by Lisa Luciano
“I thought you people got rid of the KGB and all that spy crap,” he said.
“That man was not watching Dimitri. He works for him. He’s a private bodyguard for Sasha.”
“What?
“Come,” Alexi said as he lead Brody toward an exit. “We have time before the competition starts. I know a better place to talk.”
The two men walked the streets of Moscow. As they headed down a main boulevard, Brody noticed a group of people shivering in the below freezing weather, waiting in a line that spilled out onto the sidewalk. A grocery store, he thought, remembering a documentary he’d seen showing the difficult conditions.
When they got close enough he looked in the window. Nike. Reebok. Shirts and sneakers of all types, most of which were tagged with prices of over one hundred American dollars.
“I don’t get it,” Brody said. You tell me people can’t get the food they need. Buildings are crumblin’ cause the government can’t afford to fix ‘em. How can people spend money on that crap?”
“Fiddling while Rome burns. They are what we call the New Russians. They have more than others. They’ve learned how to survive. Besides, it’s cheaper than dealing with loan sharks.”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of capitalism.”
“It’s nothing to joke about,” Alexi explained. “As writers, we don’t even print the salaries of the top athletes and entertainers for fear we’d be exposing them to danger.”
“How?”
“Extortion. The more they earn, the more they are forced to pay to protect themselves and their families.”
“Are you tellin’ me somebody threatened to hurt Dimitri and his little girl?”
“Don’t look so shocked. You Americans were our teachers. Al Capone. Bugsy Siegel.”
“That was fifty years ago.”
“John Gotti,” Alexi added.
“Okay. I get the message,” Brody said, surrendering.
Andrianov laughed bitterly.
“We gave you Nureyev and Baryshnikov. You gave us organized crime.”
Brody and Alexi returned to the arena to watch Dimitri skate. It was a performance devoid of life and a raging success. There were others who were better, but he still won as he had for the last two years.
The chosen one, Brody thought.
The victory could not prod even the slightest sign of cheer from Dimitri. As he stepped up onto the victor’s platform, his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
Only after the ceremony with Sasha safely in his arms, when he was able to watch her eyes light up as she fingered the medal hanging around his neck, did he appear to relax. Natalia joined them. She was a raven-haired beauty with a strong nose and wide red lips that seemed incapable of turning upward. No words were exchanged. The happy family posed for official photos and then Sasha waved to her father as she left with her mother.
Brody had seen enough. On the long plane trip home, he pulled a wrinkled photo of a child with her mother’s hair and her father’s eyes from his wallet and fell asleep, clutching it in his hand.
Startled into consciousness by the ringing phone, Brody sat straight up in bed, tangled as always in the sheets.
“Yeah?” he mumbled, using whatever brain cells would cooperate.
He had jet lag with a vengeance. Still, the man’s words started to connect. Something about a janitor at a rink. Slowly, the haze clouding his brain lifted. It was one of his snitches.
“You said if I saw anything strange to let you know,” the informer said.
“What’s happenin’?”
“How much is the information worth?”
“More than you get for pushing that damn broom around.”
“Cash. I want cash.”
“I’ll pay you in gold bullion,” Brody said, rubbing his bloodshot eyes with the heel of his hand. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Robby Donovan’s been showing up every day for the last week after hours. He goes in by himself. Nobody knows what he does in there. I think he’s cracking up.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Meet me around the back of the building. And don’t forget the money.”
Brody scraped together what he could. He even borrowed fifty bucks from his admirer down the hall with a promise to render services at a later date. Fortunately, the traffic between Manhattan and Long Island was light. He made it to the rink by 11:15. He parked a few blocks down the street and then waited in a dark corner of the parking lot. Forty five minutes later, a young man pulled in.
Robby got out of his midnight blue Jeep and stood gazing at the moon. This is where he had spent nearly every day of his childhood, such as it was. It was where all his dreams had been born. Now he wondered if this is where they would die. He searched, but could not find a star brighter than the rest to wish upon. He needed something special to hang on to, but they were all the same.
“I’ll lock up when I’m finished,” he told Alberto, who everyone knew simply as Al, a middle-aged Hispanic man dressed in his usual stained green overalls.
“I could get canned,” Al said as he stood in the doorway, looking around nervously.
“Look, I promise not to pop wheelies with the Zamboni,” Robby assured him, feeling the vertebrae in his back crackle as he stood up straight. “Now give me the damn key.”
Brody waited for Robby to go inside, then quickly handed Al the wad of bills.
“I was never here, right?” Brody said.
Al nodded as he counted the money before disappearing into the cold New York night.
Brody watched from the back of the arena, feeling like he was intruding on something intensely personal. But that was his job, wasn’t it? Robby turned on dirt-encrusted ceiling lights that cast a fog-like rim around the rink. Bending over to lace his skates, he clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.
The ice crunched beneath his blades as he tried to think of something positive. The unexpected victories. The incredible moments of fulfillment. The rush of being so good for so long. Nothing. Nothing mattered but the here and now.
