Bayle put his hands together with the celebrating others in the arena and struggled to quit looking at then quickly looking away from Duceeder smiling to himself at Robinson’s goal. Struggled, but apparently not hard enough.
“Yeah?” the G.M. finally said, end of his tether at Bayle’s peek-a-boo routine having finally been reached. He took a gnarled pen out of his mouth. “Yeah, what?”
“Good game so far?” Bayle said. Jesus Christ, what did I do? he thought.
Duceeder considered Bayle head to toe for a few unimpressed seconds and then stuck the pen back in his mouth, trained his eyes back on the ice.
“Mr. Bayle,” Samson said, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Handy and Mr. Gunn. Gentlemen, Mr. Bayle. This is Mr. Handy and
Mr. Gunn’s first hockey game, if you can believe it. Any tips from an experienced observer like yourself you’d care to pass on?”
Six eyes on him unblinking and awaiting, Bayle, wanting the force of the three men off him like sucking leeches on a twentieth-century sick man, feigned enthusiastic the first thing that came to mind: “Keep your eye on the puck!”
Each man hesitated; then, with the resumption of collective blinking, nodding in understanding agreement all three of them, turning their attention away from Bayle and back to the game. Bayle opened up his computer and plugged it in and tapped away at whatever keys his fingers happened to find, filling up his screen with absolute gibberish in order to buy some time to piece together just what the hell had happened.
Like most unqualified disasters, things couldn’t have started out better.
More than once having heard Duceeder bitch and moan about the new patio door he’d just had installed, Bayle made it around the back of his house without, he thought, anyone seeing him, and went right for the glass door, giving it a sharp jerk and feeling the thing immediately give, if only an inch or two. Three more hard yanks and the door jumped from its track just like he’d heard Duceeder complain about. He looked around him — nothing: backyard blackness everywhere only — and slid the door easily open.
Which then promptly fell forward and crashed into the kitchen table, one of the wooden table chairs shattering right through the glass door. Instead of running the other way, though, Bayle was propelled by the glass explosion into the carpeted diningroom, the sliding of the patio door the last act he could with any exactness remember.
After this, only fragments of action and emotion to be ceaselessly replayed over and over, just like that infamous piece of film footage Patty during her conspiracy theory period had for so long lingered over of Kennedy taking one for the home team that one last time in Dallas. Frame by frame, slower and slower, maybe this time the meaning of the act won’t escape with the end of the tape.
Fragments of action and emotion fifteen minutes in the actual doing but only an instant in the remembering:
The sound of the smashing glass still ringing in his ears even after the slivers and shards on the carpet were only a still pool of crazy water refracting jagged the entering beam of moonlight.
The screaming silence as soon as the ringing had faded.
The first uncertain steps toward ....?
Stopping, looking around, assessing the room.
Second, third, fourth uncertain steps toward ....?
I-Spying kitchen cupboards (no), counter drawers (no), teacup-and-saucer-filled corner cupboard (no), liquor cabinet (Alcohol ... Drugs ... Make sense? Yes). Placing the peppermint tin of cocaine out of eyeshot behind the Southern Comfort and bottle of gin.
On his knees in front of the cabinet and hearing the policemen’s walkie-talkies as they came around the side of the house, sprinting into the other room with laptop in tow in search of the first cover he could find — the livingroom closet — mothballs gagging his throat and sweat stinging his eyes, yet too scared to wipe it away for fear of rustling the winterwear and overcoats.
The five-minute (five hours?) up and down the house search by the cops — always one downstairs when the other was up, never an opportunity to make a run for it even if he’d had the nerve to take the chance.
One cop calling the other one over to the diningroom.
“Whatta you got?” the deep voice said. Carpet steps toward the other voice.
Silence.
“Uh huh,” the deep voice said, loud enough for Bayle with strain to hear from inside the closet.
“What do you figure?”
“At least a grand, maybe more.”
“Too much for just him and the little lady for around the house, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, for sure, for sure. This guy’s selling. No doubt about it.”
