RCC03.3 - No Good Deed

by Frank Zafiro

  NO GOOD DEED

  A River City Anthology

  Frank Zafiro

  NO GOOD DEED

  Frank Zafiro

  Copyright 2010 by Frank Scalise

  Cover Design by Jonathan Scinto

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, places, establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This collection is for Kass McHugh, who believed long ago.

  FOREWORD

  This collection of River City stories is character based. First you have the tragic Stefan Kopriva, then the saga of Shae and Laddie, followed by the further exploration of Connor O’Sullivan and then Glen Bates. The collection ends with a trip to West Texas just outside El Paso for two installments with Carl in La Sombra.

  I love writing the River City novels. I love exploring the nooks and crannies of those particular stories. But there is something satisfying about a taking a side trip down an unknown alley with a character you don’t know as well as Katie MacLeod or Thomas Chisolm. There’s a thrill in seeing them get their moment at center stage and finding out that some of those characters are every bit as interesting as those River City mainstays.

  STEFAN KOPRIVA

  Five for Fighting and a Murder Misconduct

  There are few smells better than the ice at a hockey rink.

  I sat in the empty stands and watched the last River City Flyers practice before opening night. The team jerseys were orange, just like the NHL Philadelphia Flyers, with a stylized ‘R’ in place of Philly’s ‘P.’ I’d read somewhere that there was affiliation between the two teams, but if that were true, River City’s Flyers would be like a Single A baseball team to Philadelphia’s Major League.

  Even so, the skill of the players was amazing. They flew up and down the ice like bullets, turning and cutting back at unbelievably sharp angles. Passes zipped from stick to stick. When a shooter teed up a shot, the crack of the stick on the ice was like a gunshot. More amazing yet, two of the players were padded up a little heavier than the rest and actually stood in front of those shots, protecting the net.

  The old injuries in my shoulder and knee ached just watching.

  “Enjoying the show?”

  Matt Sinderling made his way down the steps and into my row. He dropped down into a seat two spaces over from me. His ball cap and sewn name tag identified him as arena security, not a role you would figure him for, given his slight frame. He ran the office and coordinated efforts during events. They had sides of beef to do the heavy work.

  Earlier in the year, I’d done some work for him, helping find his teenage daughter. The cost had been high, for her and for me, and since then, he’d stayed in touch. We had coffee together once or twice a month. He’d tell me how she was doing, then ask how I was. I usually lied about that part.

  I nodded toward the ice. “They’re good,” I said, telling the truth.

  He smiled. “Better than last season. They’ll probably finish first in the division.”

  “Good.”

  “They traded Beaves away to some team in Ontario and brought up this new kid just out of Junior. He’s a hell of a goaltender.”

  “Good.”

  “Got a couple of goalscorers this year, too.”

  “Good.”

  “And a scrapper.”

  “Good.”

  “That all you can say, Stef? Good?”

  I shrugged. “None of it matters until the games get played.”

  “True.”

  “But I appreciate you getting me in to watch the practice.”

  “No problem,” he said, rubbing his chin and looking out onto the ice. Then he shook his head. “It’s too bad.”

  “What?”

  He pointed. “Number Twenty-Three, see him? That’s Phillipe Richard.”

  He said it with a French accent, Fill-eep Ree-shard. I followed his finger to Number Twenty-Three. He was a lumbering skater at least half a head taller than most of the other players and built like a bulldozer.

  “They say he’s a grandnephew to Maurice Richard,” Matt said. “But he plays the game like Dave Shultz.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Shultz was a fighter that played for Philadelphia during the 1970s. They called him ‘The Hammer.’ It’d be nice to see a little of that toughness here at the hometown arena.

  “What’s the problem? He can’t keep up with the rest of the players?”

  “No,” Matt said. “I mean, he’s not the fastest guy on the team, but he’s got some skill. I guess.”

  “Then what?”

  Matt shrugged. “I don’t know if I should say. It’s personal.”

  It was then that I realized Matt was playing me. It ticked me off. I thought about getting up and leaving. Then I thought about just ignoring it. Finally, I said, “Don’t try to run a game on me, Matt.”

  He affected a shocked look. “What do you—”

  “You want to ask something, ask.”

  His face turned bright red and he looked away, watching the players skate. When he finally looked back at me, he said, “Sorry. I just didn’t know how.”

  “Ask.”

  “Okay,” he said, and looked back out to the ice.

  He was quiet again for a while. The sounds of skate blades cutting into the ice and wooden sticks slapping into frozen rubber filled the silence. I was beginning to think he was going to drop it altogether when he turned back to me.

  “The thing is, he trusts me. That’s why he told me about it.”

  “Richard?”

