Booker? It took several moments before the name registered on Travis. Of course, Mr. Booker had once come out to help Muck with the early-season assessments, but he had been so foul-mouthed on the ice Muck had ordered him off and told him to go home. This was minor hockey, Muck told him, not the military.
The hockey association kept Mr. Booker away from coaching, but thought he’d do no harm as a team manager. They’d been wrong. Even in house league he’d been thrown out of games for abusing the referees, and finally he was banned altogether after he grabbed an opposing player by the scruff of the neck and pinned him to the arena wall when the two teams had left the ice. The player had tripped one of Mr. Booker’s players during the game, but as Mr. Lindsay had explained to Travis later that night, tripping is a penalty, holding a kid by his throat against a wall is assault. Mr. Booker’s career in hockey was over.
“He’s heading for it!” hissed Andy.
They watched as Mr. Booker twisted his way through the cars towards the Chevrolet. He was fumbling in his pocket. He dropped something–keys, probably–and swore loudly as he bent to pick them up.
“Charming,” said Sarah.
“He’s drunk,” said Lars.
Mr. Booker came up with the keys and fumbled with them at the door. Soon the interior light of the car came on as the door cracked open and they could see him getting in. He closed the door, started the car, and let the windshield wipers shake off the light dusting of snow that had fallen since he’d arrived. He sat a moment, letting the engine warm the windshield. Then his headlights came on, and they could hear the crunch of tires on the snow as he moved slowly out of the parking lot.
“Where does he live?” said Fahd.
“I don’t have a clue,” said Travis.
“I do,” said Liz. “My mom and Mrs. Booker are friends.”
“Where, then?” said Nish.
“Across from the farm. At the very end of Cedar.”
“Yes!” Travis said.
The quickest route from the curling rink to the end of Cedar Street passed through the intersection where Data had been struck.
Booker would have been going home! Just like this, drunk, from the curling rink!
They had a third clue.
On Sunday, the Screech Owls practised at noon–Nish skating, but unable to shoot–and afterwards Muck asked the team to assemble again at the hospital in an hour. They were going to visit Data.
When the Owls got there, they found Data’s doorway almost blocked with other patients trying to look inside. There were even a couple of doctors on tiptoe trying to get a peek over the crowd. The fact that the doctors weren’t pushing their way through to get to Data and were smiling told Travis there was nothing to worry about.
Everyone made room to let the Owls pass through, single file. There were more people in the room, doctors and nurses, and a man in a blue suit leaning over Data’s bed. The man had dark curly hair that was turning grey. Who was it?
Whoever he was, he looked up when Muck came in and shook his hand warmly. Muck looked sheepish, but the man seemed delighted, as if running into an old friend he’d been missing. Travis was no closer to guessing who the man was, but he did look oddly familiar.
Muck turned to the small crowd around Data’s bed, and everyone went even quieter than they had been.
“This, here, is Paul Henderson,” he said.
Paul Henderson! Of course! Travis had a special coin at home with Paul Henderson on it. He had a sheet of stamps with Paul Henderson on them that he had put away. Paul Henderson, hero of the 1972 Summit Series, the man who had scored the winning goal for Canada against the Soviets with thirty-four seconds left in the final game. The most famous goal in hockey history.
“How ya doing, boys?” Paul Henderson said, then caught himself, seeing Sarah and Liz off to one side, Jenny and Chantal on the other. “And girls? Good, good, the Screech Owls are a truly modern team, I see.”
“Mr. Henderson has something to announce,” Muck said.
“Well, actually it’s something Larry–sorry, Data–and I would both like to announce,” said Paul Henderson. He turned, smiling, towards Data.
“We’re going to play a game!” Data said from his bed. His voice sounded surprisingly strong.
“I proposed to Data that I bring a team of NHL old-timers up to Tamarack for a match. Muck’s lined up the Flying Fathers to play against us. They’re a bunch of priests who happen to play hockey–some of them pretty darn good–and they put on a great show. So–whatdya say to that?”
