. I flipped my mask down. “So, Soup,” I said, changing the subject. “Mom’s thinking of getting a boat, now that I’m back. Maybe a nice speedboat.”
He grunted as he struggled to jam his left foot into his four-sizes-too-small skate. “Mrs. C’s got the cash for a speedboat? I doubt that. You seen Leo?”
“No,” I said. “What do they run these days?”
“A good speedboat? A lot. But, between the two of you, we could probably put you in an inflatable raft.”
“So, like, what? Ten grand?”
He was forcing his second skate on. “Twice that,” he said.
“Huh,” I said. “So do you sell boats for, like, twenty-five thousand dollars?” That was the number on the receipt Dingus had given me.
“Sure,” Soupy said. “Nicer, bigger ones. You used to work there.”
“You don’t sell ferryboats, do you?”
“Ferryboats? What the fuck are you talking about?” He directed himself to the entire room. “Was Gus already drinking? Goalies aren’t supposed to drink pregame.”
“Never mind,” I said.
“Look, Trap, if Mrs. C really wants a boat, you know I’ll work something out. Have her call me. But, Jesus, you’re getting weird. Everything’s getting weird around here. Where the hell is Leo anyway?”
Most of the room had emptied. I could hear sticks cracking pucks and pucks booming off sideboards. Soupy pulled on his Chowder Heads jersey, red and white, with a logo of a soup spoon made to look like a hockey stick.
“You were a little weird yourself last night, man,” I said.
“You mean Saturday?”
“No, last night. On my stairway. You were shitfaced.”
He popped his taped-up helmet on his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And what about today? The zoning board missed you.”
“Ain’t lucky to talk business, Trap.”
“Ain’t lucky to talk luck.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder as he always did just before we went out to play. But this time he squeezed hard and pulled me in close to him and peered in through the eyeholes in my mask.
“Where’s Leo?” he said. “The Zam shed’s cleaned out.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Bullshit. You notice every goddamn thing.”
“We’ve got to get out there. I’m a brick wall, right?”
“Yeah,” Soupy said, standing. “And I’m a rubber band, liable to snap any minute.”
We came out fast. Zilchy scored on a rebound to make it 1–0 and then Stevie deflected a low shot by Soupy over Tatch, the Land Sharks’ goalie, for a 2–0 lead late in the first period. I had to make only one tough save when D’Alessio got free and swung in untouched from my left. He shot low and hard to my stick side and I barely got my right toe on it. The rebound went right to Boynton, who tried to jam it just inside the goalpost, but I dove and smothered it for a whistle.
“Fuck you, Carpie,” I heard him tell me yet again.
As we took the lead into the second period, Teddy started playing more and more like the Teddy he’d grown into. He kicked Stevie’s legs out from behind. Elbowed Danny Lefebvre in the face. Clipped me with a butt end as he skated past. All when the refs weren’t looking, of course. Mostly, though, he gunned for Soupy. He cross-checked him in the neck, whacked him in the back of the knees, yapped at him at face-offs. “You think this is a fucking game?” he shouted once. Soupy did not reply, which wasn’t like him. He was no fighter, but he rarely shied from yapping at a yapper. Boynton kept it up. Soupy kept turning away.
Midway through the third period, Loob took a pass from Boynton and fired a slapper just to my right. Loob had a cannon, but I saw this shot cleanly and flicked out Eggo to block it. I thought I had it easily, but it deflected off Eggo’s bottom edge, ricocheted downward, and bounced off the side of my right leg pad and into the net. While the Sharks celebrated, I stared at Eggo in disbelief, wondering if the lack of one wind of tape had cost me.
When I looked up, I saw blue and red police lights flashing through the glass at the
other end of the rink. Everyone stopped to watch the sheriff’s deputies, five or six of them, trot into the Zamboni shed. They got Leo, I thought. One of the refs skated down there, and D’Alessio jumped off the Land Shark bench and joined him. I could see the cops stringing up yellow crime-scene tape. D’Alessio turned and directed everyone, even the referees, over to the benches. He left the ice and clomped into the Zam shed in his skates. I went over and leaned against the boards by our bench where the rest of the Chowder Heads were quietly watching. Soupy gave me a look. “What?” I said, and he turned away. The police lights kept flashing. Finally D’Alessio emerged from the Zam shed, shaking his head. He called the refs over. They had a brief conversation. D’Alessio skated off the ice and into the dressing room. I watched Soupy watching him. One of the refs came over and said, “They’re going to close the place, but we can finish.”
