The Last of the Lumbermen Page 22

  Into that we have to fold another set of complications. For the first two rounds, we have to use two arenas. Mantua has four artificial ice surfaces, but only two have any spectator seating. The Memorial Coliseum can put roughly twenty-five hundred bums on boards, but the rink north of town we’ve rented can only sit about two hundred fifty people on the benches above the dressing rooms, with another fifty or so standing around behind the glass on the far side. We have to get the best games — and the best draws — into the Coliseum.

  Then there’s the time frame. With the first games starting at seven and running in four-hour slots, the third set of games might start as late as three am. Commerce being what it is, we have to set ourselves in the first or second game at the Coliseum. That will mean a slight advantage to us, but only morons would object.

  THE TOURNAMENT DRAW SHAPES up as we hope. The Battleford Raiders drive in late Wednesday afternoon, and go straight to the bar for a piss-up right after they register and before they check into the Columbia, which is Mantua’s version of Piss-Tank Central. All they’ll have to do is stagger upstairs when the bar closes.

  I’m not around when they arrive, but when I glance over their roster an hour or so later I recognize a few guys I played against in the Alberta leagues. If they’re halfway sober by the time the tournament starts, they’ll do fairly well.

  The Creston Cougars and Idaho Saints pull up in front of the Coliseum while I’m looking over the Raiders’ roster. As the Cougars roll off their bus, it’s evident they don’t need to go to any bar. If you closed your eyes when the bus doors swung open you’d have sworn they were climbing out of the back end of a beer truck. And as if to prove that no one had been holding them captive, they stumble back onto the bus as soon as they’re registered and head to the bar. Like the Raiders, they’re staying at the Columbia.

  The Idaho Saints file off their bus looking like Mormon missionaries, all of them scrawny and decked out in white shirts, skinny dark ties, and Superman haircuts. When their coach called in weeks before none of us had heard of the team, and we had no idea how they got wind of us. Their coach begged his way into the tournament, claiming his team has been playing tournaments all over North America for seven years, and that they’re highly competitive. Jack let them in because they were the only American team to enter.

  They turn out to be students from a Bible college outside Missoula, mostly teenagers from the look of them. I’ve seen their kind before. They’ve come to praise the Lord, perform acts of missionary-type piety, and, more or less incidentally, play hockey. Why they’re called the Idaho Saints eludes me. Missoula is in Montana. The Lord acts in mysterious ways.

  Jack and I have a quick conference in which we decide to let the Cougars register second so they’ll play the Raiders in the first round. Jack then signs up the Saints and places us fourth in the draw. That way, the missionaries will get at least one game in before they’re butchered. It isn’t exactly ethical but it is, definitely, the Christian thing to do.

  LATE THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the Fort St. John Drillers, Terrace Flyers, and Chilliwack Lions show up. All three teams seem serious about the tournament, at least judging from their arrival times and states of sobriety. I have my most careful look at the Chilliwack team — big surprise. They aren’t calling themselves the Christian Lions anymore, but I have a feeling they’re still sponsored by car dealers, and there’s likely to be some devout Christians on the bus.

  I felt a small bump when I heard the Lions had arrived, and another when Esther mentioned that their manager said they were coming to defend the Cup. They even came up with the old Mantua Cup from somewhere — dug out of somebody’s closet or rescued from a police evidence archive — and considerately sent it along two weeks before so we could have it fixed up.

  As they step off the bus, I realize I’m looking at them not as hockey players but as survivors. Even though I know better, I’m looking for specific survivors. A dozen total strangers, young, beefy ones who all look like they know how to play hockey, file off the bus before I find the one I’m looking for.

  When he appears, he’s more than I’m expecting: a dead ringer for Mikey Davidson. Same height, build, colouring, probably the same age as Mikey was. The same sweetness in his eyes, even. Startled, I call out the family name. He looks up.

  “Do I know you?” he asks, eyeing me as he walks toward me.

  “You’re related to Michael Davidson, aren’t you?”

  The boy shrugs. “Everyone called him ‘Mikey’ I heard,” he says in a matter-of-fact way. “He was my uncle, father’s brother. Died a long time ago, in that bus accident, I think. You probably know more about him than I do.”

  “I knew him,” I admit.

  “You play with him or against him?” he asks, getting interested.

  “With,” I answer. We are veering toward some dangerous ground. “Some, anyway.”

  “I heard those were pretty great Lions teams, back then. Won this tournament the last two times, didn’t they?”

  “They did,” I say.

  “So who are you?” he asks.

  “Andy Bathgate.”

  He says nothing for a moment. Then his eyes narrow. “You’re Andy Bathgate?”

  “No, no,” I say. “Not the famous one.”

  “I didn’t mean that one. I meant Andy Bathgate. Billy Menzies.”

  I freeze. How does this kid know this? As far as I know, there’s still a warrant out for my arrest as Billy Menzies. And how come he doesn’t come after me for being the one who killed his uncle?

  The kid sees that I’m startled. “Everyone knows that story in Chilliwack. People have been wondering for years why you haven’t shown up.”