Silence.
“Liquor cabinet open just like this when you found it?”
“Yep. Open as the barn door. Thought I’d check it out for prints in case our B-and-E got a little thirsty before he left.”
“Well, at least now we know what our visitor was looking for,” said the deep voice.
“We must have spooked him off before he could find it.”
“Uh huh.”
Silence.
“So what do you want to do?”
“Find out where Mr. and Mrs. James Duceeder of 66 Maple are this evening, I reckon.”
“I’ll radio HQ.”
“And tell them to send somebody over here with a dog. See what else this bastard has got buried around this place.”
Back at the rink, Bayle’s nose wrinkling, stomach slightly curdling, looking around for the sour source; tentatively sniffing, remembering, realizing, thinking: Shit. The skunk. I forgot all about the skunk.
But not any more.
After the cops had taken the coke and left, and before the next set of them arrived with the police dog, Bayle had beat it out of the house through the busted patio door with legs and arms pumping, if still with eyes alert for gawking neighbours and the like, terrified backyard wildlife, unfortunately, excepted. He didn’t actually see the thing lift its leg and spray him — only saw it waddle off underneath the fence as soon as it saw him coming and felt the skunk’s skunking burning away through the hairs in his nose — but right away Bayle knew that the skunk had got him. Christ, I stink, he thought. Man, I stink. I stink.
Fiercely rubbing at his eyes — all right; clean, unskunked — and wisely deciding he’d likely attract less attention if he calmly made his departure instead of flailing away down the sidewalk like a madmen being pursued by invisible demons, Bayle strolled away from Duceeder’s house as cooly as he could, coolness of departure severely compromised, however, by the mist of stink he knew enveloped him. Bayle rubbed his eyes again and continued his retreat.
Eventually bringing him back to the Bunton Center where he now sat squirming on his stool desperately attempting to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why he smelled like, well, like a skunk, and wondering why no one, not even Duceeder, had said anything yet about his smelling so bad. Mid-Western manners, he decided.
The period ended and Duceeder got up and quickly left. One of the Texans said to the other, “C’mon, Tommy, let’s get us smore of this here pig-farmer beer. It sure ain’t Lone Star, but the fourth one don’t taste half as bad as that first one does.” The two men stomped off toward the arena lobby, leaving Bayle and Samson by themselves in the press box.
Bayle raced to cover up his skunky tracks.
“... and by then I didn’t want to put Mrs. Franklin or any of her guests out by coming back to The Range during supper hour reeking like I did, so I went to a gas station near the bus stop where the skunk got me and tried to clean up as best I could. Then I walked around for awhile hoping that some fresh air might help.”
“Really, as I’ve tried to assure you, Mr. Bayle, to my nose it’s virtually imperceptible,” Samson said. “Perhaps when Mr. Handy and Mr. Gunn return from getting their refreshments you could share some of your findings about minor-league hockey with them. They’re only going to be in town until tomorrow, I’m afraid. Perhaps this might help ri
d you of your unfortunate preoccupation with skunks.”
“Mr. Handy and Mr. Gunn: they’re friends of yours?” Bayle said, latching on to the opportunity to be talking about anything other than his smelling like an acrid goat.
“Friends? Yes, I suppose you could say that,” Samson said.
Leaning Bayle’s way, “Here’s a scoop for you, Mr. Bayle,” he said. “The Warriors are moving to Texas next year, El Paso, in fact. Mr. Handy and Mr. Gunn are here as representatives of the generous business community down there that has convinced us to move our operations south.”
It took Bayle a few seconds to process this. Eventually, “You don’t seem too shook up about it,” he said.
Samson smiled wide.
“But your bosses, the owners, Bunton Groceries, they don’t want the team to move,” Bayle said. “You yourself in the Eagle, you said as much, I saw it. I read it.”
Samson smiled wider.
“And Harry and his articles about the arena,” Bayle said, almost pleading now. “You all hated him. Duceeder even got the players to stop talking to him just to get back at him.”