A little more than six minutes remained. The police lights kept flashing. The skaters lined up for a face-off to my right. As the ref held the puck out over the face-off dot, Darlene, in uniform, stepped into view outside the glass in the corner. Stevie won the face-off back to Soupy, who slid the puck immediately to me. I froze it for another face-off, which is what Soupy wanted. “Hang on,” he told the ref, and then skated over to Darlene. They had a brief exchange that I could not hear. Soupy punched the glass with his right fist and yelled, “No!” The ref’s whistle shrilled. “Today, gentlemen,” he said. Darlene hurried away, and when Soupy turned back to the game, his face was a pale mask of anger.
I felt certain then that something bad was going to happen.
From the next face-off, Stevie shoveled the puck ahead to Wilf, who banged it into the Land Sharks’ end. Zilchy chased it down in a corner and slid a quick pass back to Soupy waiting just above the face-off dot to the left of the Land Shark net. From there he could’ve had a clear shot on goal or he could’ve passed it to Danny Lefebvre at the far goalpost. Instead he lifted his stick an inch and let the puck slide beneath it. He tried to make it look like a mistake. Inexplicably, he waited a beat while Boynton rushed past and scooped up the puck. Soupy turned in pursuit.
Boynton had a breakaway. Soupy was faster, though, and could have overtaken him easily. Instead he maintained his pace two strides behind, waiting for something. What are you doing? I thought. I slid out to cut down the angle, my eyes darting between Boynton and Soupy, still trailing. Boynton veered to the middle of the ice. I stopped and squatted, prepared to push backward, catching glove high, Eggo in position, eyes now on the puck. I was guessing that Boynton was preparing to shoot rather than deke when his legs buckled and the puck squirted away.
The heel of Soupy’s stick caught Boynton just under the right eye. Soupy swung it like a baseball bat, following through as Boynton cried out once and crumpled. Soupy raised his stick again and brought it down like an ax on the side of Boynton’s head. Boynton was wearing a helmet, but again I heard the crack of wood on bone.
“Soupy!” I screamed. I dropped my stick and gloves and rushed to grab him before he swung his stick again. I had a fistful of his jersey when someone tackled us from behind. In an instant, other Land Sharks and Chowder Heads were piling on, screaming and cursing. A whistle was blowing. I heard someone saying, “Oh my God, call an ambulance, call an ambulance.” Somebody was punching me in the back, but I hung tight to Soupy, my mask pressed against the back of his neck. He was muttering to himself, “Leo, they fucking killed Leo. I’ll kill you, motherfucker, I’ll kill you.”
The refs peeled us apart. Somebody pulled me away, and Loob and Wilf grabbed Soupy by his arms and he let them. “That’s all, Soup, settle down,” Loob said. Boynton lay motionless on his side. A scarlet smear streaked the ice where he’d slid after falling. One of his teammates crouched next to him and removed his helmet. The side of his face was covered in blood.
“Fuck him,” Soupy said. “I hope he fucking dies.”
A ref stepped in front of him. “Game’s over,” he said. “Sharks win by forfeit.” Soupy didn’t care. He looked at me. “Happy now?”
I had no idea what he meant. D’Alessio reappeared. He showed Soupy a pair of handcuffs. “Easy way or hard, Soup?”
Soupy held his hands out impassively. As D’Alessio cuffed him, Soupy looked down at the unconscious Boynton. “Guess it ain’t a fucking game, is it?”
Two paramedics rushed through the front door of the rink, followed by two sheriff’s deputies and Sheriff Aho. But why would Dingus come for a lousy assault and battery? It wasn’t the first time a skater had gone a little crazy. Then a light like a car’s headlamp went on just over his shoulder, and I saw a bearded guy in a hooded green parka shouldering a TV camera pointed at Dingus. Walking beside him and speaking into a microphone was Tawny Jane Reese. A TV crew for a stick fight? I looked at Boynton. He still wasn’t moving.
Dingus walked out onto the ice and knelt next to Boynton, shaking his head. He looked up at Soupy. “You guys never grow up, do you?” he said.
Tawny Jane minced onto the ice, trying to keep her balance while she spoke into her microphone. Her cameraman aimed at Teddy as the paramedics secured him to a stretcher and hauled him out.
