by Dan Dowhal
Shane reaches the ranch glazed with perspiration. Not wanting to face Tammy a sweaty mess, he goes behind the stable to pump some water for washing up. As he stands to let the sun and air dry him, he thinks of all the projects and improvements around the ranch he still was planning to undertake. It seems so unfair — not just to him, but also to the ranch — to be denied the chance to complete the work. It is like being sent to the dressing room while a game is still in progress.
When Shane comes back around the stable, Yolanda and Maybelline are standing there waiting for him, but Tammy is nowhere in sight.
“At least you’re not toting your shotgun,” he jokes to Yolanda as he approaches them. “Even so, I guess there’s no chance she’s changed her mind and I can stay?”
The Chicana shakes her head. “Not a snowball’s chance in hell. She’s acting all tough, but she don’t fool us … you really done a number on her.” Shane opens his mouth to protest, but Yolanda raises her hand to silence him. “I know you didn’t mean to, that’s the only reason you and me are still talking, but you hurt her real bad, and that’s a fact.”
Maybelline steps up to him and stretches onto her tiptoes to kiss him gently on the cheek. “Goodbye, Shane. Nice knowin’ ya.” The fact that she makes her farewell without spins or pirouettes or little snatches of silly verse makes the moment feel as sombre as a funeral.
“Where is she? I have to talk to her.”
“It’s no use,” Yolanda insists, but he’s already gone to find Tammy. The front door is locked, and when he goes around back to the kitchen, that entrance is shut as well.
He taps on the window and calls out, “Tammy! Open up, let’s talk about this.” When there is no answer, he starts rapping sharply on the glass with the back of his plaster cast. A shape becomes visible inside — Tammy approaches the door, but doesn’t unlock it.
“Go away. Take your stuff out of the stable and leave, or so help me, I’ll call the sheriff.” She turns her back on him and disappears again.
He gives up, but now anger has taken hold. As he heads to the stable, he hoofs the dirt, upturns a wheelbarrow, knocks over a rake, and tosses a bucket across the compound. Entering the stable, he gives the old wooden door a few kicks for good measure, and on his way to the toolroom to gather his possessions, he thumps every post he passes, agitating the rattlesnakes in their wire cages.
“Aw, shut the fuck up!” he tells the rows of snake eyes watching him. “I’m not afraid of you fucking snakes!” He steps forward and starts shaking the stacked up pens. Suddenly he imagines hearing a voice, Puck’s voice, counselling him not to be angry, not to vent his frustration on the blameless serpents. When he stops, it is like a fever breaking, but it is too late.
The end cage tumbles off the wobbling stack onto the ground. Its door springs open, and a large rattlesnake starts to slither out. In a panic, Shane reaches for the cage door, hoping to prevent it from escaping, but as he does so, the viper lunges toward his hand. So fast does the rattler move that Shane feels the bite before his vision registers it. The snake recoils after striking, and Shane has the presence of mind to slam the cage door shut before letting out a wail and rushing out of the stable.
“Help! Somebody help me!” he screams. “A snake bit me!”
Yolanda and Maybelline are digging in the garden. They exchange a look, but don’t even put down their tools.
“Tammy!” Maybelline calls toward the house.
“Yeah, yeah, I heard,” a voice shouts back. “Land’s sake, how could I not hear?”
The realization soaks in that the women mean to let him die, and the idea has a surprisingly calming effect. He wonders if it will be painful. He sinks to his knees and closes his eyes. His thoughts flutter to the other tough guys he’s battled on the ice over the years. A number of those fellow enforcers are now dead, including three who took their own lives. The hockey world has closed ranks and denied the deaths are related, but his beat-up brain knows better. Hasn’t he himself contemplated suicide, after all? Perhaps this is for the best, he thinks. My life’s basically over, anyway.
But, no, the truth is Shane wants to live. Even though his past has caught up with him and destroyed his fantasy of a life on the ranch with Tammy and the kids, he has experienced something profound over the last few weeks. It is as if he was lost in the woods and spotted a path to salvation.
