The Last of the Lumbermen Read online

  I’m nearly out of things to say when he interrupts. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

  I’m so startled that I ask him why.

  Artie’s initial answer is a short laugh and a shrug. He turns his back on me, picks a twelve-inch crescent wrench off the bench next to him, and taps it against a vise.

  “Private reasons,” he says in a quiet voice. “It’s hard to explain.”

  I look at Elsa, and she silently mouths the word “father.”

  Right. Chances are he’s been sitting here for months — years, maybe — waiting for this invitation. But even if he has, he must know that playing for us will be leaping right into the lion’s — or hyena’s — mouth. I just hope to hell he can still play some, for his sake as much as for ours. Alpo isn’t easy for anyone to please, and the old coot believes he has several thousand reasons to be displeased where Artie’s concerned.

  I stay for another fifteen minutes, enough time to give Artie — and Elsa, since it’s clear as hell you don’t talk to one without the other — the basics on practice times and contract arrangements. Artie agrees to drive up to Mantua for tonight’s practice. Before I leave, I ask a few questions about the cars.

  “I just winch them up and down the hill,” Artie says. “They’re Elsa’s babies. She’s the mechanic.”

  “Why’ve you got them up here?” I ask her.

  “Security,” she answers, with a dry chuckle. “Car thieves are lazy.”

  I file that for future consideration, make sure I shake Elsa’s hand before Artie’s, and get out of there.

  WHEN I ARRIVE BACK at the house, this time it’s Esther’s truck that’s parked in the driveway. I assume that this means Wendel has his Jeep out of the garage, or that they’ve traded trucks. If the Jeep is fixed it’ll be temporary, and probably equipped with brand new queen pins.

  As I’m leaving for the Coliseum, Esther pops a small surprise on me. “I may have another player for you.”

  “If Artie shows up, we may not need one,” I say. “Particularly if this Quaw kid of Wendel’s can make it through practice without punching the shit out of everyone. Who’re you thinking of?”

  “Gus Tolenti called me this morning. He’s interested.”

  “What?”

  Gus Tolenti is the new psychiatric resident at the hospital. I’ve met him a couple times at various dos around town, but I wouldn’t have tabbed him as someone who’d even be interested in hockey let alone play — or, if so, then maybe once upon a time. He’s American, at least my age, bald as a billiard ball, and, well, a bit strange. I think he uses man-tan, and I know for sure he drinks martinis, likes to quote dead pyschiatrists in German after he’s got two or three under his belt, and wears white suits under his white hospital smocks. Lord only knows how he landed up in Mantua. Or why.

  “What’d you tell him?” I ask.

  “I told him there was a practice at five.” Then, after a pause, she adds, “Why not?”

  She’s right: why not? The worst he can do is make a fool of himself. “Did he mention what he plays?”

  “I’m assuming it’s hockey, silly. What would you like it to be?” Esther lifts my coat from the chair I’d draped it over in the kitchen and holds it open for me.

  “We could use a defenceman,” I admit.

  “I don’t think you have to worry, Andy,” she says, seeing where my mind is going. “Nobody is going replace you.”

  “Just so long as you don’t,” I answer.

  BY THE TIME THE players start to appear I’m sitting behind Jack’s desk, playing General Manager. Artie is among the first to show, lugging a tattered Islanders equipment bag. I bring him into the office to sign the insurance forms, introduce him to the players already there, and return to the office. I figure the best way to handle his appearance is to make it seem like it’s no big deal. The toughest thing he’s going to have to face isn’t going to be in the dressing room or on the ice, anyway. It’ll be when his father realizes that he’s here. That one he’ll have to face by himself. Let’s hope he doesn’t face it from under the wheels of the Zamboni.

  I’ve barely sat down at the desk again when Gus Tolenti shows. Goddamned if he’s not wearing a white suit and toting a white bag. I wander out to say hello to him, then try to make some straight-faced introductions. A couple of the younger players, Bobby Bell included, look at him as if he’s from Mars, but there’s nothing I can do about that. For all I know they’re right.

