Heroes by Ray Robertson Page B

Duceeder turned around in their seats.
    â€œI mean, if the Bunton Center’s unsafe, he was just doing his job writing about it, right?”
    Duceeder scowled, Samson actually smiled, if a little sadly; both men looked back down at the ice.
    Well,
it’s true,
Bayle thought. Right?

10
    â€œY OU MUST be the hockey guy my aunt was talking about. Welcome to Shitsville, U.S.A.”
    Envisioning an early night preceded by a diligent attempt to make sense of some of what he’d managed to jot down during the game, an admittedly sluggish but hard-hitting four to one Warriors’ victory — including two bloody fights, both draws, between the Warriors’ Dipper and the league’s other premier enforcer, Wichita’s Bladon — Bayle asked the teenager staffing the front desk of The Range if there were any coffee or pop machines in the building. His first live hockey game in years had put Bayle in the mood for a cup of hot chocolate.
    â€œPop? You mean, like, soda? Yeah, down the hall to your left, right past the lounge.” Before Bayle could move away, however: “Hey, wait a minute, almost forgot, this came for you. No charge.” Bayle looked at the sheet of shiny paper and exhaled hard through his nostrils. It was a fax from Smith, his thesis advisor. A thousand miles away, he thought, and he still manages to be in your face. Bayle folded the page in two and stuck it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Later.
    â€œSo who won?”
    â€œWhat?” Bayle said, looking up.
    â€œThe game. Who won?”
    â€œWe did. I mean the Warriors. Four-one.”
    â€œGo team.”
    â€œYou follow hockey?” Bayle asked.
    â€œNah. I’m more of a — what would you call it? — individualist in my sporting tastes.” A crooked grin to go along with his black leather jacket and Metallica t-shirt coloured the remark slightly enigmatic. Bayle, however, refused to ruminate; Bayle wanted a cup of hot chocolate.
    â€œYou hitting the sack? It’s not even eleven. Not going to take in all the sights and sounds the big city has to offer?”
    â€œI think I saw just about all I needed to see today,” Bayle said.
    â€œYeah, you got that right.”
    â€œSo what’s with all the heavy safety precautions then, all the security signs on everybody’s lawn?”
    â€œDrugs, so they say,” Ron answered.
    â€œDrugs?”
    â€œSo they say.”
    â€œYou mean like drug trading, gang violence, that sort of thing?”
    â€œThe only logical career choice for any energetic young American entrepreneur from the wrong side of the tracks with no silver spoon stuck in his mouth and who doesn’t want to work at Burger King for minimum wage his entire life. So they say.”
    Bayle waited for further clarification. None apparently forthcoming, he said goodnight and headed down the hallway looking for the coffee machine. The boy called out after him:
    â€œRight on. You too. Have a good one. And if you need anything, just, like, you know, let me know. Anything. You know?”
    The coffee machine offered regular and cappuccino, two special blends, Swiss mocha, a non-alcoholic Irish coffee, something called “Premium Blend,” Earl Grey, Orange Pekoe, and English Breakfast teas, but no hot chocolate. Maybe it’s a Canadian thing, Bayle thought.
    Hot-chocolateless, he opened the door to his room. He put his coffee on the nightstand and lengthwise on the bed flipped through his notepad. Quickly learning here nothing he hadn’t already seen and known three hours before first hand, he picked up one of the informational files Jane had instructed the
Toronto Living
research department to put together for him. Three quarters of an hour later Bayle put the folder back on the nightstand.
    Although admittedly slightly depressing to learn that the number of Canadian professional hockey franchises was steadily diminishing each year and that every