He found himself standing outside the door. It was open.
“Brandon, please come in.”
He entered the room. Coach motioned to a chair, and Brandon sank into it.
“Brandon. I know you. I’ve known you since you were a seventeen year old first round draft pick. You were a real sparkplug on your team.”
That’s where that nickname came from. Sparky.
“Brandon, what the hell was that about? Because he scored? You thought maybe the Ice Bandits couldn’t get even?”
“Coach, I had to get even myself. It was personal.”
“Does this go back to the Olympics?” Coach rubbed his big black mustache.
Jacques LeFebvre became a NHL coach due to his expertise, his supreme knowledge of the game, his experience, but he also took the time to know his players. He took an interest in his boys, not just as athletes, but also as young men with great talent and tremendous pressure placed on them at an early age.
He knew Brandon was one of the best he’d ever coached, a superstar in the making.
And Brandon knew, his part was to devote himself to his game, and that he did. He respected Coach Jock. He thought the world of this man who’d shaped him, prodded him, sometimes yelling at him, to get the very best out of him.
Brandon had to be honest with him.
“Yes, Coach. It does go back to the Olympics. To the night we won the gold.” His throat closed up, and he couldn’t go on.
“But you beat the United States for the gold. Not Sweden.”
Brandon took a deep breath. God, even his chest hurt.
“And when I got back to my room at the Village, I found Niklas Eriksen in my room. In my bed. With my fiancée. My former fiancée.”
Brandon couldn’t continue. He buried his face in his sore hands.
Even now, months after it was over, and he met Greta, the memory still burned within him. He had to get even with that bastard. Maybe it cost him, in money and other ways, but he had to let Niklas Eriksen know that he knew what happened that night at the Olympic Village, and he did not forget.
Coach just sat and waited for Brandon to continue.
Brandon raised his head after a few moments. He looked Coach Jock straight in the eyes.
“I’m sorry, Coach. I am really sorry. We should have won that game. But all I could think about was getting even with that guy.”
Coach looked at his top defenseman.
“Brandon. Winning is the best revenge. You know that by now. That goes above anything personal.”
Coach sighed, and rubbed his hands together.
“You know you will get a fine. I’m not sure how much, but…”
“Will I have some kind of hearing, or…”
“I doubt it, Brandon. You and Eriksen will both get fined. And that’s all she wrote.”
Brandon took that as a signal he should leave, but Coach wasn’t finished with him yet.
“One more thing.” Coach got up from his chair and walked over to Brandon.
He put one arm around Brandon, and spoke low.
“Brandon. We have a great team this year. And I consider you to be one of the most important parts of that team. Please remember that. I’m counting on you. Do not let me down. Do not let your teammates down.”
Brandon nodded. “You can count on me, Coach.”
“I trust you, Brandon. You have so much talent. I trust you to make the most of that talent, for me and for the team.”
The talk about trust hit home. Brandon could not, would not, betray the trust of his Coach and the other Ice Bandits. And Coach sensed this.
“Have a good sleep, Brandon. And put ice on that black eye.”
Chapter 11.
Greta was in such a hurry to buy a newspaper that morning, she almost forgot to pay the vendor. Brandon was all over the front page. Brandon and that Quebec player, fighting like two animals. She saw Brandon’s uniform number 48, and his fist smacking the Quebec player square on the jaw.
She had been at the game, but she devoured that story as if it held the answers to her deepest questions. She read about how the Voyageurs scored first, and Brandon and the other guy exchanged dirty looks, dirty words too, and then dropped the gloves.
There was another story about hockey fights. It took up most of the inside back page.
Greta couldn’t stop staring at the photo of Brandon punching that other guy. Sweet, kind, funny Brandon Taylor? She knew hockey players fought and it was part of the game, but she couldn’t imagine Brandon being a part of that. She witnessed the fight from her seat, but she still couldn’t understand.
Of course, this was another hectic day. The price of gold soared to a new high, and people were already lined up outside the door to sell their old jewelry, necklaces and class rings. How the heck could this place be losing so much money, when everyone in the store was constantly busy?
Mr. Blakely beckoned to her. “Greta, I want you to buy gold today. Save your jewelry making for another time.” He smelled big profits, with gold at an all-time high.
He was a businessman, striking while the iron was hot. He didn’t even ask her about that hot hockey game she’d attended. Today, it was all business.
Greta much preferred working on gemstones and metals, rather than dealing with the public, but what could she do? Besides, work would take her mind off Brandon.
She’d wait for him to call her, but she was dying to talk to him. Why did he fight the way he did? She didn’t read the whole article.
There was almost no time for lunch, either. Mr. Blakely was so right. Greta had never seen the place so busy.
Two other workers manned the buying desk, including Steve, the numismatist with coin collecting knowledge. Mr. Blakely paid him extra for that knowledge, and it paid off more than once. He’d spotted a few scarce coins in the loads of old coins people brought in; nothing especially rare, but worth a lot more than metallic value. Steve always let the sellers know they had something special.
And that afternoon, something really special came to Steve’s attention.
