Eye for an Eye: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  “You mean you don’t know my life story, up and down, left and right?”

  “I apologize.”

  “Don’t,” laughed Dellenbaugh. “I live for moments like that, finding someone who doesn’t know every damn thing about me. That’s why this hour is the best hour of the week. People don’t treat me like I’m president. The best is when Desmond over there tries to lay me out with one of his pathetic Dartmouth checks.”

  A large brown-haired man, tightening his right skate, looked up at Dellenbaugh from across the locker room.

  “You’re goin’ down, Dellenbaugh,” he said, smiling.

  Dellenbaugh paused, staring at Desmond with mock fury.

  “Bring it, bitch,” said Dellenbaugh, taunting him back.

  The room erupted in laughter.

  Dellenbaugh turned to Dewey.

  “To answer your question, I went to Trenton High School, outside of Detroit. Then Michigan on a scholarship. My dad and mom both worked for General Motors.”

  Dewey didn’t say anything as he pulled out a pair of ancient CCM Super Tacks, the blades partially covered in rust.

  “My God, those are old,” said Dellenbaugh. “I’m going to buy you a new pair as a wedding present. Speaking of which, congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I asked Jessica where you popped the question. She wouldn’t tell me.”

  Dewey smiled but said nothing. He pulled his laces tight, tied them, then reached into the bag for his helmet.

  “So you’re not going to tell me?” asked Dellenbaugh.

  “No.”

  Dewey pulled out an old, bright yellow Jofa helmet. Before he put it on his head, he looked inside. He reached down and removed a layer of cobwebs.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” said Dellenbaugh. “That is one nasty-looking helmet. I’m starting to worry about you, Dewey. When was the last time you played?”

  Dewey laughed at Dellenbaugh’s ribbing.

  “Twenty years ago,” said Dewey.

  “It’s pretty mellow out there,” said Dellenbaugh. “I don’t want you getting hurt. I promised your fiancée I’d return you without any major injuries.”

  Dewey stood up and pulled his helmet on.

  “I’ll see you out there, Mr. President.”

  “I’m right behind you,” said Dellenbaugh. “Hey DiNovi, did you bring me a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, like you said you would?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” said DiNovi, who was pulling his right skate on. “Decaf, right?”

  “Wise ass. If it’s decaf, I’m going to veto any piece of legislation with your name on it for the next year.”

  Outside the locker room, Dewey walked on the rubber mat to the rink door. The stands were empty except for a dozen or so Secret Service agents, spread out around the bleachers. Agents stood at both entrances; each man held what looked like a laptop bag across their torsos, one hand concealed. Inside were submachine guns.

  Several players were already on the ice, skating in circles to warm up. Dewey stepped onto the ice and proceeded to go flying onto his butt. He slowly got to his knees, then stood. He began a slow circle around the rink. His skates, though rusty, were sharp. Still, it had been almost two decades since he’d skated and he was rusty. He watched as an older player, perhaps in his fifties, went flying by him. Then he caught Dellenbaugh, climbing onto the ice. The president quickly leapt into a full sprint around the outer edge of the ice, his skates making sharp cutting noises as he moved gracefully around the rink. Dellenbaugh was a sight to behold, his strides smooth, with tremendous speed. He circled twice, then came over to Dewey, slowing down alongside him.

  “How you feeling?” he asked.

  “Not bad,” said Dewey.

  “You’re on D, next to me. Stay away from Tom DeGray.”

  “Which one is he?”

  “He’s the guy with the red helmet,” said Dellenbaugh, nodding at a player stretching next to the boards. “Congressman from Chicago. He can’t skate for shit, but he can hit and he plays dirty. More to the point, he used to have a thing for Jessica.”

  “A thing?”

  “They went out to dinner. That’s all I know. Just keep an eye out. He’s the vengeful type.”

  Dewey skated along next to Dellenbaugh for a few minutes, working hard just to keep up. Even relaxing, Dellenbaugh moved with a speed that, at least to Dewey, was stunning, barely pushing his legs, yet flying along.

