Chasing Stanley

by Martin, Deirdre

  “Yes,” Delilah managed. Thoughts were breaking up into fragments, making it hard to know what to say next. Ask about work—play—girlfriend—family—home—dog? See Spot run. See Delilah speak. See Delilah try not to sound like a moron.

  Delilah cleared her throat. “How do you like New York?”

  “I like it,” Jason said after a careful pause. “Now that the culture shock has worn off, I’m starting to feel at home here.” His expression turned curious. “You a native New Yorker?”

  “Me? No. I mean, I grew up in New York. New York State, I mean, Long Island, well, that’s part of New York, so I guess, hmm, technically yes but not the city, no.” Mortified by her incoherence, she shut up and petted Stanley’s head, glad for the hairy prop. This is why dogs are better, she thought. You never have to worry about making a fool out of yourself. “Where are you from?” she asked, eager to deflect attention from herself.

  “Flasher, North Dakota.” His expression turned playful. “If you tell me you’ve heard of it, I’ll know you’re lying.”

  Delilah blushed. “No, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s small, rural, and boring as hell. I got out of there as soon as I could.”

  “And now you play hockey.”

  “Now I play hockey. First in Minnesota, and now here.” Delilah had stopped petting Stanley, so Jason took over. “I bet it’s not half as interesting as walking and training dogs, though.”

  “Please,” Delilah scoffed.

  “Seriously: you must see some interesting stuff.”

  Delilah swallowed nervously. It couldn’t hurt to open up just a little. She could always retreat if her tongue began tripping over itself.

  “There’s this one little pug I walk named Quigley. I have to go through this little ritual before I can even get him out the door: I pet him five times, coo, ‘Quigley Wiggly you da man,’ and then give him a biscuit.”

  Jason looked perturbed. “Really?”

  “I didn’t come up with the ritual! His owners did.” Delilah was horrified he’d think her capable of such silliness, though if he ever heard the little songs she made up and sang to her dogs, he’d probably have her committed.

  “That can’t be as bad as it gets,” Jason prompted.

  “Oh, it’s not,” Delilah assured him, warming to the topic. “I walk one dog whose owner has covered every inch of wall space with pictures of Andy Griffith.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Male.”

  Jason looked queasy. “Sweet Lord deliver us, as my grandfather used to say.”

  “Then there’s this black Lab named Betty over on West Seventy-ninth whose owners are”—Delilah lowered her voice—“Satanists.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They leave their mail on table by the front door, and they’ve got a subscription to some magazine called Black Mass Monthly. Plus there’s a huge painting of Satan hanging over the fireplace.”

  Jason whistled through his teeth. “Man, I’d love to spend a day with you. I bet I’d learn a lot.”

  Delilah blushed, wondering he was referring to her clients or to her. “We’d better get back to Stanley.” She spent the remainder of the lesson getting Stanley used to wearing the Halti.

  “You need to keep practicing with him,” Delilah told Jason. “Keep the Halti and the leash on for a little bit longer each day. After about three days, start walking him around your apartment with it on. If he pulls in a direction you don’t want him to go, stop a minute and tell him, ‘This way,’ or, ‘Let’s go.’ If he does what you say, give him a t-r-e-a-t. Never punish him if he does something wrong. Reward him if he does something right.” Delilah pulled out her PalmPilot. “So, next Thursday?”

  Jason grimaced. “Look, is there some kind of accelerated program we can put Stanley on?”

  “Why?”

  “Because my first road trip is in about three weeks, and I’m worried he won’t be properly trained and you won’t board him.”

  Delilah crouched down so she was face-to-face with Stan. “You’ll be ready by then, won’t you, big guy?” Stanley’s response was to lick her face with a big slurp. “See?” she said to Jason. “He’ll be ready. No extra lessons necessary.”

  “If you say so,” said Jason. Delilah thought he looked disappointed.

  “I guess that’s it, then. See you next week.”

  “Next week,” Jason echoed.

  “Don’t forget to practice.”