“Please, I don’t want to die,” he sniffles.
“Oh stop it, ya big baby, no one’s gonna die,” Tammy’s voice says, and he looks up to see her staring down at him impassively. “Yolanda, go git the snakebite kit, will ya?” she calls out and bends down to inspect the wound. “Which one got ya?” she asks Shane.
“The really big one on top … in the end cage.”
“Good,” she replies.
“Can’t say I blame you for wanting to see me hurt.”
“No, stupid, good ’cause that’s a fully growed Diamondback. The old ones store up more venom but don’t tend to waste it less’n they got to. It’s the young ’uns you gotta look out for … ain’t learned to control themselves yet. Good thing it wasn’t one of the littler species, like those tiger rattlers Beñat caught. They’ll pump some nasty juice in ya.” She drops his hand. “Looks like a dry bite … no venom. Just trying to warn you off, I reckon. Besides, we milked ’em not long ago.”
Shane looks down at the bite, which is turning purple around the puncture marks. He doesn’t understand how Tammy can be so dismissive. “That’s it? What if you’re wrong? What if it did squirt some poison in me? How long before I die? Shouldn’t I get a shot of antivenom just to be safe?”
She shakes her head. “Big Hoss, you got it wrong. I ain’t sayin’ a rattler can’t kill you, but it ain’t likely. More people in these parts die from bee stings than snakebite.”
Yolanda shows up with a small case that she hands to Tammy, who hesitates before opening it. “All right, I’ll give you a shot. I was just trying to save some cash. This stuff ain’t cheap, but I reckon you’ve been generous enough with your money … if not the truth.” She extracts a syringe from the kit and administers the injection — more roughly than necessary, in Shane’s estimation.
“How the heck did you get bit, anyway?” she asked.
“Knocked the cage over and the snake tried to get out. It was an accident.”
“An accident, you say. I heard you yelling and cursing in there, Big Hoss. I’ve been on the receiving end of those kinds of ‘accidents’ too many times.”
“Tammy, I’m sorry, about everything. Mostly I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything up front about my … you know, my situation. But you have to believe me, I’m not a criminal, and I never hit my girlfriend, I swear.”
“Doesn’t matter. Maybe you’re telling the truth, maybe you ain’t. I can’t take that chance. Got my girls to think of.” She rises and is about to turn away, but instead hikes up her skirt above the knee and tilts her leg slightly sideways. Shane makes out the faded white dual scars of a puncture wound. “Bit once, twice shy,” she whispers.
It takes Shane barely two minutes to pack. He carries his meagre possessions outside to stuff in the saddlebags of the Ducati and in his backpack. His connection to the ranch has become so intense and profound that it feels surreal to sever it so easily.
He starts the motorcycle’s engine, dons his helmet, and climbs aboard. Fortunately the throttle and one of the brakes are on the right grip; otherwise he’d have no chance of piloting the bike with a broken hand. As long as he goes slow and avoids any sudden movements, he should be okay. Taking one last woeful look around the crooked structures and the mesquite-filled landscape, Shane leaves Rancho Crótalo.
As he exits onto the county road, he catches a flash of motion and hears his name being yelled. A figure comes scrambling out from behind some bushes and begins chasing the Ducati. Shane brakes and turns to see Vern running after him.
“Shane! Shane! Wait up!” the youngster is shouting.
Shane dismo
unts and walks back to the boy. “Vern, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in school.”
The boy wraps Shane in a desperate hug. “Don’t go, Shane. Please don’t go.” Tears are welling up in Vern’s eyes. “Maybe Gracie and me can talk to Aunt Tammy and get her to let you stay. Please, Shane, I don’t want you to leave. I … I don’t want to be alone there again.”
Shane tilts the boy’s head back and looks him in the eye. “Hey, buddy. You’re not alone … they’re your family. They love you.”