  There’s a few audible giggles when he opens the equipment bag and everything inside it, including his gloves and skates, is white, too. But the skates aren’t figure skates — they’re good ones, and well broken in.

  “What’s with the white duds?” I say, trying to make it sound conversational.

  “I played for the medical school team at Harvard,” he says. “That’s what we wore.”

  Good enough for me. I’ve just gotten him into the office to sign the releases when the dressing room goes silent.

  With good reason. Wendel and Gord have come in, and they’ve brought Freddy Quaw. Freddy is a behemoth, as wide as Gord and two or three inches taller. I let Wendel make the introduc- tions, stepping forward only at the end to shake hands myself. “Glad to have you aboard,” I say. He looks like the building could land on his head and not hurt him.

  Freddy merely grunts for an answer, and tosses his equip- ment bag onto a nearby bench as if it were as light as a purse. “Let’s get on with it,” he says.

  I glance at Wendel, hoping he’ll reassure me that we won’t need a half-dozen more new players by the end of Freddy’s first practice, but he just grins.

  James Bathgate shows up a few minutes before we’re ready to hit the ice, and damned if the little bugger isn’t in gear, right down to a Montreal Canadiens sweater. I consider whether to have a little chat with him about arriving earlier, and maybe stuff a gag in his smart mouth as a precautionary measure. I don’t.

  With barely more than a nod in my direction, and without putting on his skates, he goes directly to the team’s equipment locker, flips off the lock I opened when I came in, and gets to work as if he’s been doing it for months. He’s out of the dressing room before anyone else, and is back for the water bottles and first aid kits by the time the first players are filing into the corridor to the ice. And as far as I can see, he hasn’t called anyone an asshole while he’s been doing it.

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE PRACTICE GOES SMOOTHLY, given that I have three new players and one of them is dressed as Frosty the Snowman. Gord directs the drills from the ice while I stand behind the bench, puff up my chest a little — too much hurts — and think what I hope are general manager-type things.

  Like evaluating the new and old talent. Sorting out the old isn’t a big job, because once I get past Wendel and maybe Bobby Bell there isn’t much. But Artie Newman is everything I hoped for, and then some. He’s got all the instincts, and, outside of Wendel, the best speed on the team. He’s a little rusty, but the eye-hand stuff will come back soon enough. Wendel sees what he’s got, and at one point skates past the bench, gives me an appreciative nod, and says, “You did good, Weaver. I can play with this guy.”

  Freddy Quaw can play, too. He’s fast for a big man, and he knows what he’s doing at both ends of the ice. What surprises me most is how good he is around the net. In the middle of a shooting drill, he skates in front of the net and spends five min- utes deflecting pucks past poor bewildered Stan.

  More important, he doesn’t kill anyone during the scrimmage — not that anyone tries to push him around. Only Gord has the balls to lay a bodycheck on him, and when he does it’s a good, clean hit. Freddy gets to his feet laughing, and tips his stick to him.

  Gus Tolenti is a pleasant surprise, too. Despite the goofy getup, he’s for real. Not on conventional terms, but those haven’t been working for us anyway. From the bench he appea
rs to be doing everything backassward, banking pucks off the board when there’s no apparent reason for it, flipping the puck high in the air on passes so they arrive on the forwards’ sticks over their shoulders. He has a number of dipsy-doodle moves I’ve never seen before, and he’s fond, apropos of nothing, of letting fly with them. His antics will probably drive Jack crazy, but they’re no skin off my nose so long as they’re working.

  I try to watch the action with a managerial eye, but I can’t keep my eyes off James. He’s doing fine, retrieving pucks for the players during the shooting drills and looping soft shots at Stan whenever he sees no one else is ready to go. But generally he keeps out of the way, which is what he’s supposed to do. When the scrimmage starts, he retreats to the bench and stays there.