  “I won’t.” He paused. “Thanks for your help.” Before Delilah knew what was happening, Jason leaned in to give her a quick peck on the cheek. Dazed, she floated in the direction of his front door.

  “Bye, Stanley,” she called over her shoulder on her way out. She hated to admit it, but next Thursday suddenly felt like a long time away.

  “Heads up, here comes the mayor.”

  Jason turned from where he sat with Eric at an outdoor café, expecting to see Rudy Giuliani or Michael Bloomberg strolling down the street. Instead, a wizened old man in a shabby suit was slowly ambling their way, pausing every few feet to stop and chat with everyone who crossed his path. Jason and Eric were no exceptions.

  “Hello, boys, hello.”

  “Hello, Mr. Mayor,” said Eric. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “A rare September gem,” the mayor said before continuing on his way. He was barely out of earshot before Eric turned to Jason. “Total lunatic. Makes the rounds every day. He’s harmless, though.”

  Jason nodded, watching the mayor until he’d toddled completely out of view. Eric waved to a willowy woman clad like a Bedouin across the street, piquing Jason’s curiosity. “Who’s that?”

  “Sheena. She lives in my building. She’s some kind of puppet master or something.”

  “How the hell can anyone make a living as a puppet master?”

  “You’d be amazed at some of the ways people make a living in this city.”

  “You seem to know everyone,” Jason observed, making sure he sounded impressed.

  “Well, I have been living here awhile,” Eric replied with the boastfulness Jason had deliberately sought to stoke.

  “Do you know that dog walker?” Jason asked casually.

  “Who, that cute little chick who walks around covered in dog hair and drool?”

  Jason nodded, mildly annoyed by Eric’s use of the word cute. His physical description of Delilah wasn’t very flattering, either. Jason hadn’t noticed either dog hair or drool.

  “I’ve seen her around,” said Eric, breaking off a piece of crumb cake from Jason’s plate and popping it in his mouth, a habit from childhood that still drove Jason up the wall. “But I can’t say I know her.” He looked at Jason. “Why? You know her?”

  “She’s training Stanley.”

  “No kidding. How’s it coming? Has Oscar Mayer called to thank you for keeping his empire afloat?”

  “Har-har.” Jason stretched out his legs. “I was just wondering what the word around the neighborhood is about her, that kind of stuff.”

  Eric grinned at him. “You’re hot for her.”

  “No. I just like to know as much as I can about the person who’s going to be taking care of my dog.”

  “Mmm.” Eric seemed distracted as he watched a leggy blonde in a short skirt saunter by. “Man, they sure don’t make ’em like that in North Dakota, eh, bro?”

  “The dog walker?” Jason prompted.

  “Oh. Right.” Eric turned back to him. “All I know is that she loves her dogs and everyone else’s, but keeps them in line. You know, the whole tough love thing that Mom and Dad tried with us but didn’t work.”

  Jason laughed appreciatively.

  “Sometimes I see her at the Starbucks around the corner with some tall, skinny, black guy.”

  “Her boyfriend?” Jason asked, hoping he wasn’t too obvious.

  “Nah. He’s a queen. I think he’s a coworker or something. I’ve seen him out walking dogs, too.” Eric narrowed his eyes suspiciously
. “You gonna ask this chick out or what?”

  “Will you quit calling her a chick? This isn’t an episode of The Mod Squad.”

  “Nice attempted deflection,” Eric drawled. “What’s the deal?”

  “I already told you,” Jason replied, playing up his exasperation. “She’s probably going to wind up spending more time with Stanley than I am. I need to get as much info on her as I can.”

  Eric looked skeptical. “Didn’t you interview her?”

  “Of course I did. I’m looking for off-the-record stuff; dirt you might have heard about her on the street.”

  Eric snorted. “Look who’s talking like Linc’s sidekick now.”

  “Don’t bust my balls, Eric.”

  “I haven’t heard anything bad about her, and that’s the truth. What’s her name?”

  “Delilah.”

  “Delilah,” Eric repeated slowly. “She good with Stanley?”

  “She’s great with Stanley. Lets him lick her face and everything.”

  “That is totally gross.”

