by Bryan Gruley
He looked past me, snapped his fingers, and called out something I didn’t understand. I heard footsteps approaching, the door behind me swinging open. Vend looked at me.
“What is it you journalists like to say when you’ve been backed into a corner by your own recklessness? ‘Don’t shoot the messenger’?” He stepped up and pushed his face to within an inch of mine. Other, lighter, shorter scars became apparent along his neck. “Here is a message,” he whispered. “Your Gracie gave up on life because the people who supposedly loved her gave up on her. When you are all weeping around her grave, you should remember that there is no tragedy in the inevitable.”
He stepped back. Hands grabbed my shoulders from behind and jerked me out of the chair. Vend reached out and snatched my notebook away.
“Hey,” I said. I tried to wrench free but the men held me fast. “Come on.”
“Worry not,” Vend said. “I will return it momentarily.”
He dropped the notebook on the floor next to the flattened cigar butt. He unzipped his pants and removed himself. I understood then how he had gotten his nickname. It had nothing to do with the knob of tape on his goalie stick.
He zipped up and gestured toward the soaked notebook.
“There you go, Mr. Carpenter. I very much look forward to your next article, if you can get it in your little paper. I would hate for you to have come all the way down here for nothing.”
I left the notebook lying on the floor.
The flickering lights looked like fireflies through the tinted windows of the Suburban. As the vehicle rolled to a stop, the window to my right edged down, and the smell of burning gasoline leached in. Crater Face, sitting to my right, grabbed my arm and yanked me forward.
“Look,” he said.
The lights, I could see now, flashed from police cars and fire trucks and an ambulance. Flames and smoke were spewing from the roof of a house. Gracie’s house. We were parked one street over, close enough to see but not be seen. Every few seconds the lights illuminated neighbors standing around in parkas. I thought of the Red Wings cup waiting in the drainer.
And those videotapes I would never be seeing.
“Motherfuckers,” I said.
Crater Face turned and grasped me by the neck and squeezed, turning me sideways, his fingernails biting into my skin. The man behind me pinned my elbows back. I felt my neck muscles collapsing as I struggled to remain conscious. The window went back up. The vehicle started to move. The men let me go. They spoke in their language, laughing.
They were still laughing when they threw me onto the gravel of the parking lot at Nasty Melvin’s.
My hamstrings didn’t stop quivering until I veered onto Interstate 275 heading north. I pulled off at Eight Mile Road to fill up. The smell of gasoline made me nauseous. Ten minutes up 275, I was still smelling the gas. I pulled onto the shoulder and flicked on my emergency lights.
I found the four empty five-gallon cans under the cover of my flatbed. I glanced around, looking for police flashers. There were none yet. I waited until there was a break in traffic and took the cans and flung them into the high weeds poking through the snow across the road shoulder.
I stayed on back roads, keeping my eyes peeled for state police cruisers, all the way back to Starvation.
nineteen
The cop lights flashed on in my rearview mirror just as I parked behind the Starvation Lake Arena. “Fuck me,” I said.
I had stopped earlier and called Darlene from a pay phone outside a Grayling tavern called Spike’s Keg ’O Nails. She hadn’t answered, so I’d told her voice mail I’d see her after the game. She wasn’t much of a hockey fan.
I’d also tried the Sarnia police. The night dispatcher told me only the chief was authorized to speak to the media, and he was out of town until the next night. I left my name and number.
Now in my side-view mirror I saw Sheriff Dingus Aho approaching, alone. It wasn’t like Dingus to be out on patrol; he had to have been looking for me. I shut off the truck, opened the door, and stepped out. A fluorescent lamp on the back of the rink threw diffuse light across the snow-packed asphalt. Dingus walked into it, arms folded across his chest.
“Can this wait?” I said. “I’ve got to be on the ice in ten minutes.”
“Can’t go in this way,” Dingus said. “The Zamboni area is still off-limits.”
“Oh. OK, I’ll walk around front. Sorry.”
“What are you parking back here for anyway?”