  Dellenbaugh gathered everyone at center ice. He and DiNovi picked teams. Even though Dewey was clearly one of the worst players on the ice, Dellenbaugh picked him first. Each team had ten players, enough for two lines and a goalie. Hastings, chief justice of the Supreme Court, was one of the goalies; the other was a staffer from the White House Communications Office named Gus Edwards, who had played at Williams. When a young White House intern named Pitchess finally showed up, he was handed a striped jacket and told to referee.

  The game started with Pitchess dropping the puck at mid ice. Dewey started at defense, next to Dellenbaugh, who was passed the puck by the center. Dellenbaugh flipped it to Dewey, who skated up the right side of the rink, then passed it back to Dellenbaugh, who proceeded to weave in and out of three players on his way to the opposing net, where he deposited the puck between Edwards’s pads—five hole—for the first goal of the game. Technically, Dewey got an assist on it. Dellenbaugh skated back to defense as Pitchess retrieved the puck from the net. The other team booed rather loudly as Dellenbaugh skated by their bench.

  “Puck hog!” hooted one player on the opposing team.

  “Republicans never pass the puck!” barked another, to the howls of his teammates.

  Dellenbaugh took his place on the blue line, next to Dewey.

  “Nice shot,” said Dewey.

  “Thanks, kid. Good assist.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Dewey.

  The next face-off was won by the other team. DiNovi, who was playing center, took the puck and dumped it into the zone behind Dewey and Dellenbaugh. Dellenbaugh gave chase as the other team’s right wing came after him. In the corner, Dellenbaugh grabbed the puck and banged it along the back boards to Dewey. Just as Dewey was about to get the puck, he felt a sharp pain at his ankles—a stick from behind, slashing at his skate. He went flying over and tumbled to the ice, sticking his left arm out as he collided with the boards so that his head wouldn’t hit. Turning and looking up, he saw the back of a red helmet, the only red helmet on the ice: DeGray, the player Dellenbaugh had warned him about. He took the puck and centered it to DiNovi, who stuck it past Hastings to even the score.

  Dellenbaugh skated over and helped Dewey up.

  “You okay, kid?”

  “Fine,” said Dewey.

  The teams changed lines, tied at one apiece. On the bench, Dewey glanced over to the other bench, catching the eye of DeGray, who was smiling and talking with someone.

  “You want me to clean his clock for you?” asked Dellenbaugh, smiling.

  Dewey laughed.

  “No, not a big deal.”

  Dewey had liked Rob Allaire, Dellenbaugh’s predecessor, a lot. Initially, Dewey wasn’t sure how he felt about Dellenbaugh. Now, as he saw the president in his element, as a human being, as a teammate, even as a friend, Dewey was starting to like him. Dewey wasn’t very good at relating to people or forming friendships. Dellenbaugh was a genius at it. He made him forget the fact that he was president; if anything, he made Dewey feel like they were two kids playing pond hockey back in Castine; Dellenbaugh had a big shit-eating grin on his face as he not-so-subtly encouraged Dewey to take revenge on DeGray.

  It was different from how he’d felt about Allaire. With Allaire, Dewey felt nothing but respect and admiration, even awe. When Allaire had awarded Dewey the Presidential Medal of Freedom, it was one of the proudest moments of his life. But with Dellenbaugh, it was something different that made Dewey like him. He was closer in age to Dewey, and his working-class roots were ones they had in common.

&n
bsp; The ref blew the whistle, and Dewey climbed over the boards for another shift, this time starting in the opposing team’s zone. Dewey was on the blue line, at the point, and the center won the face-off and shoveled it back to him. Dewey stepped forward with the puck, went left, then took a slap shot—which sailed with decent speed into the jumble of players in front of the net. Despite the no-checking rule, as he fired the shot, Dewey got leveled from behind. From the ground, he watched as his shot somehow found its way into the back of the net, the goalie having been screened. Looking up, he saw Dellenbaugh pushing DeGray back against the boards and saying something to him. Dewey hadn’t seen who’d hit him, but obviously Dellenbaugh had.

  As he skated back to mid ice, the red-helmeted DeGray skated up to Dewey.

  “Hey, sorry about that.”

  Dewey ignored him.

  The game went back and forth, becoming progressively sloppier as the hour went on, with the exception of the play of Dellenbaugh and DiNovi. Though they were clearly taking it easy, they stood out; both had awesome speed and stick-handling ability. Once Dellenbaugh had racked up a hat trick—three goals—he stopped taking shots, instead passing it whenever he had a clean shot.