  “You’ll understand when you become a father,” Jason teased.

  Eric looked thoughtful. “Well, she’s cute, I’ll give her that much,” he repeated.

  Jason suppressed a scowl. That was the second time his brother had used the word cute in connection with Delilah. It set his teeth on edge.

  “I’d do her,” Eric continued.

  “Who wouldn’t you do?” Jason retorted.

  “Hmm. Good question. I’ll get back to you on that.”

  While his brother ran down a mental checklist searching for any woman he wouldn’t bed, Jason found himself wondering what Delilah was doing. Probably walking dogs. Or feeding dogs. Or something else dog-related. She’d be proud to know he’d been practicing the Halti/leash trick with Stanley, and it was working like a charm; Stan paraded around the house with it on, no problem.

  He was looking forward to their next dog training lesson. He considered it a coup that he’d gotten her to talk about herself. It was clear she was painfully shy.

  “You ready to get your ass kicked tomorrow night?” he asked Eric. Tomorrow was the Blades home opener against New Jersey. Jason couldn’t wait to get on the ice and play his first game as a Blade. That he’d be facing off against his brother made it that much sweeter.

  Eric’s mouth curled into a sneer. “Fuck you. You’re the one who’s gonna be crying for Mama tomorrow night, not me.”

  “Right.”

  “Haven’t you been reading the sports pages?”

  “I try to avoid it,” said Jason with a yawn. “It gets kind of boring reading about how great I am.”

  Eric rolled his eyes. “Gee, I musta missed that article. The ones I keep seeing are those talking about what a powerhouse Jersey is.” He reached across the table to swipe Jason’s final morsel of cake. “Be afraid, little brother. Be very, very afraid. ’Cause I’m gonna show no mercy.”

  Jason laughed dismissively. “I’m shaking in my skates.”

  Jason was well-acquainted with the adrenaline rush that came with preparing to play, but dressing for his first game as a Blade, he was close to giddy. Lacing up his skates on the bench in front of him sat the Blades’ new goalie, David Hewson, while across the room, the team’s new defenseman, Ulf Torkelson, was slipping on his Blades jersey for the first time. The locker room hummed with an odd mixture of solemnity and excitement. Barry Fontaine, a gritty veteran, grinned at Jason as he worked on affixing his shoulder pads.

  “Nervous?”

  “Nah,” Jason lied.

  “As long as you play your balls off, you’ll be fine,” Fontaine advised, moving to turn down the volume on the pregame music.

  “Hey!” Denny O’Malley, the Blades backup goalie, protested. “I was gettin’ pumped!”

  “Maybe you can get your mojo workin’ without turning me into frickin’ Helen Keller in the process,” Fontaine growled. O’Malley backed off.

  Jason turned to his locker, slipping the small gold crucifix his mother had given him when he was seven around his neck. It was his good luck charm out on the ice. Down the hall in the visiting team’s locker room, he imagined Eric doing the same thing. He, too, wore a cross from their mother as his good luck charm. Sometimes Jason worried the two of them wearing the same talisman might somehow divide whatever luck there was to be had between them. But so far, they’d both seemed to do okay.

  He had just pulled his sweater over his head when Michael Dante entered the locker room, already dressed. Michael wasn’t the scowling type, but his hot temper could be a force to reckon with.

  “Okay, listen up.” Michael’s voice matched his gaze: calm. “I want us to set the tone for the season from the moment we step out on the ice. We need to let those Jersey assholes and every other team know that no one fucks with us.”

  As if on cue, Ty Gallagher entered. There was total silence as he looked at each and every player in turn. When his gaze fell on Jason, it took every ounce of Jason’s concentration not to look away.

  “Talent means shit. Will beats skill every time. We play to win the game—every game. That means I don’t care if it’s the first game of the season or the fiftieth. If you don’t give your all out there, you sit. The Blades have one goal every year: winning the Cup.” Players started banging their sticks on the floor. “All right; let’s get out there and hit ’em in the mouth.”

  “Get off me, you pussy.”