  “Yeah. He told me one night after a practice. He was sitting in the stands, staring off into space while I was making my lock-up rounds. I could just tell something was wrong and when I asked him about it, he trusted me enough to confide in me.”

  “About what?”

  Matt clenched and unclenched his jaw. “His problem.”

  I sighed. “I gathered that. What problem?”

  “It’s about a woman.”

  That didn’t surprise me. Back when I was a police officer, the maxim had been that there were two things that would cause a cop more trouble than anything else. A wine glass and a woman’s ass. I thought cops were something special when I was one of them. Now I realized that they were just people, too, and that particular maxim applied to most of the men of the world.

  “Would you talk to him, Stef?” Matt asked me. “Maybe there’s something you can do to help him.”

  I looked out onto the ice and watched Phillipe Richard take a pass from the corner and launch it toward the net. It went wide and clacked hard into the glass behind.

  “I don’t know what I could do,” I said.

  “Please? I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ll talk with him,” I said. “That’s all I’m promising.”

  Matt smiled, and I knew why. That’s what I told him when he said he wanted my help with his teenage daughter.

  You’d think I’d learn.

  A long shrill blast from the assistant coach’s whistle signaled the end of practice and the players left the ice. Matt told me it would be about thirty minutes before Richard would be changed and suggested I wait in the sandwich shop directly across from the arena.

  I walked
slowly across the street, my knee stiff and forcing a painful limp. There was an empty table near the window and I took it. I wanted to see Richard approach.

  Thirty minutes later, he sauntered across the street to the café. His thick, black hair was gelled back casually and he wore an expensive tan shirt to go with his pleated slacks. I knew that there were team dress codes, but I was pretty sure that was only on game days. The few players that had wandered out of the arena ahead of him were in jeans.

  Richard entered the diner and looked around. I raised my hand and caught his attention. He gave a disarming smile and took the seat across me.

  “Phillipe Richard,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Stefan Kopriva,” I answered and took it. He squeezed and the iron strength in his hand was apparent. It was like shaking hands with a table vise.

  “Kopriva?” He cocked his head. “That is a Czech name, no?”

  I nodded, surprised. “My grandmother’s side. How’d you know? Most people guess Russian, if they guess at all.”

  Richard grinned and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Russian, I imagine. Especially here. I read in the newspaper that over ten thousand Russians live in this city now. Is that true?”

  “It might be more. I don’t know. But how’d you know my name was Czech?”

  Richard waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, you play long enough hockey, pretty soon you learn the difference. I can tell you if a name is Norwegian, Finnish or Swedish. Much harder than the difference between Russian and Czech.”

  “How long have you played?”

  “Since I was three.”

  The waitress approached our table and we both ordered coffee.

  “I meant professionally,” I said.

  “Oh, of course.” Richard thought for a moment. “Eight years getting paid. But I played Junior in Val d’Or for four years before that. That is not technically professional, but it is the very highest level of hockey for players under twenty.”

  “Where’d you play before River City?”

  Richard grinned. “In Quebec, in a Senior League. My team was called the Chevaliers. Do you know what that word means in English?”

  I shook my head.

  “It means Knight. Like Sir Lancelot? Did you know he was French?”

  I shook my head. “I thought King Arthur was British.”

  “Ouí. But Sir Launcelot was French. Perhaps that is why he ended up with the woman, no? Anyway, last season, in Quebec, we won the championship.”

  “I thought you were traded here from Trail.”

  “Trail?” Richard snorted. “They signed me away from Quebec during the off-season. Players make twice as much in this league, so I signed the contract. I came there right after the season ended. I did a lot of community service as part of the team, worked hard at training camp, but they traded me to River City, anyway.”

  “Quite a trip.”

  “It all pays the same to me,” Richard said.

  Our coffee arrived and I sipped the hot brew. Richard flashed a smile at the waitress, but didn’t touch his.

  “Matt said you might need some help with something,” I said.

  Richard turned back to me. His face tightened momentarily, especially around the lips. “I am not sure how it is here in U.S. Are you a private investigator?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  His eyes narrowed a little. “No license?”

  “I don’t need one in Washington State, as long as I don’t advertise or portray myself as a private investigator. It doesn’t matter, though, because the only one I’ve ever really helped was Matt.”

  “Oh, yes, he told me.” Richard reached down and brought his cup to his lips. “That thing with his daughter.”

  I nodded.

  Richard watched me for a moment, then sipped his coffee again and put the cup back on the table. “It does not matter. When I said I was not sure how it is here in U.S., I meant something more.”

  “What?”

  “I do not know how it is with…problems with women.”

  I stared at him, noting the square jaw and the slight bend in the bridge of his nose. Although he was clean-shaven, coarse facial hair already darkened his cheeks and chin. He looked like the high-speed, low-drag personality I would expect from a professional athlete. Or a cop, for that matter. But he didn’t look like a wife-beater.