  Dewey played respectably, racking up two more assists.

  With only a few minutes left, Dewey found himself with the puck at mid ice. He passed it to a wing, who brought it into the opponent’s zone and took a shot, which went wide. Behind the net, Dewey saw the red helmet of DeGray as he made his break out from behind the net, skating up the ice.

  Dewey began his run at the congressman from his own blue line. He tracked DeGray as his red helmet weaved through several players. Had DeGray passed the puck, Dewey would have aborted his run, but DeGray held on, gathering speed and momentum. By center ice, DeGray was at full speed. So was Dewey.

  A good hockey player, like Dellenbaugh, can skate with the puck without looking down, stick-handling blind and thereby avoiding hard checks that seemingly come out of nowhere. But most players needed to occasionally glance down at the puck to make sure it is still on their stick. DeGray was mediocre at best.

  Unfortunately for the Democratic congressman from Chicago, Dewey chose to make a temporary exception to the no-checking rule. As DeGray crossed mid ice, lurching left past his own centerman, Dewey was skating at full speed. Dewey was as locked into DeGray as a torpedo is locked into the hull of a battleship. DeGray looked up at the last second as Dewey crossed mid ice, lowered his shoulder, and struck him squarely in the numbers. DeGray was pummeled. He went flying off his skates, backward, dropping his stick and landing with a loud groan on the ice. His red helmet went flying off his head, spinning toward the boards.

  Play stopped as DiNovi grabbed Dewey to keep him away from DeGray, who lay facedown on the ice. When DiNovi attempted to push against Dewey, Dewey stood his ground. Dellenbaugh broke them up.

  “I got him, Tony,” said Dellenbaugh.

  Dellenbaugh skated with Dewey toward the door. Dewey glanced over his shoulder as a few players helped DeGray to his skates.

  “I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side,” said the president, laughing. “I was going to politely level him into the boards. That was brutal.”

  Dewey said nothing as he stepped off the ice.

  Hastings filed in behind Dewey and the president as they stepped off the ice.

  In the locker room, Dewey, Dellenbaugh, and Hastings were the first to sit down.

  Hastings pulled his goalie mask off. His face was bright red and his brown hair was matted in sweat.

  “It’s about time someone took out that little bastard,” said the chief justice, giving a thumbs-up to Dewey.

  The door opened and DeGray stormed in, a trickle of blood on his chin, coming from his mouth.

  “You son of a bitch!” he screamed at Dewey, stepping toward him. His helmet was off. Dewey didn’t flinch, calmly continuing to untie his skates, ignoring him. “That was the dirtiest hit I’ve ever seen.”

  DeGray stood in front of Dewey, who pulled his helmet off and put it down. Dewey looked up at him.

  “Fuck off,” said Dewey dismissively.

  DeGray looked around, his face beet red with anger. Suddenly he swung at Dewey. Dewey caught the fist with his left hand, then stood and, in one fluid motion, grabbed DeGray by the neck. Holding DeGray’s forearm in his left hand and neck in his right, Dewey thrust up at him, throwing DeGray backward, off his skates, to the ground in front of Hastings.

  “It was a clean hit,” said Hastings, as he untied his right skate and stared at DeGray on the floor. “And don’t forget, I’m the chief justice of the United States.”

  “I thought there wasn’t any hitting, Mr. President,” said DeGray from the ground.

  “Dewey just gave you a little dose of your own medicine,” said Dellenbaugh, laughing. “Now stand up like a man, take your skates off, and get the hell out of here.”

  DeGray slowly sat up. He looked around for sympathy but found none.

  “Does this mean … can I come back?”

  “Absolutely,” said Dellenbaugh. “Just not between the hours of five and six on Saturday mornings. If you do, I’ll have one of the agents put a load of buckshot in your ass.”

  6

  RESIDENCE OF THE PREMIER

  ZHONGNANHAI

  BEIJING

  The black sedan carrying Fao Bhang passed through Xinhua Gate. A four-man watch of armed soldiers needed only for Bhang’s driver to lower his black-tinted window a few inches to see whose limo it was; Bhang’s drivers, a rotating group of three, were all known to the guards at Zhongnanhai.