  Jason laughed at his brother’s taunt. He’d just crushed Eric with a body check so satisfying, he wished he could smoke a cigarette afterward. There was something gratifying about jamming Eric up against the boards; always had been. Sniggering, Jason returned to the Blades’ bench with the rest of the second line, watching avidly as the first line returned to the ice. Jersey was trying to open things up, but the Blades were having none of it. Instead of getting into a pond hockey game, the Blades were playing dump and chase in order to establish physical dominance.

  Jason couldn’t believe the energy rippling through Met Gar. The fans in Minnesota were enthusiastic, but these New Yorkers were nuts, their fanaticism infectious. Jason said a silent prayer thanking the hockey gods for granting his wish to play for the Blades, and waited for Ty to send his line back out onto the ice. They were doing pretty well. His forechecking had led to a couple of scoring chances, and he’d gotten the second assist on Thad Meyers’s goal, the only score of the first period.

  Back on the ice, he was skating the left wing, looking for a breakout pass from defenseman Nick Roberts. They failed to connect, thanks to Eric, who interrupted the attempt and chipped it deep into the Blades’ zone.

  “You wearin’ concrete skates or what, asshole?” Eric jeered.

  “Fuck you,” Jason snapped.

  And so it went for the rest of the game. Every time Jason met up with his brother, insults were traded along with checks. While Eric didn’t play as chippy as Torkelson, he had his moments. With less than three minutes left in a 2-2 tie, Jason carried the puck into Jersey’s zone when Eric met him with a high hit that included a two-glove face wash.

  “You are one fuckin’ wuss, baby bro,” Eric taunted.

  “Yeah?” Jason panted. They were battling for the puck in the corner. Eric dug it free and cleared it. They were both on the bench when Michael Dante scored on a seeing eye wrist shot from the top of the circle.

  When the horn sounded, Jason and the rest of the Blades rushed off the bench to congratulate David Hewson. As the two teams slowly cleared the ice, Jason couldn’t resist getting in one more dig.

  “What happened? I thought you were gonna kick my ass!” Jason called to Eric, who was heading off ice for the locker room. “Decide you’d rather kiss it instead?”

  “It’s a long season, asshole, and payback is a bitch,” Eric called over his shoulder.

  “We’ll see!” yelled Jason.

  Exhilarated, he headed back in to the Blades locker room.

  “Good game!” Michael Dante commended as Jas
on headed toward the shower. He patted Jason on the back.

  “Thanks, Cap.”

  “You and Eric always go at it like that?”

  Jason shrugged. “Yeah. It’s been that way since we were kids.”

  “Hey, I know. My brother and I still lock horns. Something about sibs, I guess.”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, keep up the good work,” said Michael.

  “Will do.”

  Jason watched his captain walk away. Michael Dante had never had speed or great skills, but he was relentless and never backed down. If Jason showed half the grit and determination Michael did, he’d make his mark on New York.

  “Yo, country boy.”

  Jason turned at the sound of Denny O’Malley’s voice. Malls, as he was known, wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box, but he was a nice guy, and he knew how to have a good time. Jason had already been out on the town with Malls, Eric, and a couple of other guys before the season started.

  “A bunch of us are going over to the Chapter House for a few brews. You in?”

  “Definitely,” said Jason.

  “Meet me in the Green Room, and we’ll split a cab.”

  “Cool.”

  Jason continued on to the showers, grinning like a fool. He’d heard about the Chapter House; it was the Blades’ unofficial bar, a place where they could shoot pool and sink a few drinks without being hassled. Jason had yet to set foot inside. That was about to change.

  CHAPTER 04

  “What a dump!”

  Jason was delighted with the Chapter House. The jukebox was older than dirt, the windows hadn’t been washed since Prohibition, and none of the rickety tables had matching chairs. But that was its charm; besides, not one head turned when he and a few of his teammates strolled in. Jason wouldn’t have minded being recognized, but he knew the other guys relished the bar as one of the few places they could drink without hassle. His ego could deal with anonymity for one night.

  “Total shit hole,” Denny O’Malley agreed in a voice laced with affection. “But to me, it’s a second home.”