Enforcer (34 page)

Both of them were vigilant, the worry that Larry would pull out a shotgun or some other weapon and surprise them was always at the back of their minds. Junkies and dealers were unpredictable at best, but a junkie dealer who lost a woman he was in love with, as sick as the love was, could be the final danger either of them ever faced if caught off guard.

“Here,” Larry said, handing Connor the stacks of bills before heading to his usual seat on the couch where he would stay until the two men departed.

“We have something new for you today, Larry old buddy,” Connor said as he thumbed through the bills.

“What now?”

“Mr. Ojacarcu informed us that you were actually falling behind. You see, Larry, my partner and I,” Connor turned and pointed out Petre, “we only work on this end of your business. This is why someone else brings you whatever shit you are selling. The two different ends of your business finally got to talking, and it seems that you are back in the hole where you started when we first showed up.”

Larry trembled on the couch, afraid to say anything.

“So here’s the proposed solution, and let me know if you would like to negotiate any of the terms. We wouldn’t want to make life hard for you, as good of friends as we’ve become. You now owe twenty-five thousand per week.”

Larry’s eyes grew wide at the number.

“I know, that seems like a lot to me too,” Connor said with a smile. “Petre and I even have a wager as to what kind of fuckery you pulled this time to fall down hard enough to get a twenty-five grand per week payment. Since it isn’t really important information to help us tend to our end of the business, we never bothered to ask. We’ll hear it through the grapevine, I’m sure.”

“I don’t have twenty-five,” Larry said, almost whispering.

“Sure. We know that, don’t we partner?” he asked Petre, who nodded, a grin on his face. “That’s why we won’t even think of asking you for that amount until our next visit. We like you, Larry, and we are your friends. We want to see you succeed. Why make it hard for you to earn what you owe by giving you a broken kneecap, or using a hammer on your toes? It seems like it would be hard to get around and get all that money together if we put a red hot needle in one of your eyes, or maybe through an eardrum. You’d have a tough time paying back the money with any of those problems, right?”

Larry could only nod, expecting Connor to begin beating him after toying with him a little longer.

“Good, good. So, until next time, old friend. We’ll be back on Saturday. I know you’ll have the full amount, but my friend here,” he said, patting Petre on the shoulder as he walked by, “he is sure you will fail, and will make sure to pack pliers, a blowtorch, some novocaine, maybe even an adrenaline shot in case your heart stops. You definitely can’t earn anything if your heart isn’t beating!”

Connor opened the grimy front door and walked out, Petre behind him. It took everything in him to not burst into laughter before they got inside the car and shut the doors.

“You are not as friendly as your words would suggest,” Petre said.

CHAPTER 28

Connor waited in the darkness to hear his name called. He looked at the darkened ice, noting the black X’s where the pyrotechnics would be, remembering the stern warning from the event manager. Any player near one when it ignited would suffer horrible burns, his skin melting off in mere seconds. Connor decided he had been involved in enough tragic accidents for one lifetime and would give the area a wide berth.

“Con-ner. DUNS-MORE!”

The cheers from the crowd had almost drowned out the amplified voice, and once Connor’s name was called, he could no longer hear the booming heavy metal music the arena crew always played during his introduction. Connor waved and stepped out onto the ice, his body immediately stabilizing once he felt his blades hit the surface. He skated through the center, waving at the crowd as he turned and went down the blue line one way, then turning again and going the opposite direction down the center red line.

Connor had the strange yet familiar feeling of just how natural it felt to be propped up on two thin metal blades. He’d been in skates since he was three years old, and had more grace, speed, and stamina while riding the microscopic layer of water than he ever could with his feet repeatedly pounding into the earth, slowing him down, wearing out his knees.

Connor came to a stop after passing down the line of his teammates, giving them all a mid-five slap on his way by. He looked up at his seats, now filled with strangers since he had given the team permission to sell them. Opening night at home in October was always sold out, a large number of fans seeing their first live hockey game. They wanted a good show, especially after all of the celebration and pomp before the game even started.

He couldn’t help but think it would take some of the sting away of losing Dana and the way the Bombers had exited the season back in May if they’d had at least a
Western Conference Champs
banner to raise. Having the Thompson Cup would, of course, be the ultimate way to open a season, but those hopes had been dashed in a few short minutes in the spring by the very same Tacoma Titans team that made their way out onto the ice.

He focused his mind on the game that was about to begin. The crowd was wild with boos for the Titans, cheers for the Bombers. After the National Anthem, the lights finally warmed all the way up, and the players made their way to the benches so the game could get underway. Connor took his usual spot at the end of the bench, understanding his perpetual fourth-line status as a tough guy.

The Bombers opened the game with a jump in their strides, going up 3-0 by the end of the first period. Connor was able to get in four quick shifts, almost scoring on a wrist shot that clanged off the crossbar and into the netting behind the goal. In the second period, they increased their lead to 5-0, spending most of their time in the offensive end, controlling almost every aspect of the game.

Connor skated hard on every shift, sensing from his teammates as well as the crowd, that they needed to win this game, and needed to do it in a convincing fashion to get the sour taste of their previous season ending too soon out of everyone’s mouths. The Titans came roaring out in the third, knocking the lead down to 5-2 before Connor picked up two assists in the span of two minutes, getting back to a five goal lead.

“You want to get it over with?” one of the Titans asked him halfway through the period, Crumb, according to the back of his jersey.

“Aw, man, do you really want to do it when you’re down by five and on our opening night?” Connor asked him as they jostled sticks waiting for the linesman to drop the puck.