  At the front entrance to the premier’s residence, Bhang was escorted by a soldier down a long hallway, its walls decorated with murals. At the end of the hallway was a set of closed double doors, where another soldier stood. Upon seeing Bhang, he turned and knocked.

  “Send him in,” came a voice from inside the room.

  The soldier nodded at Bhang, then opened the door and showed Bhang in. As he went to shut the door, Premier Li called out.

  “Stay inside the room,” he ordered to the soldier.

  The soldier followed Bhang in, shut the door, then stood at attention just inside the door.

  The room was a library, its crimson red walls lined with books. Premier Li was seated on a maroon sofa, beneath a chandelier. Across from the sofa were two leather chairs.

  Li was dressed casually; a button-down beneath a green cashmere V-neck sweater. He stared at Bhang as he entered.

  “Premier Li,” said Bhang, bowing before him. “My humblest appreciation for seeing me on such short notice.”

  Li said nothing. Instead he glared with a blank, seething anger at Bhang. He did not ask Bhang to sit down. Understanding the signal, Bhang stood between the two chairs, across from Li.

  “What happened?” asked Li curtly, in a manner that contained what could only be described as controlled fury. “You destroyed a little girl’s birthday today, Bhang?”

  “I am here to apologize,” said Bhang, in a soft voice. “I am most sorry. I have all ministry resources trying to determine what vile creature played such a mean-spirited joke.”

  “Joke?” Li yelled. “He had an ax in his skull! An ax! Covered in blood! Who would do such a thing?”

  “I did not send it, so I don’t know,” said Bhang. “This was a cruel strategy employed by China’s enemies for God knows what reason. Perhaps to do what is occurring right now, to foment anger among the leaders of our government. But I will find out who did this, sir, and justice will be brought to them.”

  “My granddaughter had to be sedated,” said Li. “My wife is distraught.”

  “And for this, I am deeply sorry. Sometimes, it would seem, the world in which I live and work, a world of secrets, spills over. It’s not something I chose.”

  “Who was this dead man?”

  Bhang remained silent.

  “Who was this man?” bellowed Li.

  “I’m here to apologize,” said Bha
ng. “There is nothing more I can say, with all due respect, sir.”

  “I am ordering you to tell me who this dead man was,” seethed Li.

  Bhang returned Li’s angry glare with a calm, kindly expression.

  “Mr. Premier,” said Bhang, “there are aspects to every job that do not necessarily bring clarity or edification to the world. This question would fall into a category of what I would call unnecessary detail.”

  Li sat back, considering his next words.

  “You’re not going to tell me?” he asked, taken aback, his voice rising. “What have you exposed China to, you insolent bastard? Your arrogance knows no boundaries, Bhang.”

  Li pointed at the soldier. The soldier, standing at the door, looked nervously at Li. Then he reached to his holster and removed his gun. He targeted it at Bhang.

  Bhang registered the sight of the muzzle, now aimed at his head. He nodded calmly, pondering what to say, remaining silent for several seconds. Then he cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Premier,” said Bhang, “his name was Dillman. He was an Israeli. He provided China with much information over many years.”

  “And why was his corpse sent to my granddaughter?”

  Bhang swallowed, saying nothing. He stared meekly at Li for several seconds, letting the premier vent his anger. Finally, Li waved a finger at the soldier, ordering him to put the pistol away.

  Bhang bowed.

  “I must reiterate my humblest apologies to you and your family. This afternoon, a bounty of gifts is being delivered to your granddaughter, sir, and I can assure you, because my own deputy was responsible for their purchase, their packing, and their delivery, that there will be no similar mishap. Good day to you, sir.”

  Li said nothing, looking toward the window. He waved his hand dismissively, telling Bhang to get out, then made eye contact with the soldier, letting him know he was to escort Bhang out of the residence.

  Bhang turned and walked toward the door. He walked quickly down the corridor, with the soldier trailing him. Outside, he crossed the brick walkway in front of the residence. He climbed into the back of the idling sedan.

  The soldier followed Bhang to the sedan and stood watching as Bhang shut the door quietly. After a moment, the black tinted window lowered a few inches.