caught the last light of day, and Stan sat on after his food, enjoying the reflected heat radiating down on him.
Eganville was two more hours to the north, and Stan kept a careful watch at the road edges for deer. Early evening was a restless time for deer, he knew, and more than once on his many summer drives Stan had been forced from the pavement by a wandering doe. Once, in thick fog, he had just missed a large buck that had lost its footing on the slick pavement and crashed to his haunches trying to escape Stanâs headlights. The desperate animal bucked and twisted in the middle of Stanâs lane and he had to watch carefully while he steered past, to make sure the poor thing didnât bang a hoof or antler against his fender in terror. For the rest of the fog, Stan slowed the van below sixty kilometres an hour, and honked his horn at regular intervals. If he hit a mature buck at high speed, chances were theyâd both be killed by the impact, and then who knows what would happen to the Cup, abandoned in favour of death on a deserted northern roadway.
Stan reached Eganville by ten oâclock, and checked into the hotel on the main street. Above a certain latitude, the Canadian towns Stan visited for his job pretty much followed the same plan. A central main street near either a river, lake or rail line, a compact collection of local businesses and services huddled together in a clump around the central intersection, a small school, usually at least one church (sometimes as many as three even for the smallest populations), a hockey arena, some kind of local diner, a gas station, and a hotel with a tavern on the main floor. Eganville followed the plan.
Stan secured the Cup in his room, tested the door lock several times and descended to the tavern by a creaking back staircase that smelled alarmingly of woodsmoke and grease.
âThat better be the kitchen,â he mumbled. âI sure as hell donât want to be jumping out a window in the middle of the night with that frickinâ Cup on my back.â
For a Friday night, the barroom was surprisingly empty. He hadnât seen another bar of any kind on his quick circle around the town, which could only mean that this place was such a shithole not even those without options bothered with it. Yet this was the room scheduled for the Cup party the next night. Stan acquainted himself with all the exits, including the locked and barred emergency door at the end of the dark hallway to the washrooms. He expected a rough crowd. Dalton Gunn wasnât much of a talent as a hockey player. His skill was hitting opponents in the face with his fists so hard they had to leave the game for stitches. A boy doesnât just get that way on his own. In Stanâs experience, enforcers were not born, they were made by their upbringingsâmade by their towns. Stan checked out the small plywood podium built near one end of the pool table, obviously meant to hold the Cup and maybe a speaker. It was a clear four strides from that makeshift stage to the base of the back staircase, an easy escape from just about any trouble in the main barroom. The hotel owner had followed Stanâs written instructions. He relaxed, and wandered back to a bar stool where he intended to spend the rest of his evening.
Including Stan, there were exactly six people in the room. A group of three older men, longtime townsfolk by the looks of them, light plaid jackets and baseball caps sporting farm machinery logos, sat around a small table near the front door, watching the late news on the television above the bar. A woman in her early thirties worked the bar, and what looked to be either her boss or her husband sat at the barâs far end, counting five-dollar bills into piles beside his drink. The old men smoked without a break, lighting new cigarettes from the last heat of their dying ones, and hardly said a word to each other. In fact, everyone was smoking, and Stan joined the party,
Eganville was two more hours to the north, and Stan kept a careful watch at the road edges for deer. Early evening was a restless time for deer, he knew, and more than once on his many summer drives Stan had been forced from the pavement by a wandering doe. Once, in thick fog, he had just missed a large buck that had lost its footing on the slick pavement and crashed to his haunches trying to escape Stanâs headlights. The desperate animal bucked and twisted in the middle of Stanâs lane and he had to watch carefully while he steered past, to make sure the poor thing didnât bang a hoof or antler against his fender in terror. For the rest of the fog, Stan slowed the van below sixty kilometres an hour, and honked his horn at regular intervals. If he hit a mature buck at high speed, chances were theyâd both be killed by the impact, and then who knows what would happen to the Cup, abandoned in favour of death on a deserted northern roadway.
Stan reached Eganville by ten oâclock, and checked into the hotel on the main street. Above a certain latitude, the Canadian towns Stan visited for his job pretty much followed the same plan. A central main street near either a river, lake or rail line, a compact collection of local businesses and services huddled together in a clump around the central intersection, a small school, usually at least one church (sometimes as many as three even for the smallest populations), a hockey arena, some kind of local diner, a gas station, and a hotel with a tavern on the main floor. Eganville followed the plan.
Stan secured the Cup in his room, tested the door lock several times and descended to the tavern by a creaking back staircase that smelled alarmingly of woodsmoke and grease.
âThat better be the kitchen,â he mumbled. âI sure as hell donât want to be jumping out a window in the middle of the night with that frickinâ Cup on my back.â
For a Friday night, the barroom was surprisingly empty. He hadnât seen another bar of any kind on his quick circle around the town, which could only mean that this place was such a shithole not even those without options bothered with it. Yet this was the room scheduled for the Cup party the next night. Stan acquainted himself with all the exits, including the locked and barred emergency door at the end of the dark hallway to the washrooms. He expected a rough crowd. Dalton Gunn wasnât much of a talent as a hockey player. His skill was hitting opponents in the face with his fists so hard they had to leave the game for stitches. A boy doesnât just get that way on his own. In Stanâs experience, enforcers were not born, they were made by their upbringingsâmade by their towns. Stan checked out the small plywood podium built near one end of the pool table, obviously meant to hold the Cup and maybe a speaker. It was a clear four strides from that makeshift stage to the base of the back staircase, an easy escape from just about any trouble in the main barroom. The hotel owner had followed Stanâs written instructions. He relaxed, and wandered back to a bar stool where he intended to spend the rest of his evening.
Including Stan, there were exactly six people in the room. A group of three older men, longtime townsfolk by the looks of them, light plaid jackets and baseball caps sporting farm machinery logos, sat around a small table near the front door, watching the late news on the television above the bar. A woman in her early thirties worked the bar, and what looked to be either her boss or her husband sat at the barâs far end, counting five-dollar bills into piles beside his drink. The old men smoked without a break, lighting new cigarettes from the last heat of their dying ones, and hardly said a word to each other. In fact, everyone was smoking, and Stan joined the party,
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