“Got in the habit when I was playing goalie. Had to do with some superstition I’ve long forgotten.”
I grabbed my bag and sticks out of the back of my truck. “You hauling gasoline?” Dingus said.
“Soupy ran out the other day and I spilled some giving him a hand.”
“Uh-huh.” He stepped between me and the rink. “So how was your trip to Detroit? Find out anything?”
I had debated while driving back exactly what I could or would tell Dingus and Darlene. I didn’t have a paper for four days and I had serious doubts about what, if anything, the publisher would allow the Pilot to print. Journalists weren’t supposed to be snitches for cops. But Dingus had pointed me to Vend. And Darlene, well, hell, Darlene was my girlfriend. One of them could probably get to the Sarnia police. I decided I wanted Darlene to hear about that first.
“Not much that I can say anything about,” I told Dingus. “I’ve got to make some calls in the morning.”
His frown bunched his handlebar up beneath his nose.
“I wouldn’t be holding out on me, son. Your little story about Soupy is believable, but bullpuckey. My sheriff friends in Wayne County gave me a call. You were seen going into a house this morning that later went up in flames.”
Trixie, I thought. Would she have been implicated too?
“I am not an arsonist, Dingus.”
He sniffed at the air. “If you say so.”
“Gracie was murdered, all right,” I said. “But you knew that.”
“By whom?”
I had been sure that Vend was responsible for Gracie’s death. Until I had heard about Haskell. It could have been Vend, or Haskell, or both. Gracie’s videotapes-and whatever other evidence she had hidden away-could have put them out of business and in jail. I thought of the girl in Sarnia. What had she known and how had she threatened these men?
What did I really know? That Gracie had become ensnared, probably by Haskell, in a prostitution ring that included among its specialties asphyxiation for wealthy gentlemen. That Gracie had apparently tried to escape that life and make a saner one of her own while struggling against the knowledge that she had given up a child. That both Haskell and Vend could have had motives for killing her, depending on what she knew and what she was willing to reveal. That Vend and Haskell were embroiled in a conflict over large amounts of money and-I only guessed-Gracie’s affections.
But if Gracie was truly out of their business, as Trixie seemed to have been saying, why would Haskell and Vend have cared about her anymore? She must have wanted something. Money? Her house? A job at the new rink? Her dignity? Could they have somehow given that back to her?
“Not sure,” I said.
“Well, Doc Joe appears to disagree.”
“Doc Slow reported already?”
“Surprise, surprise, the county commission sent a letter yesterday to the good doctor asking for input on his budget.”
“And so he produced his report in record time. What’d he say about Gracie?”
“The proximate cause of death was strangulation, the result of a broken neck,” Dingus said. “Strongly suggesting suicide. Of course ol’ Doc didn’t come down too hard on any one side, trying to keep all parties happy. But he cited no specific evidence of homicide, no real signs of struggle, no marks other than the striations on her neck.”
“Come on. She walked out there in a snowstorm, shinnied up a tree, and hung herself?”
“I’m sure you’ll be shocked to hear that the good doctor did not address
those issues directly.”
“Can I get a copy of his report?”
“I doubt it. I myself have yet to see it. The county attorney said it would be made available in due time.”
“After Haskell gets his way with the town council.”
“Maybe so.”
“So we can get that fabulous new rink.”
“That is paramount.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“I was thinking the same.”
We stood without speaking for a minute. I heard slap shots echoing off the dasher boards inside the old rink.
“You know,” I said, “Gracie had an abortion.”
Dingus knit his hands behind his back. “Go on.”
“Not sure when. Probably in the last few years.”
“Aha. That’s why she killed herself.”
“It’s a story.”
“Yes. Well. I’ll be candid, Gus, I suspect you know quite a bit more than you’re letting on. And I can appreciate that you’ve probably had a tough day, traveling back and forth and all. So I’ll let it go for the moment.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m in more of a sharing mood than you, so I’ll let you know: while you were gone, Channel Eight’s reporter stopped by my office. She seemed very interested.”
“Playing hardball, huh, Dingus?”