At this Samson slightly frowned, seemed even a little disappointed.
“Mr. Bayle, you’re an intelligent man. Is it really so inconceivable that those boys simply believed what they read in the newspaper and heard on the radio every day and were merely frightened of losing their jobs?”
Bayle didn’t answer; couldn’t.
“And as far as any animosity I might have toward Mr. Davidson, well ....” Samson seemed to consider whether or not to finish his sentence. He leaned Bayle’s way again.
“Hypothetically, imagine this if you will,” he said. “A large corporation comes upon an offer to make one of its marginally profitable side interests much more so if only it could transfer said interest to a more prosperous market where corporate support is plentiful and the tax situation most favourable. Most favourable. Impeding the move, however, is the horrible publicity the corporation might suffer at relocating this much-loved interest out of state. The effect on its remaining interests — which are substantial, mind you — could be very, very injurious. If, however” — Samson stopped and looked at Bayle to see if he was still listening; he was — “if however an opportunity presented itself whereby some other party could be seen as responsible for the move of the corporation’s interest — indeed, blamed and condemned for forcing the relocation — well, that would suit this corporation just fine, wouldn’t it? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
Bayle felt like the last person in the movie theatre to finally figure out whodunit, the music swelling and the credits already rolling down the screen. “You were glad Harry wrote those articles,” he said. “You just wanted everyone to think you were all mad at him and that the owners didn’t want to move.”
Until he heard one of them speak, Bayle didn’t notice the two cops standing at the press box at Samson’s side.
“Excuse me. Mr. Samson? I’m officer Phil Tate and this is officer Peter Fitts. The usher said that a Mr. James Duceeder could be found down here.”
Bayle thought: Deep voice. Familiar. Cop. Deep familiar cop voice. Shit ....
“Why, yes, he ordinarily can be, officers. Unfortunately, Mr. Duceeder seems to have stepped into the lobby, I believe, for a cup of — No, I stand corrected. Here he comes right now. And with young Bill in tow, too, it looks like.”
Laughing, one hand resting easy on his son’s shoulder, the two of them came joking down the arena steps, Duceeder Sr. not paying the two cops all that much notice. Settling down first Bill and then himself beside him at the press box, Duceeder looked merely surprised to find a policeman standing behind him on either side. He turned halfway around in his seat.
“James Duceeder?”
“You’ve got the right man, boys. What can I do you for?”
“James Duceeder of 66 Maple?”
The big grin of happy co-operation dropped off Duceeder’s face. He looked from one policeman to the other. Bill looked at his father.
“Yes,” Duceeder said, all polite seriousness now, “what is it, officers?” His face suddenly flashed panic. “Is it Carol?” he said, exploding up from his seat, knocking the stool to the cement floor with a loud wooden whack. Bill stood up beside his father. “Bill and I just saw her a few minutes ago in the lobby and —”
“Sit down, Mr. Duceeder,” the deep-voiced cop said, putting a forceful hand on the G.M.’s shoulder. “Your wife is fine.” The other, younger looking cop set back up the stool. Duceeder and his son reluctantly took their seats, each looking slightly more dazed with every second.
“We can do this two ways, Mr. Duceeder,” the cop said. “One way is for you to quietly come along with us to police headquarters and answer a few questions we have. The other way is going to be a lot less pleasant for everyone involved, believe me.” The cop looked from Duceeder, to his son, then back.
Duceeder shook himself loose from his numbed state and poked a finger in the cop’s chest. “Hey, what the hell is this all about, anyway? I’m a taxpayer, buddy, and you’re a civil servant who’s supposed to be serving me. I want some Goddamn service in the form of some answers, and I want them fast, and I want them now.”
The two cops looked at each other and shrugged. One of them unhooked the pair of silver handcuffs dangling from his belt and deftly clicked them on the incredulous Duceeder’s limp, unresisting hands.
“James Duceeder, you are hereby placed under arrest under the authority of the Hays County Police Department for possession of an illegal substance with intent to traffic. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you. Do you understand everything I just said?”