“They hate me. They’re always picking on me … at least they did until you came along. That’s why you need to stay.”
Shane has to fight back the tears that are starting to mist his own eyes. “I can’t stay, Vern. I was really only passing through. I have to go back to my own life.”
“Then take me with you. You said I was a good helper … I could do that. I could help you.”
“Aw, Vern. I’d love to. You are a great helper … and a great kid. That’s why you have to stay here. They need you. You have to finish those projects we started, but more importantly, you got to take care of them, especially Gracie. You have to protect them.”
“Protect them?”
“That’s right. That’s what I do … what I did. Protected my teammates. It’s a tough job, really tough. Nobody’ll thank you, people will call you names, and they’ll go out of their way to pick on you. Not everybody can do it. But you can, Viper. I know you can. I’ve seen it. You’re tough. And it’ll get easier as you get older.”
“No, I don’t think I can do it.”
Shane has heard countless inspirational quotes from all the coaches and managers he has served over the decades, but the words that come to mind now are those of his very first coach — his dad. “‘Easy makes you lazy, son. Hard makes you strong.’” He bends down to look Vern directly in the eye. “They really need your protection, Viper, even your Aunt Tammy. Maybe her most of all.”
“Yeah, but who’s going to protect me from her?” The self-pity is gone from the boy’s voice, and there’s a note of humour in this last statement. It tells Shane that Vern is going to be okay. He offers his hand to the boy.
“Sir, it’s been an honour and a privilege working with you.”
The line is borrowed from numerous movies, but that doesn’t diminish his sincerity. Vern shakes the proffered hand, his shoulders squared back, looking two inches taller.
“Likewise.”
“Need a lift back to school?”
“Nah, that’s okay. I’ll walk. No point strolling into class halfway through and drawing attention to myself. I’ll just show up after lunch, and no one’ll even notice.” He fixes Shane with a very adult look. “Besides, I figure I got lots to think about.”
“You and me both, Viper. You and me both.”
Shane gets back on the motorcycle and drives away without looking back. When he reaches the intersection with the main highway, he stops and presses his forehead down on the handlebar. Whatever resolve he has been clinging to is dissolving. Familiar dark thoughts emerge from the shadows the way dusk floods back following the all-too-brief afternoon of a Yukon winter. Feeling the beasts of despair begin their gnawing, Shane starts to cry. He can’t do this. He can’t go on. It’s hopeless. But then he remembers Doc Sanchez explaining how Shane’s depression is a result of the blows he’s taken to his head during his hockey career. Don’t let it win, he tells himself. You’re a fighter, after all.
Shane looks to the right, to the north, and pictures the long drive back to Chicago, where a criminal trial and possible imprisonment await him. Turning himself in would be the smart play, he supposes, but he cannot shake the conviction that he is being unjustly persecuted. He realizes his drive would take him past the valley where Beñat, himself a fugitive, has hidden happily for decades. This conjures up recollections of the peyote trip and the guidance given by his spirit guide or hallucination, Puck. After a few seconds, Shane tightens his jaw in determination and turns south.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Stepping inside the Pista de Hielo de Puerto Palomas, Shane is transported back to his past, to the time of two-thousand-seat arenas with spartan cinder-block dressing rooms. Although it is brand new and workers are still applying finishing touches, the building already has the almost-seedy feeling endemic to small hockey arenas with all the ambiance of a subterranean bunker. By his late teens Shane was already playing to sizeable crowds in small cities, but this place has the feel of his formative years.
First and foremost, Shane wants to get the feel of the rink itself. He finds the way down to the ice surface and discovers a half-dozen young Hispanic men scrimmaging. Shane stays in the shadows and sizes the athletes up. They are better players than he imagined, albeit with much room for improvement. Still, if this is the calibre of some of the players Shane will be working with, he might just enjoy the job after all.