“Aw, that’s nothing. Go play your game. Then sleep on it. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, say, five or so, I’ll be calling Sheriff Brice.”
“Who?”
“Wayne County sheriff Sam Brice. He might be interested in running some tests on your truck, see if you’ve been hauling large amounts of gasoline.”
“Come on.”
As Dingus turned for his cruiser, he called over his shoulder, “Go out there and smoke ’em tonight.”
“What the fuck, Trap?”
It was Soupy. He was dressed and ready to go, his skates tied, his two sticks freshly taped, his red Chowder Head jersey pulled on, his old taped-together helmet resting next to him where he sat on the bench against the wall, the last man remaining in dressing room 3.
One of Soupy’s countless superstitions prevented him from going out onto the ice until I had sat down next to him. I’d thought he might let that one die when I stopped playing goaltender, but he did not.
“Sorry,” I said. I sat and unzipped my bag.
“Where the fuck were you?”
“Had to make a quick trip downstate.”
“Uh-huh. You heard the news?”
I was pulling gear out of the bag-shin guards, elbow pads, cup, gloves, helmet, pants. All of it stunk of mildew and sweat.
“You mean the coroner?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. Heard. Sorry, man.”
“Sorry for what? It wasn’t my fault.”
“I know. I mean-”
“You think she offed herself because of me?”
“No, I do not think that.”
Soupy plopped his helmet on his head and braced his elbows on his knees. I stripped off my shirt and pants and started pulling on my long cottons, still damp from Sunday night. Soupy remained silent, staring at the floor. I heard a whistle shrilling on the ice. The door to the dressing room swung open and a grizzled guy wearing the black-and-white stripes of a referee ducked his head in.
“Tonight, fellas,” he said.
Soupy didn’t even look up.
“You can start without me,” I said. I elbowed Soupy. “Go on.”
“You got a funnel?” the ref said. He meant a goalie.
Soupy turned to him. “Yeah. Be right out.”
The ref glanced over at me for some reason. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. Don’t you dare drop that puck yet, Jack.”
The door shut. Soupy looked down at the floor again.
“What’s wrong, Soup?” I said.
He sighed. “Ah, fuck, man.”
“What?”
“We’ve got to talk. But not now. Later maybe.” He reached down and grabbed my right arm. “Over there, man.” I looked across the room and saw a set of goalie equipment stacked on the bench facing me. I had seen it on my way in but paid it no mind. I realized that Soupy wanted me to put it on.
“No,” I said. “Are you crazy? I’m not playing goal.”
“I left you like sixty fucking messages.”
“My cell phone was dead. Where’s E.B.?”
Ernie Block had been our goaltender since I had retired. Soupy loved it that his name was Block. Like most goalies, E.B. had some games where he could stop anyone short of Gretzky on a breakaway and others where he couldn’t keep a beach ball from going between his legs. On the bad nights, he did a lot of yelling at his teammates, which was fine because it gave us fodder to make fun of him with at the bar afterward.
“E.B.’s in jail.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He was playing a pickup game in Gaylord and-brace yourself now-he got to screaming at one of his D. The guy turned around and popped him pretty good. E.B. goes down but then he comes up with his stick and shoves it halfway up the guy’s ass. Turns out the guy is a cop.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. So E.B.’s spending the night. I went up and got his gear.”
I imagined E.B. using his sole phone call to let Soupy know he wouldn’t be playing tonight. He was probably sick about it. Not only was it hard to win without a goalie, the fun of the game was ruined for both teams.
But I didn’t really care.
“Well, I’m not playing goal, man. I haven’t played in a year. I don’t have my goalie skates. I’d get killed out there.”
“Don’t pussy out on us now, Trap. We can beat these assholes. I don’t give a shit if they’ve got Meat.”
“Oh, great. Meat’s out there. And what’s his specialty aside from beating guys senseless? Steamrolling goalies.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Forget it. I’m not playing.”
Soupy stood, his sticks gripped in his right glove. He popped in a mouthguard and snapped his chin strap.