He glided slowly to center ice carrying a fear he’d never known before. He was breathing hard, desperately wishing for a sound to break the silence. The darkness that moments before had been a comfort, now choked him. He jumped, missed, and slid into the boards as if the ice had been yanked out from under him. The water pooled beneath him seeped through his pants.
He slammed his fist into the ice, then held his palm against it until he could no longer stand the cold. He stood and began jumping. One double axel.
“You never understood!” he shouted. “You never tried to. Fine. I don’t care what you think.”
He stopped suddenly, fearing that someone had overheard him. Outburst were never tolerated. He looked around. He was alone.
Another double axel.
“Tantrums are for losers!” he said, kicking holes in the ice with the back end of his blade.
He stroked until his thighs burned, then landed another jump right in front of the judges box.
“I deserved a 6.0 and you know it!”
He spread his arms to the black emptiness of the arena.
“Anybody else I missed?”
He looked at the gate he had left open and thought of the countless times Paige stood there making ridiculous faces, forcing him to abandon yet another somber mood.
“Why did you have to quit?”
He ached with weariness, but he jumped again and again until his legs could no longer support him. He sprawled to the ice and lay on his back, arms stretched to the sides. If this is how it would all end, then he was sure it had all been for nothing.
Brody didn’t know what to do which was just as well. He couldn’t make his limbs move either. He felt the same way he did when he got the call telling him his father had died. Only this time, he had witnessed the death of a dream.
He wasn’t a mind reader and yet there wasn’t anything Robby was thinking or feeling he hadn’t known. He should’ve r
evealed his presence. He should’ve tried to comfort someone who was clearly in agony. Instead, he slipped out of the building and wandered until he found a bar. He wanted to get drunk. He wanted to be as numb as Robby was. But that was the easy way out. For once, he would do something hard. He would stay sober and trust another human being.
The sun was barely overhead when Brody entered the store, sorry to leave the invigorating February morning air behind. He wove through the aisles. One man was running his grease-covered finger through a box of assorted screws. Another snatched a can of oil from the top of a precarious pyramid display. Finally, he spotted Robby’s father who had just snapped the point of a pencil trying to make his inventory sheets tally.
Brody stepped up to the dented, old, wooden counter. He hadn’t seen one like it in years. It reminded him of home.
“Can I help you?” John Donovan asked.
“I’m looking for Robby.”
Donovan turned to place the clipboard on the shelf behind him. Brody swore he could see the hairs bristle on the back of his neck.
“If you mean my son, Rob is downstairs. Working.”
“It’s important.”
Donovan pulled open the basement door and was greeted by the moldy stench still lingering from last weeks rain.
“Rob?” his father called as he carefully made his way down a few wobbly steps. “You nearly finished stocking that new shipment?”
Robby hoisted a huge crate onto the shelf of a massive metal cabinet, then wiped his hands on his work pants.
“I told you I’d take care of it. I’ll take care of everything.”
“You’ve got a visitor.”
John Donovan pointed into the darkness. Brody squinted as he descended. Robby looked up. His face was smudged, his hair mussed. He looked nothing like the perfect wind up doll Brody had seen a week earlier.
“What are you doing here?” Robby asked.
“We have to talk,” Brody said.
“About what?”
“I saw that look on your face last night when you were lying there. I couldn’t get it out of my mind.”
Robby raced up the steps and slammed the door shut. His father jumped back to avoid being hit. John Donovan turned slowly, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach and returned to the front register.
“You were at the rink?”
“Yeah,” Brody admitted, embarrassed to face the victim of his eavesdropping.
“Why? How did you know?”
“One of my spies.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“A friend.”
“I don’t need any,” Robby answered curtly, descending into the black pit.
“Don’t be so sure,” Brody said, following him.
“Come on, man. What’s your angle?”
“Okay. I’m a writer.”
“I knew it!” Robby said, doing a quick turn in frustration. “If you want to know about Freeman, forget it. I have nothing to say.”
“It’s not about him. Well, maybe it is. That’s the problem. I don’t know who to talk to.”
“If you want a story, why don’t you just make it up like all the rest of your buddies?”
“Hey!” Brody shouted. “This isn’t about your piss ant sport. Somebody’s life is in danger. My editor got a call. If the lead is for real, somebody’s gonna get killed. And I have to find out who it is.”
“Is that all you want to know?” Robby asked, relaxing slightly. “That’s easy. “It’s me.”
Robby and Brody sat side by side on a pair of unopened crates. Together they finished off a six pack that had been stashed inside a tiny refrigerator in the back room longer than Robby could remember.
“What happened?”
“It started at the last Olympics,” Robby said. “I skated clean. I had more jumps. Harder combinations. And they still handed it to Glenn.”
“Why?”
“Because it was his turn.”
“He was the chosen one,” Brody said, then shook his head.
“I didn’t want to believe it. I really thought if I skated well enough… I grew up with these people. I trusted them. Even looked up to them. How freakin’ stupid is that?”
“We’re talkin’ conspiracy here. Fraud. Why doesn’t somebody go public with this stuff?”
“What’s the point?” Robby said, tossing his empty beer can on the floor, supremely satisfied by the sight of something out of place for once. “You expose them and it’s as good as committing suicide. Nobody wants to be the sacrificial lamb. Besides, just try and prove it. It’s a subjective sport. The judges can do anything they damn well please.”
