Heroes by Ray Robertson Page A

the computer into a jack underneath the counter, lowered his head, and immediately began punching hard at the keys of the laptop. Even from one seat over Bayle could smell the liquor.
    â€œMr. Davidson,” Samson said, “this is the young man I was telling you about downstairs.”
    Without looking up from his small computer screen, “I’ve had the pleasure,” Davidson said.
    â€œOh, wonderful. As I’m sure I remarked to you earlier, Mr. Bayle here is a fellow journalist. Only this is not one of your typical ink-stained wretches. From what I understand, before too long we’ll have to call him Doctor.”
    â€œThat a fact?” Davidson replied.
    Actually, more of a running theory, Bayle on the insideanswered. On the outside, however, he smiled like a perfect idiot. Yes yes yes, a veritable doctor, yes. Capable of healing the metaphysically ill in three sagacious visits. Your tuition cheerfully refunded if no relief afforded to your aching
weltanchung
within the first two months of treatment. If all else fails, take two Platonic dialogues and call me in the morning. Bayle wondered if zamboni drivers suffered from vertigo. Probably a union job anyway, he decided, probably have to know somebody. Bayle didn’t know anybody.
    Davidson kept working away at his laptop. Duceeder watched the zamboni make its final laps around the rink. Samson, hands still folded in front of him, smilingly beheld the filling-up seats all around him.
    WE WILL WE WILL ROCKYOU
WE WILL WE WILL ROCKYOU
    A blast of tinny rock and roll that Bayle knew indicated that the players’ appearance on the ice was imminent jumped out of the arena loud speakers.
    â€œChrist, Samson,” Davidson said, “the warm-up hasn’t even started yet. Are you selling ear-plugs at the concession stands now?” Davidson didn’t look well; in fact, fingers peeled tight around the edge of the counter, face only a shade or so darker than the white handkerchief sticking out of his front pant pocket, he looked like a prime candidate for either a heart attack or a sustained bout of vomiting. Or both. Bayle wondered if it was the shock of the loud music or simply his day-long tippling catching up with him. Or both.
    â€œNot a decibel louder than it was last year, Mr. Davidson. You’re just getting a little bit long in the tooth, I fear. Besides, it doesn’t seem to bother our young friend here very much. Mr. Bayle? Does the public address system seem to be operating at an acceptable volume to you?”
    â€œI guess,” Bayle said.
    â€œThere you are,” Samson, smiling, said in Davidson’s direction.
    â€œWell, if Mr. Bayle
guesses
it’s just right, than I
guess
it must be,” Davidson said. He shot Bayle a look of thorough disgust only compounded by his physically pained expression. “Are the stats ready yet?”
    â€œCynthia will have them for you in five minutes,” Samson answered.
    Hands flat on top of the counter for support, Davidson pushed himself up and put his jacket back on. “I’m going to the can. Tell her to put the new statistics beside my notebook. And ask her to bring me another guidebook. I forgot mine at home.” Davidson walked away from the press box as carefully as he had arrived.
    Waiting until Davidson had moved out of earshot down the stairs and into the arena lobby, “I honestly don’t know how you can talk to that bastard, Samson,” Duceeder said. “Should’ve done like I said last winter and banned his ass from all media-access spots for being intoxicated on arena property. We do have the right, you know. It is in the arena by-laws. Make him fill out his damn game reports from the first-floor john. See how serious he is about writing articles on the condition of the Bunton Center then.”
    Surprising himself, not knowing he was going to say it until he did, “But it’s not his fault,” Bayle said.
    Samson and