  “I haven’t shown up because I killed four people. Who told you Andy Bathgate was Billy Menzies?”

  He stares at me for a moment. “Christ,” he says. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “Those charges were dropped a year after you disappeared. The coach was driving the bus when it hit that semi-trailer. The bastard let you take the rap, and it only came out when he got drunk one night and confessed the whole thing. Couldn’t stand the guilt, I guess. He did four years for it. No one ever told you?”

  “I never checked.”

  “Hey, I gotta find my gear,” he says. “Maybe we’ll talk later.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I say, forcing a laugh. “Maybe I’ll see you on the ice.”

  “You coaching one of the teams?”

  “I still play,” I say. “For the Lumbermen. Host team.”

  “Stay cool, man,” he snaps back, pleased that he’s gotten to me. “Are all the Lumbermen OAPS like you?”

  “You’ll find out when you play us.”

  In his mind, he’d just recited an ancient piece of local history — but it’s a lot more than that to me. I wander back inside the Coliseum, stunned, and run into Jack.

  “Jesus, Weaver,” he says. “You’re white as a sheet. You okay?”

  “I think so. I just need to go for a walk.”

  I HEAD OUT THE back door of the arena, and a few moments later I’m sitting halfway up the hill behind it. Screw the weather, and screw the raven that’s sitting above me in one of the trees, telling me to get off his turf. Some things I’ve been puzzled by for a long time are slipping into new perspective. The first is that a lot of people seem to know what happened to Billy Menzies, and haven’t been judgmental about it. Esther’s remark when this all broke open, for instance, about “the poor bastard” suddenly makes sense. I thought she was forgiving me out of some unfathomable generosity, along with Gord and whoever else knew who I was — my father and stepmother, probably. And all this time, they’ve assumed that I knew the real story, too. I didn’t check my version against theirs.

  A FEW MINUTES AFTER climbing down off the hill I run into Blacky Silver from Okenoke i
n the Coliseum lobby. He’s come in look- ing for Jack, and unintentionally screws up our draw strategy. I tell him where to register, and as a courtesy explain how the draw works. I let him know that Chilliwack is the seventh team to register, and that if he registers now they’ll play them at the Coliseum at eleven PM.

  “They look any good?” he wants to know.

  “One of the better teams, I suspect.”

  “Good,” he grins. “Where are you guys in the draw?”

  “In the first draw, playing a bunch of teenage missionaries from Idaho. It seemed like the decent thing to do for them. They’ll get one game before they’re slaughtered.”

  “Better you than the Roosters,” he agrees, and heads toward the registration counter Jack has set up outside our dressing room. It occurs to me that he’s brought the Bears into the tournament out of loyalty and tradition, not because he thinks they have any chance of winning. Blacky’s no dummy, so maybe he’s recognized that these games might be the last the Bears will ever play. Whatever his motives, he’s unmoved about playing a hot team in the first draw. Maybe he wants to go out quick and clean.

  The other teams drift in as the afternoon progresses, and they pretty much confirm Jack’s theory: the Hinton Locomotives drive in from Northern Alberta in a snazzy silver bus that turns out to be another mobile brewery. The Grande Prairie Huskies, who arrive a few minutes later, and the Fort St. John Drillers are from the same league; they’re more or less sober when they pull in, but they’re a little green around the gills from the rickety school bus that’s had them sucking exhaust fumes for four hundred fifty kilometres, and they seem pretty eager to hit the bar and flush out the carbon monoxide. The Roosters begin to appear in their fleet of Camaros around three, but Old Man Ratsloff doesn’t show until nearly four. The last team to register is the Burns Lake Cowboys, from just one hundred fifty miles west. They were in and out of the NSHL until a few years ago, and from the look of them they’ve entered the tournament strictly for a lark. They appear in a fleet of four rented minivans, via the minor miracle of drunk driving.

  By showing up last the Cowboys have drawn the Roosters for the three AM Coliseum game. They aren’t happy about this, but their manager isn’t sober enough to raise a coherent objection. Cowboys is what they call themselves, but it’ll be more like cows in a slaughterhouse.

  I hang around the Coliseum running errands for Esther and Jack most of the afternoon. Around four, Gord shows up and Jack sends the two of us off to the Columbia Hotel to deliver the first draw to the Battleford and Creston teams, and to make sure they know where they’re playing. Since both teams are staying at the Columbia — which hints that they’re dedicated drunks coached by idiots — we’re really there to roust them. The clerk at the hotel desk rings both coach’s rooms, gets no response from either, and suggests the obvious. We head for the bar.

  It’s the Columbia’s usual weekday crowd: bikers, unemployed loggers, and the small portion of the business community that still isn’t convinced that eating croissants and drinking decaf cappuccino will make HQ executive asses taste sweeter when they have to kiss them. About half the Creston players are sitting over on one side with their coach, gulping down glasses of beer, watching the strippers, and wolfing down hamburgers. I don’t see any Raiders in the bar, but their coach is sitting in a corner nursing a glass of Pepsi and poring through what look like computer printouts.