  About halfway through practice, Junior shows up. His shiners are looking pretty glorious, and the bandana he’s tied around his head to hide the bandage makes him look like a deranged pirate. No matter. His grin as he clambers across the stands to lean against the glass behind the bench convinces me he’s not here to assassinate Stan Lagace.

  “I hope you don’t have any dumb ideas about practising,” I say to him.

  “Not a one,” he replies. “Until Friday, anyway. Gord said I can backup on the weekend.”

  “If you can get the mask over that puffed-out puss of yours, maybe. I’d like some practice time with you and that mask before I’ll let you into a game.”

  “Yeah, that’s what my old man says, too,” he answers, hook- ing his thumb over his shoulder. I look up in the stands and spot Don Sr. standing along the rails, watching the scrimmage. “Okay by me.”

  “How come he didn’t say something to you about this five years ago?”

  Junior looks a little sheepish. “I never asked,” he says. “And you know what the old man is like.”

  “I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Me neither,” he answers. “How’s Stan doing? And where’d you get the tyrannosaurus?”

  I explain how we came by Freddy Quaw and the two others. By this time Don Sr. has joined us and is listening in.

  “Looks like you got the makings of a decent hockey team here, son,” the old man says. “Been a long time since we had one of those in Mantua.”

  As far as I can recall Mantua’s never had a decent hockey team, but I’m not about to slander myself and a lot of people I’m fond of by saying so.

  HE’S RIGHT, THOUGH. SOMETHING has happened, and the old players — the kids who’ve played all year, I mean — sense there is both good news and a slight threat in it, and respond by upping their effort.

  After the practice Junior shows the autopsy mask around, and that gets some laughs. I watch from the doorway to the office until the office phone rings. It’s Esther.

  “Practice go okay?” she wants to know.

  “Pretty good,” I say. “Your pal Tolenti is a player. So are the other two.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” she says, impatiently. “Did the little guy show up?”

  “Yeah, he did. And he was terrific. Did his work and was more or less invisible, otherwise.”

  “Hadn’t you better see he gets home okay?”

  I hadn’t thought about it. “I guess so. I’ll offer to drive him. I want to know how the hell he gets from place to place anyway.”

  “Well, this is your chance to find out,” she says, then adds, “Don’t be pushy about it. I don’t have to remind you he doesn’t like authority very much.”

  She does remind me to give uniforms to the three new players for the Friday game, pointing out that a uniform for Freddy Quaw probably isn’t going to be a simple matter of pulling a spare out of the closet.

  We hang up, and just as I’m putting the receiver back on the hook Gord comes into the office with Freddy Quaw in tow. “Crack the closet,” Gord says. “Uniforms.”

  I toss him the key to the closet, where Jack has at least a dozen numbered jerseys stored, along with a box of leggings, a half-dozen pairs of pants — and about a hundred of the Chief Wahoo crests. Artie and Gus Tolentini crowd into the office behind them.

  “Let’s see, here,” Gord says, looking and sounding a little like Santa Claus at a children’s Christmas party. “What do we have?”

  “Is there a forty-four?” Gus asks, sounding like a kid at the same Christmas party.

  “Size forty-four?” Gord echoes, tossing a pair of sweaters, home and away, over his shoulder to Gus, who scoops them up and disappears back to the dressing room.

  “I’m not picky about numbers,” Artie says, and is answered by an over-the-shoulder pair of sweaters from Gord with the number 26 on them. Like Gus, Artie retreats to the dressing room with his booty. Inside the closet, Gord is cursing.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” I hear him grumble. “These blasted things wouldn’t fit a midget.”

  “Look for a number 35,” I suggest. “It should be a goalie’s jersey.”

  “It isn’t,” Gord says, after a pause. “Freddy won’t be able to get it over his forearms let alone his shoulders.”

  Freddy, who’s been standing behind Gord with an impassive expression on his kisser, pipes up. “Give me two of each. I’ll make do. This has happened before.”

  “Any special number you want?” Gord asks from inside the closet.

  “Makes no difference,” Freddy answers. “A number is a number.”