“Go for it!” shouted Nish.
“Yes!” shouted Andy.
“Shhhhh,” cautioned Sarah, reminding them where they were.
“Data, here, is going to need a few things,” said Paul Henderson. “We want him to have the best wheelchair money can buy. And we want to get him a special computer so he can get back to school. And his parents are going to need a special van so they can get him to hockey games and the like.”
Travis glanced quickly at Sarah, who smiled back. Travis wondered if Paul Henderson should even be talking about such things. But then, Data was already making unbelievable progress. The halo was gone, the small wounds where the screws had been tightened right into his skull were healing well. Best of all, he was getting some feeling and movement back in his shoulders, and he could move his right arm, though he had trouble gripping with his hand.
There was still nothing, however–no feeling at all–from Data’s chest on down. The doctors said it likely wouldn’t come back, and unless science one day figured out how to repair spinal cords, Data was never going to walk again.
“How did you find out about Data?” Fahd asked Paul Henderson. They were all wondering the same thing, but no one but Fahd would dare ask.
Paul Henderson smiled at Muck, who was standing in the far corner of the room, trying to avoid any attention.
“From my old friend, Muck. My old winger, I guess I should say.”
Winger? As in hockey winger? Muck seemed to be blushing.
“Muck played with you?” Fahd asked.
“I played with Muck,” Paul Henderson laughed. “We were on the same line in Kitchener.”
Every face in the room, including Data’s, was now turned towards Muck, who seemed to wish he could vanish into the wall. Every one of them was looking at Muck as if they’d never seen him before. He played with Paul Henderson?
“Was he any good?” Fahd asked.
“A lot better than me!” Paul Henderson laughed. “Maybe if you hadn’t busted that leg so bad, Muck, you’d have scored that goal in Moscow.”
“I’d’ve missed the net,” Muck muttered.
Then Muck cleared his throat, changing the subject. “Let’s clear this room so Data can get some rest now, okay?”
So much had happened. The Larry Ulmar Fundraising Game was scheduled for the first Sunday afternoon of the new month. The Flying Fathers were coming, complete with their hockey-playing horse. Paul Henderson had lined up some of the greatest names that ever played for the Toronto Maple Leafs, including Eddie Shack, Darryl Sittler, Lanny McDonald, and Frank Mahovlich. And right after the big game, the Screech Owls themselves were going to play, a return match against Orillia–another chance to get the win they’d so desperately wanted for Data.
The Toronto Star and the Sun and the Globe and Mail were all sending reporters and photographers. The Sports Network was coming to do a documentary on the charity work of the Flying Fathers. And Nish was getting a new cast.
“It’s plastic and has a zipper,” he told Travis. “I can take it off and put it on. Once the doctor says I can start playing again, I can use it just for games until the wrist heals completely. I’ll be back sooner than anybody thinks.”
Everything seemed to be going well–except the investigation.
The police were getting nowhere.
“Garbage night,” Travis said to Nish.
“Huh?”
“Tonight’s garbage night.”
&
nbsp; “Don’t look at me–I can’t lift a thing with this wrist!”
Travis shook his head. “I’m thinking about what other people put out.”
“Whatdya mean?”
“We know what the guy who hit Data drinks, don’t we? Seagram’s V.O. whisky.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So we check out Booker’s recycling bin. See if that’s what he drinks.”
Nish thought about it a while. Finally he looked at Travis and smiled. “Good idea. Let’s check it out.”
Travis told his parents he was taking his geography notes over to Nish, which was true enough–only Nish told his parents he was headed over to Travis’s to borrow the same notes. They met at the corner of Cedar and River, where Travis handed over the notes. Nish stuffed them into his backpack, and they set off for the neighbourhood where Mr. Booker lived.
It was a beautiful clear evening, already dark and very cold. Some houses already had their garbage out, in green plastic bags and blue recycling boxes for bottles and cans.