“Why am I not surprised to find you here, amigo?” Doc Sanchez laughs from behind him. Shane turns to receive a giant bear hug from the doctor. “I’m really happy you accepted our offer, Shane. I know our young players can learn a lot from you. And hopefully the arrangement will benefit you, too … I mean, beyond offering refuge from your legal troubles.”
“I was worried they might stop me at the border, especially riding in on my motorcycle, but the guards just waved me through … didn’t even look at my papers.”
Sanchez snickers. “It’s not coming into Mexíco you have to worry about. It may be trickier getting back into the States.”
Shane shrugs. “Nothing there for me now.”
“Well, there’s plenty for you here. I see you’re already checking out some of our talent. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
They walk down to the players’ bench, and Doc Sanchez calls the skaters over. The introduction is in Spanish, but Shane nevertheless gleans the big buildup he is getting. The players step forward to shake Shane’s hand, and a chorus of enthusiastic but unintelligible greetings spills out. Shane looks helplessly to Sanchez.
“For some reason I thought they’d all be like you and Don Aléjandro … you know, bilingual and all.”
“I’m afraid not. We’re border babies, after all. Oh, the odd guy will speak a little English, but most won’t. Not to worry … we’ll fix you up with an assistant who can be your translator.”
“Well, tell the guys I’m really pumped to be working with them. Say I’ll be stressing the fundamentals — skating and stickhandling and conditioning — and I expect hard work, but it will pay off in the end as they hone their skills.”
Doc Sanchez translates. As he speaks, a derisive laugh echoes down from the stands. They glance up and see Enrique standing there with his two henchmen. He walks down to join the gathering, and Shane swears he can feel the temperature drop ten degrees just from the sheer menace the young narco exudes.
“Come off it, gringo. Skills? Fundamentals? Not exactly what you’re known for, is it, tough guy?” derides Enrique. “No, you should teach these players how to hit hard and play dirty … how to fight.” He slams his fist into his hand. “Turn them into the meanest, toughest team in La Liga — the team everyone’s afraid of. Then we’re guaranteed to win.”
Shane glares at the young drug lord, but is unnerved by the chilling sadism he finds there. Even Tammy’s rattlesnakes have more humanity in their eyes than Enrique does. The tension between them arcs, ionizing the moment.
Doc Sanchez breaks the silence. “I must remind you, Enrique, that while your father put you in charge of the building, you have no say in running the team itself. That’s the agreement. If you have a problem with how we are doing things, I suggest you take it up with Don Aléjandro.” The doctor speaks in English. At first Shane thinks this is for his benefit, but then he notices the hockey players watching the exchange with rapt attention and realizes Doc Sanchez does not want them privy to the argument. Shane turns and waves them back to their scrimmage.
“My father will not live forever,
porco,” Enrique hisses, turning to leave. “Soon I’ll deal with you … and this brain-dead goon, too. Go on, play your children’s game. I have men’s work to do.” He climbs up to rejoin his minions, saying something to them that elicits loud laughter as they exit.
“Ignore him, Shane,” says Sanchez. “He’s all smoke and no fire.” The doctor is trying to act nonchalant, but his face is pale, and perspiration beads on his forehead despite the coolness of the arena.
“Gunsmoke, maybe. That kid is bad news.”
“He won’t dare disobey his father. If you see him around the building, just avoid him. You answer strictly to me and Don Aléjandro, and we’re giving you a free hand with the players.”
“Trust me, Doc. I’ll make a point of staying out of that little psycho’s way. What’s he doing around the hockey arena, anyway? I thought he was in the, um … the family import-export business.”
“I told you, Don Aléjandro’s interests are mainly legitimate. He put Enrique in charge of this building’s construction and managing its operation afterward. I think he’s hoping to spare his son from the sins of the father, especially now that the drug business has degenerated into such a mad and deplorably violent affair. I told you, he wants no part of that. Get to know him … you’ll find Don Aléjandro’s an honourable man.” Doc Sanchez grins and reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. “And a generous one. Here … your first payment.” He offers up a small stack of brightly coloured Mexican currency.