  Gord sends a flurry of jerseys over his shoulder and Freddy scoops them from the air. “Big pair of pants here, anyway,” Gord says as he emerges from the closet and tosses them at Freddy.

  Freddy doesn’t catch these. He’s examining the Chief Wahoo crest on the front of one of the sweaters. “Who’s responsible for this stupid-looking thing?” he asks.

  “The Chinese Government in Exile,” I say, sensing that we may have a problem on our hands. “The real general manager doesn’t like them either. Wendel can tell you the story behind it. I’ve got to check on something.”

  I skip out of the office, but I’m not just escaping Freddy’s questions. James is standing on one of the benches and peering into the office, obviously eager to get on his way.

  “Good practice,” I say. “You did fine.”

  He looks at me distrustfully, decides I’m not going to do anything to him, and a grin breaks across his face. “I had fun,” he answers. “This is really fun.”

  “If you need a ride,” I begin to say. He cuts me off and for a fleeting second I spot a wildness in his face that looks pretty close to fear. Then he composes himself.

  “It’s no problem,” he says. “I’ve got a ride. And Mom says I can go with you to Okenoke on Friday.”

  “We won’t get back here until about 2 AM. Does she know that?”

  He answers “Sure” so messily that it leaves me without the slightest idea whether she knows anything about it. I make a mental note to call her, and another to check to see how he really gets home. “Did you get everything put away?” I ask him.

  This time the “Sure” is snappy and clean. I glance over to see what Wendel is up to, thinking maybe I’ll have him follow James when he leaves to see if anyone picks him up. Instantly, I understand what at least part of the dressing-room buzz is about: he’s sitting on the training table, surrounded by players, and he’s talking tournament.

  I start over, and am lucky enough to catch Stan’s eye. I jerk my head to one side, and he steps away from the group. “Do me a favour,” I say. “Follow the kid out and see if anyone picks him up.”

  Stan lifts his eyebrows. “Didn’t realize you were his father.”

  “I’m not,” I reply. “He lives away out of town, and he’s a little goofy. I just want to make sure he gets home okay.”

  Stan gives me a silly salute. “Can do, Mein Commandante!”

  Back in the office Gord and Freddy are still conferring, now about the politics
of naming hockey teams after aboriginal tribes a continent away and then representing them with moronic cartoons figures. It isn’t an argument they’re having. More like they’re agreeing on the general level of idiocy in the world. I listen in for a minute behind Freddy’s gigantic shoulders, wondering if Chief Wahoo is going to cost us Freddy’s services. But Freddy doesn’t go that route. He scoops up two sweaters and says, “Leave this to me.” I scuttle out of his path and he’s gone before I have time to consider what it is we’re leaving to him. Since he may already be part owner of the Coliseum and the rest of Mantua, maybe it doesn’t matter.

  I close the door behind Freddy and watch Gord refold a couple of the sweaters, give up, and load them helter-skelter. “What do you think?” I ask him.

  “Nothing much to think,” he answers. “We dress all three, and if they show up, we play them. We can dress seventeen players if we want to, and we haven’t had more than fourteen all season. I don’t think any of them is going to hurt us out there.” A sly grin crosses his face. “Look who they’re replacing.”

  “Very funny. Hey. Did you see Alpo anywhere? He’s usually threatening to run us over with the Zamboni by the end of practice.”

  “Didn’t see hide nor hair of him. But I’d bet money he was there somewhere, watching his kid.”

  “If he was, he’s got to be pleasantly surprised.”

  Gord snorts. “If it was anyone but Alpo, maybe.”

  “Incidentally, has Wendel talked to you about this loony tournament idea of his?”

  Gord straightens noticeably. “I don’t think it’s a loony idea. It may bring back bad memories for you, but there’s nothing basically wrong with a tournament. So try not to rain on the kid’s parade too much.”

  I mumble something noncommittal and paw at a piece of fluff that’s gotten itself lodged in my jacket zipper. When I look up, Gord is eyeing me. “Anything else on your mind?”