“How can you stand it?” Brody asked, genuinely amazed.
“I can’t. That’s why I got out. Carol begged me to hang on. They told her the next Olympics was mine.”
“And she believed them?”
“What choice did she have? We may not like the rules, but it’s the only game in town.”
“So you turned pro.”
“Yeah,” Robby admitted with a deeper sadness than he intended.
“A mistake?”
Robby shrugged.
“Since I was a little kid, all I dreamed about was that gold medal. Leaving without it made me feel like a failure. But I was twenty-four. I had to make a living. Try to pay my parents back for all they’d done for me. They gave up everything. New cars. Vacations. I knew I might never be in a better position to cash in.”
Brody was embarrassed. He’s always thought of skaters as the spoiled offspring of fat cats with bulging wallets. Robby was no different than he. Just somebody trying to make his way in life.
“I actually thought about staying in another four years, Robby said, almost wanting to laugh. Then I watched Glenn do his Olympic exhibition. The last one he thought he’d ever do as an amateur. I’ll never forget that night.”
Glenn wandered the backstage halls trying to work off his nervous energy slowly. He was the closer and had learned to save what he could for when it was needed. For the last week, everyone had been the enemy. Now bitter rivals, including Robby, offered their hands freely. The pressure of competition was off and they all wanted a piece of the magic.
It was finally time. The crowd quieted in anticipation. Everything was carefully choreographed. The announcer would read the long list of accomplishments. A dramatic pause as the newly crowned Olympic champion stepped onto the ice, then the master of ceremonies would continue to heap praise. In full view of the crowd, Glenn would spin around and head off as if embarrassed by his own accomplishments. It was nauseatingly precious and damned effective. The audience screamed for more.
The lighting crew snapped to attention. Shades of frosty blue and purple light swallowed him, replicating the shadows jutting from his body at all angles. A single white spotlight searched the arena for his compact frame. As if making a distress call, Glenn’s two thin arms signaled his location, urging the beacon to find him at center ice. He had slipped the audience into his back pocket like an aging vaudevillian. A final thumbs up sign from the young man who had become a master entertainer and the music began.
With the first beat, the strain of competition was torn away. Aching, worn joints sprung to life inside his sparkling gold body suit. It was all flash and he knew it, but for a few moments the pain was gone.
As usual, two encores did not satisfy the crowd. He stepped back onto the ice. The applause stopped. There was no music; just the click of blades singing a solitary melody as he said one last goodbye as only skaters did.
Glenn thanked each person backstage with a pat on the back, a whispered word, or a peck on the lips, making sure each felt the moment was for them alone. For a few seconds, he circled as if disoriented and then knowing no other haven, fled into the dressing room.
“I could see it in his eyes. He didn’t want to let go,” Robby said, offering Brody the last can of beer.
Brody waved him off. Robby popped the top, but didn’t drink.
“I actually
felt sorry for the son-of-a-bitch. That clinched it for me. I didn’t ever want to get to that point. I did the circuit. Talk shows. Award shows. Real glamorous, but when all the stardust cleared, I realized Glenn was the one raking in the big bucks. That’s when the reality set in. I lost. The crowd appreciated the effort, but you can’t put that in your bank account. I thought it was all over. I’d had my fifteen minutes of fame. Now I’d spend the rest of my life unpacking crates in my father’s store. Then I got the call from WTL.”
Brody knew those initials all too well. World Talent, Ltd. They represented nearly every top athlete in sports, both amateur and professional. Hearing the name sent a chill down his spine, though he wasn’t sure why.
“They said they wanted to handle me,” Robby continued. “They said I could make more by losing than winning because of how it happened. Only in America, right?”
Robby took a sip. He didn’t like the taste of beer, but he just felt like doing something the system would say he shouldn’t. He took a deep breath. Though he’d never admitted it to another human being, Robby enjoyed working in the storeroom away from the world, alone with his dreams.
Every summer as he waited for the new skating season to begin, with each trip down the creaking basement steps he ascended a shining champions platform. Applause engulfed him like the smell of the damp wood. Drowning in darkness, he was bathed in the glow of victory. His soul cried out for that one unconditional moment of fulfillment. He needed it like his next breath. He told himself it was real because it had to be.
“Can we get out of here and talk some more?” Brody asked.
“Yeah. Let me just finish up.”
Brody gathered the empty cans and tossed them in a large gray garbage can. Robby strained to lift the last carton over his head and slid it onto the edge of the top shelf.
“Hey, you need hel—”
The word stuck in Brody’s throat.
“Jesus!” Robby shouted as he let go of the box and watched it crash at his feet.
The cabinet began to pitch forward. Robby braced his arms against it, trying to prevent it from falling on top of him. Boxes flew past his head, tumbling from the shelves. Brody tried grabbing it from the side, but even together, they were no match for the towering monster. Robby’s elbows buckled as the metallic unit came crashing down. He was agile enough to avoid being crushed as he jumped back, but the force of it threw him into the wall, knocking the air from his chest.