“What the hell, my guys want to win at least one battle tonight,” Crumb grinned.

Connor smiled at the implication he would end up the loser in the fight. The instant the linesman dropped the puck, Connor’s gloves slid off as if his hands were made of butter, his left hand immediately grabbing a fistful of jersey, his right fist a jackhammer, missing or glancing blows off Crumb’s helmet, feeling a solid connect every few attempts. His opponent was a mirror image, fistful of jersey while the other hammered blows on Connor’s head and face.

Within ten seconds of the eruption of furious punches, both of them had slowed down to a steady rain of fists. Within another ten seconds, they were still standing, pulling on each other’s jersey, throwing the occasional punch without much juice behind it. Even after swapping sides and using a fresh arm, both players were exhausted. The ref and linesmen finally stepped in, breaking them apart. Connor put his arms above his head, thumbs in the air as he skated to the penalty box, enjoying the thundering of the crowd.

*****

“I listened to the game last night,” Jera told him as they rode toward her next appointment.

“How?” Connor asked.

“I bought a little music player with a radio. It’s tiny and so are the earbuds.”

“What if they catch you with it?”

“It’s okay. All of us have a few personal items. They feel like we owe them for letting us keep things like headphones, a book, a memento of our lives.”

Neither said anything for a few minutes as Connor made turns at the appropriate streets on his way out to Eagle, an upscale suburb on the northwest edge of Boise. A lot of money, both legitimate and shady, was at work inside the city limits. Jera visited the area almost half of the times she had an appointment.

“You got two points,” she said, breaking the silence. “And the announcer guy was all crazy, almost screaming when you were fighting.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “Billy Donovan. I had to listen to a few games when I was injured once. He’s definitely crazy.”

“Is he like that normally?” she asked.

“That’s even funnier,” he said, “because the guy is really calm, all business. Friendly, but you’d never know he was that insane guy on the radio other than the voice.”

“I cheered for you,” she said, looking away. “Silently, of course.”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling at her.

The Lincoln turned into a subdivision of almost-mansions, probably considered real mansions to those who lived in them. He found the house and pulled into a long gravel driveway that formed a half-circle in the front. Connor shut the car off. He would wait for her in the car, having been to this address before. The owner was a regular client, scheduling a visit at least once per week.

“I’ll be back soon,” Jera said before exiting the car. He gave her a small wave through the window, trying hard to not pay attention to her curves that were accentuated by the outfit she wore.

Connor pulled out his phone, going through the typical routine of checking the NHL scores, watching a couple of videos, and randomly surfing the web until he ended up at the search screen with Travis Benkula’s name typed in. He stared at the screen for a while, remembering Travis’ face turning red, then blue, then black as Dracul strangled him to death, the white nylon rope a stark contrast to the black leather gloves, forever imprinted in his memory. He shuddered at the memory, erased the name, and closed the browser. He turned the key to listen to the radio while Jera took care of her client.

When she returned, she let him know there were no more appointments. He pulled the car around the gravel driveway and back onto Highway 55, heading toward his apartment.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, leaning over to turn the radio down.

“Sure, I could eat.”

“Can we stop at your place first? I really need to… you know… freshen up.”

“No problem,” he answered.

As they rode in silence, he was thankful she had quit her tantrums and tirades toward him. Once in a while, when a client hurt her, or she had to spend time with one who wanted to degrade her, she would slip back into old habits, taking out her anger and fear on him. He would stay silent, wouldn’t rise to the bait, knowing she would eventually calm down. Jera had even begun to apologize for her outbursts.

They spent only a few minutes at his apartment while she changed clothes and cleaned up before heading out to Bunny’s, an all-night breakfast joint somewhere between Denny’s and The Waffle House in both atmosphere and food quality. It was out of the way, mostly only frequented late at night by the hipster crowd that had just been released from the Egyptian Theater where they’d watched whatever artsy, independent film they’d been dying to see for the last six months.

Connor thought it would be a simple, quiet meal, but Jera wanted to talk. He was suspicious of her friendliness. Even after Dana had fled, he would drop her at his apartment between her appointments and go off on his own. Sometimes he would chase girls, sometimes just sit down at a coffee shop, but never the Starbucks where Dana had worked.

He couldn’t face Alice. She wouldn’t know the story, but she would know it had to do with him. Connor was sure she would be able to tell him if Dana had told her she was in love with him, but he was afraid of the answer. He wanted to believe Petre was lying, that Dana did love him, but the way Petre had said it, he knew,
knew
the Romanian was telling the truth. Alice would only confirm it for him. He was finally over Dana to where it only hurt when he thought about her, which was still a few times each day. He’d at least progressed from thinking about her every second of the day.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Jera asked as she folded the menu and laid it on the table.

“What?” he asked in surprise.

“Nothing. I was trying to find something to talk about so we don’t have to listen to each other chew food while our silverware scrapes and clanks on the plates,” she said.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked, hopefully making it clear he didn’t want to talk about what women he had been with recently.

He wasn’t ashamed, but neither was it a subject he wanted to discuss with her. Mostly so he didn’t have to hear about her encounters.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about hockey, but you’re probably bored of having to talk about it all day with your team and then your fans. They probably annoy you with it, don’t they?”

“Only if they’re assholes,” Connor answered. “During practice we don’t sit around and strategize and talk only about the game. We’re usually too busy skating and shooting and such to talk, and when we do, we talk about random shit.”