  I walk over to his table while Gord sits down with the Cougars. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Andy Bathgate.”

  He looks up at me, then nods. “Sure you are,” he deadpans. “And I’m Punch Imlach.”

  A smartass. I drop the sheet with the draw on it, pull up a chair, and sit down anyway. “Don’t see any of your players around.”

  He’s not as dumb as the Creston coach. “They’re upstairs,” he says, “putting their heads together after last night. I figured they’d play better if they got the partying out of their systems before the games start.”

  “Makes sense to me. You clear about where your first game is, and when?”

  He names the arena and time without looking at the draw sheet. “Somebody gave us a map when we checked in,” he says. “We’ll make it there okay. Who’re we playing?”

  “First come, first play, so you draw your pals over there.” I point to the table of Creston players. “The big guy is just giving them the lowdown.”

  “He might have to stand a few of them up,” the Raider coach laughs. “And then carry them out to the bus. They’ve been load- ing up pretty good.”

  I glance over at Gord, who is tapping his finger on the Creston coach’s chest, no doubt explaining that it’s time to get his players out of the bar and up to the arena. As I watch, Freddy Quaw wanders in and stands behind Gord like a giant exclamation mark.

  “I think they’re getting the word on that, too,” I tell the Raider coach. “Should be a pretty easy opening draw for you guys.”

  He straightens in his chair. “I’m Joe Pisconti,” he says, offering me his hand.

  I reach over and grasp it. “Most people call me Weaver. But the last name really is Bathgate.”

  “Oh, right,” he says, brightening for the first time. “A couple of my guys played with you years back. They were wondering if you’d show up. Nice to make your acquaintance. You coaching the Mantua team now?”

  There’s no malice in his voice, so I play it straight. “I’m still playing. Must be the climate around here. Works as a preservative.”

  “Pulp mills,” he grins. “Don’t they use some of those same chemicals to cure bacon?”

  I grin back without answering. Across the room, with a tableful of beer glasses between them, I’ve spotted a pair of what look like uniformed bus drivers. One of them is the driver I glimpsed behind the wheel of the Chilliwack bus while they were unloading a few hours ago.

  “Listen,” I say to Joe Pisconti. “I’ll catch you later. Got a small matter to take care of.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I amble over to the Creston table just as Gord concludes his lecture. He stands up and rolls his eyes. “These guys are three sheets,” he grumbles. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Just a sec,” I answer. “I need you to back me on something here. You too, Fred. Come with me. And look convincing.”

  They follow me over the bus driver’s table and stand behind me as I sit down. The Chilliwack bus driver glances dully at me and reaches for his beer glass. I put my hand on top of it and lean forward.

  “Let me make this very clear and simple for you,” I say. “If I catch you within ten yards of another alcoholic beverage in the next few days, I’m personally going to rip off your scrotum and pull it over your head.”

  The man’s eyes widen momentarily, then harden. “Oh yeah?” he sneers. “So who appointed you to the police commission? Who are you, anyway?”

  “Never mind who I am,” I say. “Have a close look at my two friends here.”

  He looks up at Gord and Freddy, who have their arms crossed and are glowering at him. “What about them?” he squeaks.

  “Think about what they’re going to do to you after I’m through.”

  “Geez, man,” he whines. “Cut me some slack here. I’m just having a few beers.”

  “No slack,” I answer. “No drinking until you’ve got that bus back to Chilliwack.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Oh, I’m serious. Believe it. You stay dry this weekend. Now get the hell out of here, and stay out.”

  Both drivers scurry out, and Gord and Freddy sit down at their table while I glue myself back together. Gord understands what I just did, but Freddy is in the dark. “What’s with you old guys, anyway?” he wants to know.

  “Nothing you need to know about,” Gord answers. “Weaver’s just making sure history doesn’t repeat itself.”

  Freddy looks up at the ceiling momenta
rily, and then he taps one of his big fingers on his forehead. “Oh, right. I heard what happened after that last tournament. What’s that got to do with Weaver?”

  “He was there,” Gord says. “And he has a thing about drunk bus drivers.”

  Freddy is silent for a moment, still trying to fathom my weird behavior, but then he remembers why he’s in the bar. “Oh yeah. Jack wants both of you over at the Coliseum.”

  “How come?” Gord asks.

  “Well, a thirteenth team has shown up.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, no shit. A bunch of rock musicians from Vancouver called the D.O.A. Murder Squad, or something. In a great big rock tour bus with about two hundred colours painted on it. They’re really something,” he adds. “Wendel’s down there with them.”

  “Didn’t some team with a name like that try to enter the tournament?” Gord asks me.

  “Yeah, I think so,” I answer. “They called in about two weeks after everyone else, and Jack kind of blew them off.”

  THE D.O.A. MURDER SQUAD bus is parked in front of the Coliseum when we get there, and Freddy has underplayed the paint job. There’s four hundred colours, from the look of it. But the Murder Squad itself isn’t a joke. They’re all musicians, sure, but if size is anything to go by they’d make a better showing than the Idaho Saints will, even if you pumped the Saints up with a couple gallons of steroids.