Duceeder nodded blankly, stared at the gleaming handcuffs binding his wrists, whatever fight there had been in him evaporated. He raised his gaze from the cuffs to his son. Frightened teenaged eyes looked back at him, dry lips slightly trembling, mouth open and gaping, unbelieving any of this was happening. The two policemen hoisted the prisoner to his feet.
Duceeder rose willingly, but would not be moved. “Bill needs to go home,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere until I know he’s gotten home safe.”
The policemen looked at each other again. The younger one took off his cap and scratched his head. “Your house is still being investigated,” he said. “Nobody’ll be able to get in there for a couple hours more at least.”
Duceeder stood his ground; didn’t resist, just wasn’t going anywhere until he knew his son was going to be all right. He looked Samson’s way. Samson cleared his throat.
“Of course,” Samson said, “if it wasn’t for my having to be responsible to Warrior ownership for entertaining Mr. Handy and Mr. Gunn tonight I would be more than happy to take charge of young Bill during this ... unfortunate episode, James. As things stand, however, my hands are tied. I’m sure you can understand.” As if to illustrate his predicament, devoted company man Samson locked his fingers together on top of the press box tabletop, offering nothing else. For a long moment, no one else did either.
Eventually, piercing the silence, “Bill can stay with me until he can go back home,” Bayle said. The press box swayed its attention Bayle’s way. “I’m just going back to my room at The Range after the game anyway. The police can call us there when it’s okay for him to go home. I’ll make sure he gets back.”
Duceeder’s eyes seared Bayle’s, bearing down hard trying to decide if he could entrust his only child with this fool. Bayle beared the stare. Briefly. Bayle lowered his eyes.
“I’ll be okay, Dad,” Bill said. “Go get mom and bring her home, okay? Figure out what this is all about, okay, Dad?”
Duceeder looked at his son. Smiled. He moved toward Bayle, the younger cop making a motion to stop him, the other one nodding that it was all right. Bayle’s body tensed.
Inches from Bayle’
s face, “Thanks,” Duceeder said. “I owe you one.”
More than you know, Bayle thought. “No problem,” he said.
Duceeder turned around and faced the police. “All right, let’s go,” he said. “It’s time to get to the bottom of this nonsense.” He winked at his son. His son smiled and winked back.
Duceeder was led away down the arena stairs by the two policemen. Fans turned around in their seats to stare at the handcuffed man being escorted from the rink.
37
IN SPITE of everything, Bayle still had a job to do — Harry’s — and he did it, throwing together his game report for the Eagle from a cribbed combination of Bill’s surprisingly vivid recounting of the first two periods and by sticking close to the timekeeper’s official scoresheet. He even thought Duceeder’s obviously shaken son started to relax a little when asked to remember as best he could things like how Trembley’s first-period goal was scored and how many of the twenty-three shots fired at the Warrior net over the first couple of periods were tough saves. Bayle, too, seemed to wind down somewhat with attention turned over to the game and its piecing together.
Not wanting the boy to stew in worry all alone in the press box, Bayle took Bill along with him to the Warriors’ dressing room as soon as the buzzer signalled the end of the game, another Warrior loss, this time a come-from-behind six-to-four Wichita victory. Here, perfunctory grunts from the main Warrior combatants, Bill standing close by as Bayle scribbled and nodded.
A knock, another, and then another at Coach Daley’s closed office door elicited only, “Unless that’s fucking Wayne Gretzky out there, go the fuck away!” Trembley, the game’s leading scorer with two goals and an assist, noted that because of the uncharacteristically warm weather, “The ice, it was brutal out there, like skating in, what you call it, quicksand, oui?” And from Dippy, who renewed his season-long battle with the Wichita goon, Bladon, by going another two spirited rounds, the observation that, given the Warriors’ disappointing two wins and five losses to start the season, “Something’s got to give. One way or another, things have got to change around here.” Scribbling and nodding, Bayle couldn’t have agreed more.
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