  “Domestic violence laws are pretty stiff,” I said. “There’s a mandatory arrest provision and—”

  He shook his head and waved his hand at me. “No, nothing like that. I would never beat a woman. I love women. That is the problem.”

  “How so?”

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There is a woman. She follow me from Trail. She is saying that she is pregnant and that the child, it is mine.”

  “Is it?”

  Richard clenched his jaw and sat back. Then he shrugged. “I do not know for sure.”

  “So you slept with her.”

  “Yes, yes, many times. But this woman, she also had a husband. I think that she was already pregnant, you see? That it is the husband’s baby.”

  “Get a blood test.”

  He nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, of course I will. But that will be after the baby is born. Many months from now.”

  “So?”

  Richard sighed. “Monsieur Kopriva, this is an important time for me. This contract to play here is not very much money. But the way I play the game in Quebec, it catches the eye of some NHL scouts, you know? And so I come to this league, a higher league, to show that I am not just a big fish in a small pond. I will show the scouts that I can play in the NHL. And if they believe me, I will get an NHL-sized contract.”

  “How much?”

  “At least five hundred thousand. Maybe a million dollars even.”

  I whistled and drank some more coffee. My meager medical pension wouldn’t add up to that in fifteen years.

  “You see,” Richard said, “I am not a young man anymore. This is perhaps my last chance, so I must be focused on what I must do, and nothing more. Not some woman and perhaps a baby.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “But what do you want from me?”

  I walked across the newly opened Monroe Street Bridge and paused to look down. The Looking Glass River rumbled below. It was cold, but only because my body was remembering summer. By January, I’d think back on this day as balmy.

  In my jacket pocket, I had two hundred in cash that Richard had given me, a pair of tickets to the season opener tomorrow and the last known location of Anne Marie Stoll, the woman that was claiming that she was pregnant with Richard’s child. The address was a cheap motel on the north side of town and I wanted to drive up. Since I’d been foolish enough to walk to the arena from my apartment in Browne’s Addition, that meant I had to walk back.

  Two hundred dollars plus my expenses wasn’t a lot of money, but for what Richard was asking, it was a fortune. All he wanted was for me to broker a pay-off deal with Anne Marie. His reasoning was that if all she was doing was extorting him for some cash, she’d jump at the offer.

  Even more important, Richard told me, was my read on her. He put great stock in my being a cop years ago and he wanted to know if she was lying or not. Then, he said, he wouldn’t have to worry about a blood test in the future. He could deal with the problem and focus on playing hockey.

  “No,” said the desk clerk, looking offended. “I’m sure. I keep good records.”

  “Did she leave a forwarding address?”

  He gave me a look that said I was clearly the biggest moron he’d met today. “How many people do you think leave a forwarding address?”

  I ignored his comment. “How about a previous address?”

  He eyes were suspicious. “Why?”

  “I’m trying to find her.”

  “No kidding.” The clerk brushed his thick, greasy hair from his forehead. “Why?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “So’s the information you’re asking for.�
��

  We stood at an impasse for a few moments, then I sighed. “All right, look. I work for a bank. Her relative left her a lot of money, but she doesn’t know it yet.”

  “So you’re trying to find her to give her this good news?”

  “Right.”

  “What’re you, Ed McMahon?”

  “It’s not a bad job.” I played out the ruse. “I get to make people happy.”

  “Baloney.”

  “It’s true.”

  “It’s baloney.” He pointed at my 1982 Toyota Celica. “No way does a prize guy drive that piece of junk. You’d at least have a mini-van.”

  “It’s in the shop.”

  “Uh-uh. I get junk email like this all the time. Some rich guy from another country needs to deposit money in my account to avoid taxes or an evil dictator. It’s a con job.” He looked back at me. “And so are you.”

  I pulled a twenty dollar bill from my pocket. “You’re right. But this is real.”

  It ended up not being worth twenty dollars. I got an address in Trail for Anne Marie Stoll that Richard probably could have supplied. There was no vehicle information listed on the registration card. So much for his keeping good records.

  The only other thing that was worth the price of admission was that she’d left over a week ago.

  Opening night at the arena was a spectacle. The players skated out onto the ice through a wall of fog as the rink announcer boomed out, “Here…are your…River…City…FLYERS!” Rock music played in the background and the crowd clapped along.

  Once all the skaters were on the ice and lined up along the blue line, the rink announcer introduced each of them, one at a time.

  “In goal,” boomed the disembodied voice of the announcer, “from York, Saskatchewan, number one, Derek Yeager!” There was a huge cheer. Word had circulated about the new goalie, even though he was just out of Junior, and expectations were high.

  When Richard’s turn came, the cheers for him were polite but unspectacular. If what Matt said about him were true, that would change soon.