“Fuck it, then, Trap. Don’t even bother getting suited up.”
“Fuck you. I’m playing. Wing.”
“We don’t need you on the wing. We got plenty of benders who can cough up the puck.” He pushed the door open. “We need you in between the pipes. Don’t bother coming over to the bar later either. We don’t serve pussies in Enright’s.”
Later, I thought. He had me. And he knew it.
“Wait,” I said.
Soupy let the door close. I looked over at the goalie stuff. I looked at Soupy. “What is it you need to talk to me about?”
“Nothing, man.”
“Don’t fuck with me.”
He grinned, the bastard. “Any more than I already am?”
“Goddammit. You will talk to me.”
“Later. Yeah.”
I got up and went over to E.B.’s goalie stuff. I picked up one of the leg pads. A hairy wad of cotton padding was spilling out through a tear along the stitched-on Cooper patch.
“Jesus,” I said. “Did he get these for his sixth birthday?”
“It ain’t about that, Trap,” Soupy said. “It’s about you.” He started out the door, then stopped and turned back to me. “And hey-better keep your head up, pal. Meat looks extra pissed-off tonight.”
I dressed in the silent room surrounded by emptied hockey bags and blue jeans hung on hooks. I stood and snatched up my goalie stick-E.B.’s goalie stick-and clumped out to the rink. Nothing felt right.
E.B.’s pants were too baggy. His cup was too tight. His shoulder and arm pads smelled like spoiled gravy. Worst of all, his goalie skates, with the protective hard-shell plastic along the sides, were at least two sizes too small. I couldn’t get into them. So I had to use my own regular skates, which had none of that extra padding. One hard shot off an instep and I’d be in the hospital.
The rink opened before me, two circles of guys skating
counterclockwise at either end of the ice, flipping pucks from stick to stick, snapping them into the mesh at the backs of the nets. I pulled the mask down over my face. It was too tight; I jiggled it until my cheeks weren’t pinching my eyelids. I skated across the ice to the front of my net and began to slide sideways back and forth between the goalposts to scuff up the ice in my crease and pile snow at each post to bog down passes coming from the corners. Soupy and Wilf and Zilchy and Danny Lefebvre and my other teammates whacked me on my leg pads with their sticks as they glided past. Good game, Trap. Fuck ’em, Gus. I felt the old butterflies flutter.
I slapped the blade of my stick off one goalpost, swung it back off the other, did it again and again, counting to eleven, the ritual complete. The two referees skated to center ice. I took a quick look around the rink. Down at the other end, there was Jason Esper, a tree trunk on skates, his long crossover strides propelling him around the back of his net and up the boards. Past him through the glass I saw the crisscrossed police tape that obscured the Zamboni shed. In the bleachers, a dozen people in parkas and lap blankets sat in clumps of twos and threes, cradling foam cups of coffee.
My eyes fell on a woman sitting alone at the top of the stands behind the other team’s bench. She was talking into a cell phone, her head tucked into the collar of her navy pea jacket. It was the first time in more than a day that I had seen Darlene out of her deputy’s uniform. And the first time I had seen her at one of my hockey games in I couldn’t remember how long. I wanted her to look my way, but she kept talking into her phone.
One of the refs blew a short blast on his whistle. The Chowder Heads of Enright’s Pub and the Mighty Minnows of Jordan Bait and Tackle broke their huddles at their respective benches. I banged my gloves together in front of me and got into my ready squat, my shoulders square, my stick hard against the ice, my catching glove out to my left and open. What the hell is Darlene doing here? I thought. Why is she sitting way down there? All but one of the other skaters hunched over their sticks in face-off position. Jason Esper remained upright. He was still glaring at me when the ref dropped the puck.
Clem Linke of the Minnows won the face-off. He chipped the puck back to his twin brother Jake, who deked around Wilf and flipped the puck end over end into our zone, halfway between my left post and the corner. My heart thumped as I slid out of my crease and caught the puck on my stick blade. Soupy was coming fast with Jason on his heels.