“Evening, boys!” a voice called across the road.
Travis and Nish turned to see Mr. Dickens, the old coach, set down two heavy garbage bags. He was clapping his bare hands together and rubbing them as he walked towards the boys.
“Hi, Mr. Dickens,” said Travis.
“How’s it going?” said Nish, who always talked the same, no matter whether he was speaking to a toddler or someone’s grandmother.
Mr. Dickens stomped his feet and stabbed his hands deep into his pockets. “What do you young men hear from the hospital?” he asked.
“Data’s doing pretty good,” Nish said.
“He’s moving around in a chair,” said Travis.
Mr. Dickens seemed disappointed. “Then it’s true what we hear: he won’t walk again?”
“I guess not,” said Nish. “Muck says it’d take a miracle.”
“Damn it!” Mr. Dickens said, swallowing. He smiled. “Sorry, boys–I can’t help it.”
“Everybody’s upset,” said Travis. “Data’s handling it better than anyone, to tell you the truth. You should go see him.”
“Yeah,” added Nish. “You used to coach Data, didn’t you?”
Mr. Dickens tried to speak, choked slightly, then cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was thin, breaking. “I’ll pay him a visit, boys, I will. You tell him his old coach was asking after him, okay?”
“Sure, Mr. Dickens,” said Travis.
Mr. Dickens looked at them. Travis could tell how much the old coach was bothered. It could have been the cold, but his eyes were damp, and he looked so sad, so upset. Like them, he was helpless to do anything about what had happened.
“Thanks, boys,” he said.
Mr. Dickens turned and headed back, his boots slipping on the hard, slick snow cover. He nearly went down, caught himself, and walked back towards his garage to bring out the rest of his garbage.
“Need any help?” Travis asked.
“No!” Mr. Dickens said sharply. “No thanks.”
He didn’t look back.
Travis was pretty sure he knew why. Mr. Dickens didn’t want them to see how upset he was about poor Data.
Booker lived a few blocks farther north, down a dead-end street called Poplar. There was a streetlight at the corner, but no other lights apart from the houses. This was both good and bad. Good, because the dark gave them cover; bad, because they could barely see.
“I wish the moon was full,” whispered Nish.
They were trying to walk quietly, taking soft steps so their boots wouldn’t crunch in the snow.
“That’s it–up there!” Travis whispered.
He pointed–despite being unable even to see his own hand–up towards a small one-storey wood-frame house with two dim lights attached to the side. One cast a dull glow over the front door; the other was at the near corner of the little house, barely illuminating the driveway.
“Good,” said Travis. “He’s already put his garbage out.”
It was dark, but in the poor light from the house they could make out the dark shapes of two green garbage bags at the end of the driveway. Beside the bags was a single dark box.
The two moved towards the snowbank closest to Booker’s driveway.
“No car!” Travis whispered.
“Maybe he’s at the curling rink,” said Nish, hopefully.
“Maybe.”
“Let’s do it fast,” said Nish.
Travis moved to the edge of the driveway, peeking around the high shovelled bank. He could see the recycling box. He could see the thin glow of the house lights dancing on glass.
There were bottles in it–lots of bottles!
“Go!” Nish hissed from behind him.
Travis took a deep breath. He hunched down, then darted across the front of the driveway, from one bank to the next. He stopped to gather his breath. His heart was pounding. He was sweating. Travis Lindsay, who hardly ever sweated during a game, was sweating now in the freezing cold of a black winter’s night.
One deep breath and Travis darted into Booker’s driveway. Crouching down, he hurried over to the recycling box.
He’d been right; it was full of bottles.
As he reached down into the box, his glove brushed one of the bottles on top, which slid down from the pile and clinked hard against more glass below.
“Hurry!” Nish hissed from the distance.
Travis reached into the bin and pulled a bottle out by the neck. He couldn’t read the label, but he knew from the smell it was liquor.
Nish’s voice cut through the still night air.
“CAR!”