Dingus stood and walked over to Soupy and me. Tawny Jane and the cameraman followed. Dingus motioned to D’Alessio. “One minute, Deputy.” They stepped aside and talked. Dingus turned to Tawny Jane and said, “Give us a minute.” The camera light went out. Tawny Jane whispered something into the ear of the cameraman. She seemed excited.
D’Alessio moved back behind Soupy. He put one hand on the cuffs and one on Soupy’s shoulder. Dingus pointed at Tawny Jane and the cameraman. He stepped in front of Soupy. The camera light went on again. Tawny Jane stepped closer and stuck her microphone out for what Dingus was about to say.
Soupy spoke first, though. “Leo, Dingus?”
Dingus held Soupy’s gaze for a second, then he said, “Alden Campbell, you are under arrest for first-degree murder in the March 1988 death of John David Blackburn.”
“Fucking-ay,” Soupy said.
I had to lean on my stick to keep from falling over. I looked at Soupy. I wanted him to tell me this was all bullshit. His expression didn’t change. It was as if he expected this.
“Get him out of here,” Dingus said.
Tawny Jane narrated while the cameraman backpedaled in front of Dingus and D’Alessio walking Soupy off the ice.
I skated up behind them. “Dingus,” I said. “What about Leo?”
“They fucking killed him,” Soupy shouted.
Dingus stopped and turned to me. His face did not contradict what Soupy had said. “Later,” he said.
I followed Tawny Jane to the edge of the rink. She was telling her microphone: “…bleak chapter in the history of this down-on-its-luck resort town, here in the place named for the man who, we’re now being told, did not die in a snowmobile accident ten years ago but was, shockingly, murdered. Among the spicier ingredients in this torrid potboiler of a tale: A beloved coach, a disgruntled former player, and a twenty-two-caliber bullet. Channel Eight’s exclusive coverage…”
The damp hair around my ears froze as I stepped out of my truck in the parking lot of the Pine County sheriff’s Department. I remembered the time Soupy and I had a playful hockey fight on the rink in his backyard. My hair had frozen to my helmet and, when Soupy tore the helmet off, some of my hair came with it. Soupy thought it was hilarious.
Now he was inside somewhere, in an interrogation room or a jail cell. And something terrible had happened to Leo.
The glassed-in sheriff’s department lobby glowed with fluorescent light. Inside, Joanie spotted me approaching and hurried out.
“Are you OK?” she said.
“What’s going on?”
“Dingus is supposed to be out in a few minutes.”
“We better get in there.”
“Wait.” She put a hand against my chest. “Are you all right to cover this?”
Of course I wasn’t. But what was I going to do?
“I’m fine.”
“Do you really think Campbell killed Blackburn?”
I hesitated just long enough that one of her eyebrows crept higher. I couldn’t imagine what Soupy’s motive would be, but I’d been surprised by so many things in the last few days that I wasn’t sure what to think. I’d always thought of Soupy as gentle. He’d never been one for the rough stuff in hockey. Then came the sneak attack on Boynton.
“No,” I said.
“Well,” Joanie said, “I’m sorry about your friends. And I’m sorry about getting scooped. I’ve got to wait a whole damn day to catch up.”
No doubt Tawny Jane’s report was already on the air. At that hour, maybe twenty people were watching. “Forget it,” I said.
“I come in tonight and she’s like, ‘Oh, this must be terrible for you, your stories today were so great,’ and I’m like, you little slut.”
“Just lock down your sources in the department now so we don’t have Tawny Jane attached to Dingus when the rest of this plays out,” I said. “Also, in case he has another press conference-”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”
“Hey, guys,” came a voice. We turned to see Skip Catledge leaning out the door. “Sheriff’ll be out in a minute.”
When Dingus emerged, his brown tie was still tied and clasped and he moved with purpose I had never seen in him before. He raised his hands as the four of us-Tawny Jane, the cameraman, Joanie, and me-stepped toward him.
“Before you start asking questions, this is not a press conference,” he said. “Kill that, please.” He pointed at the cameraman, who lowered his camera. “Rather than have you sit in my lobby all night, I’m going to tell you a couple of things and then you’re all going home. Understood? No notes, Miss McCarthy. And no interruptions. This is totally off the record, just for your planning and information. There’ll be plenty on the record tomorrow.”
“As you know, we have in custody Alden Campbell. Most people around here know him as Soupy. He will be arraigned tomorrow at two p.m. before Judge Gallagher on a charge of murder, first degree, as well as assault and battery related to the incident during the hockey game this evening.”