An old man with a cane and wispy gray hair showed a twenty dollar gold piece dated 1932. Steve almost fell out of his chair when he saw that eighty-year-old coin, still bright and shiny as the day it was struck. He referred the seller to a rare coin firm downtown, and all but ordered him to go. He even called the coin shop to tell them he was coming.
Work pretty much stopped when the old man displayed his coin. The other workers encouraged the old man to get all he could for his old coin. Greta was impressed, and more impressed when the coin expert told her what that coin was worth.
The old man hesitated. He wasn’t sure whether to believe these young people or not.
“I’ve done business with that coin outfit before. Best in their field. They’ll be happy to see you.” Before the old man could protest, Greta found her jacket and her car keys.
Mr. Blakely stared at her.
“This man can’t blow off this coin. I want him to get what this coin is worth.”
The man spoke up, “I know of an antique shop a few blocks away…”
“This is not just an antique, Mr….what’s your name again?”
“Jonathan West. I’m from Cicero. That coin was in my late wife’s jewelry box for many years.”
Greta walked him toward the door. “And now it will find a better home. And you will have some money, Mr. West.”
It was only a fifteen-minute drive from South Side Precious Metals to the Windy City Gallery, the biggest and best known coin firm in the Midwest. Greta knew most of the staff. Once in a while, someone would come to her store with a bag of Kennedy half dollars, or silver coins saved from change, and Greta or another staff member would take them to the coin shop.
But never did anyone expect to find a rare gold coin, worth thousands of dollars. Greta wondered if anyone in the coin shop had ever seen one of those. Steve said only a hundred or so were known to exist; most were melted when the United States went off th
e gold standard.
Mr. West still seemed apprehensive about selling his coin. “You know, I just want what this coin is worth. The price of gold is up, and I thought it might be worth a few hundred dollars.”
“It is worth more than that,” Greta assured him.
The old man’s qualms disappeared when he and Greta showed the coin to the professional coin dealers at the Windy City Gallery. The man behind the counter gasped, and looked at that coin for many minutes. The owner of the shop came in from his office in the back of the building. He personally examined the coin with a magnifier. He studied the coin as if it held the secret to earning a big paycheck.
Greta introduced the coin men to Mr. West.
The owner shook his hand. “Mr. West, congratulations. I would like to sell this coin at our next auction. We have a major coin show in Rosemont, the middle week of August, and…”
“But can’t I just sell it to you, and take the money home now?”
“Mr. West, this double eagle is a very rare coin. If sold at auction, it could go for one hundred thousand dollars. Or more.”
The old man turned white. Greta feared he would collapse. She wished April the nurse was with them, just in case he needed CPR.
Then Mr. West smiled, and laughed. “Are you serious? How much did you say?”
The coin men repeated the figure. They took time to explain how their auctions worked, and spoke of the advance money Mr. West would receive. They gave him paperwork to sign and one of their auction catalogs to look at.
And they promised Greta that South Side Precious Metals would get a finder’s fee.
Greta had to get back to work. She left Mr. West chatting happily with the coin dealers who continued to tell him what was involved in consigning his coin to an auction.
When she returned to work, she told Mr. Blakely what happened. He seemed happy, shook her hand, and promised her a bonus, regardless of his pessimistic talk a few months before. “You went out of your way to help a customer. That’s wonderful.” Mr. Blakely had already promised Steve his bonus, for recognizing that rare coin and making sure the customer got full value for its rarity, not just metallic value.
Greta spent the rest of her afternoon weighing gold necklaces, checking for karat weight, and sterling silver hallmarks. She bought a lot of class rings, which made her sad.
She felt sadder yet when an old lady with a plain gold band came in to sell that. Her wedding ring. It wasn’t the first time she’d purchased a wedding ring, but the thought of having to sell your wedding ring to buy groceries or pay the rent disturbed her. Some people really had it bad.
She recalled the first time she met Brandon, when he walked into the store and demanded his gold ring that was lost. She wondered what happened to that ring, if she or someone else on staff had unknowingly purchased it over the counter and sent it to the smelter.
Greta wolfed down her late lunch in a few minutes—she’d brought a turkey breast sandwich from home—and went back to a man about fifty with a bag of half dollars to sell.
Some were silver, some were not. Greta, who worked extensively with silver, knew the difference by color alone. She told the seller that some of the coins were copper-nickel and not silver.
He argued with her. “Old half dollars are silver, and valuable. That’s why they don’t make them anymore.”
Greta explained, “They still make half dollars for collectors, but in copper-nickel. The last silver half dollar was in 1972.”
“Make that 1970,” the coin expert corrected her.
The man continued to argue with both of them when the phone rang.
“South Side Precious Metals.”
“May I speak to Miss Greta Patton?” A man with a low, raspy voice.
“This is she.” Someone from the Ice Bandits?
“Miss Patton, this is Officer Lee Glover of the Oak Lawn Police Department. We have your mother in custody.”
What the hell was this?
“You have my mother? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. She’s here at the station. We brought her here.”
Greta’s heart pounded. “Did she get sick? Or did she fall, or…”
“No, Miss Patton. She is in custody. We placed her under arrest.”
Greta thought she would pass out.