No! Travis thought. Not a car! Not now!
He ducked down instinctively, just as the car’s headlights swept over the tops of the banks and washed along the side of Booker’s house.
But Nish must have panicked. Instead of sticking fast to the bank where he was hiding, he tried to come around it into the shelter of the driveway, where Travis was crouched out of sight.
His timing couldn’t have been worse. As the car began to turn into Booker’s driveway, Nish ran out into the glare of its headlights, and like a frightened deer stopped dead, petrified.
They could hear the whirr of an automatic window as the car came to a stop.
“Run!” shouted Travis.
“HEY! WHAT’RE YOU KIDS UP TO?”
It was Booker, all right. The same insulting, angry voice that used to burst out in the arena whenever a linesman missed a call.
The car door opened.
“Wha’ the hell ’r’ you doin’ here?” Booker growled. He was drunk, judging by the way his words were running together.
There was no choice. They would have to run directly at the car and then break to the left, putting the vehicle between themselves and Booker.
Travis bolted first. He could hear Nish yelp behind him–the sound Nish’s dog made when his tail got shut in the sliding door.
“Hurry!” Nish shouted.
“YOU LITTLE…!” Booker roared as he lunged across the hood of the Chevrolet, reaching for Nish and catching the hood of his jacket.
“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!” Nish howled. He jerked ahead with all his might, the hood tearing away slightly from his jacket, but ripping free of Booker’s hand at the same time.
“Move your butt!” Nish screamed at Travis.
Travis was racing as fast as he could. The two Owls ran out under the brighter streetlights of Sugar Maple Drive, and turned hard to head back down towards Cedar and safety. Behind them, Travis could hear Booker’s car door slamming and the engine race as the tires whined in reverse.
“He’s coming after us!” Nish warned.
He was, too. Even in the brighter lights of Sugar Maple they could see the headlights playing in the trees as Booker reversed and turned and pulled out behind them.
The bottle! Travis knew he could run better if he wasn’t cradling the empty bottle in his jacket. But he needed it for evidence.
He could hi
de it! And get it later…after they’d escaped.
Travis ran quickly to the side of the nearest snowbank and screwed the bottle down under the soft snow at the top.
Nish was now ahead of him. Travis could almost feel the headlights on his back; Booker was flicking his lights, from high beam to low, and he was gathering speed on the slippery street.
We don’t want another accident! Travis thought. He was sure Booker was drunk, and he knew the alcohol would slow his reflexes. They had to deke him just as if they were playing a hockey game.
“Next–corner!” Travis shouted through his puffs. “Turn–sharp–on–him!”
With the car now roaring right behind them, they came to the next side street, and just as they seemed to be bolting straight through the intersection, both boys turned hard to the right.
Travis could hear Booker’s car horn blast as the Chevrolet’s weight carried it right past the turn and down the street, the brakes on full and the tires sliding helplessly.
“He’ll come back!” said Nish.
“I think so, too,” said Travis.
“Where next, then?” Nish asked. It was a good question. This street was another dead end.
“Head for Mr. Dickens’s!” Travis shouted. “We’ll duck in there till he goes.”
Nish was already headed towards Mr. Dickens’s driveway on the corner. The boys raced past the garbage and stopped at the side door, where a light burned brightly.
“What’ll we tell him?” Travis asked.
“Nothing,” said Nish. “He’s a good guy–he won’t even ask.”
Nish pushed the buzzer. Pushed it again just as headlights swept down the empty street. There was a shadow at the door window, peering out.
It was Mr. Dickens. They were safe!
The door popped open.
“What’re you boys up to?” Mr. Dickens asked. He was smiling, but seemed nervous, almost blushing.
“There’s a guy in a car chasing us!” Nish said. Good old Nish–always right to the point.
Mr. Dickens stuck his head out the door. He was quite red in the face now. Anger? Travis wondered. The cold?
“I don’t see anybody,” Mr. Dickens said.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 2 Page 27