Officer Glover continued, “She was a passenger on a westbound Pace bus when she got into an altercation with the driver. Words were exchanged. She used foul language and placed her hands on the driver.”
Her mother. In a fight with a bus driver. And she put…
“What do you mean, Officer, she put her hands…”
He stammered. “Ah, well, she exchanged words with the driver, as I said, and she called him, ah, a foul name, and she then, ah, grabbed his arm. We were summoned, and we, ah, placed her in handcuffs…”
“Jesus Christ! I guess the world is a lot safer, now that my mother is in handcuffs!” Greta shouted. Every head in the crowded store turned toward her. “What the hell are you talking about? My mother is fifty-two years old. Five foot tall, ninety-eight pounds. What did she do? Beat up a three-hundred-pound bus driver?”
“Miss Patton, I realize you are upset.” Officer Glover sighed audibly. “Can you please come to the Oak Lawn police station?”
Greta heard a familiar voice hollering in the background. “And bail me out! I have to get home and watch Jeopardy!”
Greta’s head hurt, and she wanted to throw up.
Officer Glover continued, “Miss Patton, we would like to talk to you. Can you please come to the Oak Lawn police station? We are located at Ninety-fifth street and Cook Avenue.”
Greta mumbled something, and hung up. She forgot to say thank you.
Mr. Blakely always knew when Greta was talking to her mother, and he knew that this time it was more serious than talking about toilets. He came to her side. “Greta. If your mother needs you, you may go. I can man the buying desk.”
For the second time that afternoon, Greta got into her car and drove away from her workplace. It was a long drive from South Side Precious Metals to the southwest suburb of Oak Lawn, and the traffic was heavy, so she had time to think.
Brandon in a big fight, maybe in trouble. Work so crazy, she could barely keep up, but Mr. Blakely was not doing well. And now her mother…
Her phone buzzed. Brandon.
“Hey, Greta. Just called you at work. Where are you?”
“Brandon, this is ridiculous! Work is so busy. I just drove someone to the coin shop downtown. He had a coin worth a hundred thousand dollars, and he was going to practically give it away, to an antique shop. And my shop may go out of business. And now I got a call, and I’m on my way to the Oak Lawn Police Station!”
A pause.
“Greta. What the hell did you do?”
Chapter 12.
Greta’s knees shook as she walked from the parking lot to the front door of the Oak Lawn Police Station.
It wasn’t hard to find. As Officer Glover had told her, it was right on Cook Avenue. But where was her mother? Was she still in handcuffs? Was she frightened? What the hell was she doing in handcuffs, anyway?
And then she heard a familiar voice all the way from the front entrance.
“I told you what happened! That son of a bitch was so ignorant, what else could I do?”
Greta found her mother in the hall, with three cops nearby.
Then Ma spotted her daughter.
“There’s my daughter! Greta, tell these big galoots to leave me alone!”
Greta ran to her mother, and embraced her. Ma was no longer in handcuffs, a good thing; Greta might have punched someone, like a hockey player would, if she found her mother in cuffs. She was already madder than a T Rex with PMS. “They told me they put you in handcuffs. What happened?”
“I’ll tell you what happened. I was on my way to the bakery, and that dumb ass bus driver wouldn’t lower the step for me. Me, with my bad knee. He saw me climbing on board, and I almost fell. When
I told him, he wouldn’t even look at me. I told him again, it would be nice to lower the step for an old lady with a bum knee. He still didn’t look at me. So I called him an ignorant prick…”
One of the cops covered his mouth. Greta almost laughed herself.
Ma continued, “And would you believe it, he still wouldn’t look at me! So I tapped him on the shoulder…”
“Ma, they told me you put your hands on him…”
“That moron should be happy I didn’t punch him in the mouth, like that imbecile hockey player in the newspaper!”
Greta’s face burned.
Ma went on. Once she got started, there was no stopping her. Greta knew that, and she figured the poor Oak Lawn police knew that now. “Yeah, I know what goes on. I see this newspaper, open to the sports section, and here’s this muscle bound idiot trading punches with another fool! Greta, is this the hockey game you went to?”
At that moment, a muscular dark-haired young man entered the hallway. He wore an old workout shirt and blue jeans. His face was bruised; he had a black eye and a bright red cut on his chin.
“Look at this guy. Now this man has been in a fight. Was this fellow arrested, for fighting?”
“No, Ma. This is Brandon Taylor. Brandon, this is my mother.”
Brandon smiled. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Patton.” He offered his hand, but Ma didn’t shake it. “If I shake this guy’s hand, will I be arrested again? You can’t touch anyone. It’s assault.”
“Ma, we’re just trying to help.”
One of the cops managed to speak up. “Miss Patton, the driver is not going to press any charges…”
“Well, I should hope not! I didn’t do anything!”
“Ma, let the policeman talk.”
Brandon, meanwhile, stood to the side and tried to hide his face. He laughed so hard, he almost cried. This was Greta’s mother? This petite woman with gray hair and a mouth like a pissed-off defenseman? The old lady was tougher than that bastard from Quebec.
Since the bus driver wasn’t pressing charges, and no harm was done, Greta’s mother was free to go. Greta wanted to get her out of there before she picked a fight with an officer.
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