A Trail forward skated up the left wing and cut to the center at the Flyers blue line, dragging the puck around a River City defenseman. He tried to dipsy-doodle around another defender and glanced down at the puck as he stick-handled.
Richard skated along the blue line and as the forward glanced down, he drove his shoulder into the other player’s chest, sending him flying backward. The River City defenseman gathered in the puck and zipped it up the wing.
One of the bigger Trail players, a red-headed giant named McHugh, immediately went after Richard for the check and neither one of them needed any more coaxing. Gloves and sticks hit the ice and they clenched, each struggling for find purchase on the other’s jersey. Richard threw two booming rights. One glanced off McHugh’s shoulder and the second knocked his helmet off.
A great cheer went up from the crowd. McHugh fought back gamely, lashing out with rights of his own, but Richard slipped them. He threw another heavy punch with his right hand, then grabbed a fistful of jersey near the collar and threw a left hook just as McHugh was drawing back to punch. The blow landed along his jaw and McHugh slumped to his knees. The crowd roared and the linesmen intervened, separating the two players.
Richard skated to the penalty box, nodding his head to the fans who cheered in appreciation. After a moment or two, his opponent rose on shaky legs and skated to the other penalty box. The two chattered at each other across the scorekeeper’s box. The crowd loved it.
The checking picked up after that and the game was intense. Three minutes later, Wayne Langer, a skater I recognized from last season, wristed one past the Trail goaltender and the crowd went nuts. The River City goal song blasted out of the sound system and eight thousand voices cried, “Whoa-oh-oh-oh” in unison.
I smiled and sipped my drink.
When the five minute penalties ended, Richard and McHugh were allowed out of the penalty boxes. Each man skated along his own blue line, still jawing at the other all the way to the bench. Before the puck was dropped, the Trail coach made a line change, sending McHugh out on the right wing. The River City coach responded by putting Richard on the left wing.
The puck dropped.
So did the gloves.
The second tilt was more of an even affair, with both men trading punches to a stalemate. After a dozen or so, the linesmen stepped between and broke it up. McHugh and Richard spent another five minutes in the penalty box jawing at each other.
The crowd was electric. I heard fans around me asking each other who number twenty-three was and consulting the program flyer.
As soon as their five minutes were up, the two heavyweights squared off again. This time, Richard fought with an intense fury, pummeling McHugh with his right hand until the Trail player collapsed to his knees. The linesmen separated them and Richard skated straight for the bench and down the tunnel toward the locker room.
“Where’s he going?” the girl next to me asked her boyfriend, who shrugged.
“Three fights is a game misconduct,” the old man behind us advised.
Two of McHugh’s teammates helped him off the ice and down the tunnel to his own locker room. River City fans jeered him.
Even the public announcer’s voice seemed excited when he announced the penalties. “Trail penalty to number seven, Kevin McHugh. River City penalty to number twenty-three, Phillipe Richard. Both receive five for fighting and a game misconduct.”
At Richard’s name, a cheer started. It built up over the announcement and washed down onto the ice.
It was official. The crowd loved him.
I spoke with Richard after practice the next morning. The coach put them through a light skate, since they played the night before and had another game that night. He saw me in the stands with Matt and waved me down into the tunnel.
“What news?” he asked.
“None,” I told him. “She’s not at that motel anymore.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Maybe she left town and went home.”
His brow furrowed. “No. She called just yesterday afternoon.”
“She called you?”
He shook his head. “No, my agent. She bother him all the time.”
Patrick Bourdon was exactly like I expected a French lawyer to look. His suit was cut to fit his slender frame and his hair was gelled perfectly into place. The only thing that spoiled the image was the fact that I met him in his hotel room and not some swanky office in Montreal.
He offered me coffee and I accepted. Instead of the complimentary packets in most hotels, he had his own coffee-maker, complete with gourmet beans and grinder.
“There are some luxuries one cannot do without,” he told me. “Besides, I am very pleased at the selection of beans here in your city, Mr. Kopriva.”
I shrugged. I preferred black coffee and though I wouldn’t turn up my nose at a more exotic roast, I wasn’t particularly fond of the foo-foo gourmet stuff.
While the coffee brewed, Bourdon and I sat across a small table from each other. His laptop lay to his left, running but with the top closed.
“You do much of your work out of hotels?”
He shrugged. “I have a small office in my home. But when I have a strong client on the verge of a signing, I like to be where he is. Besides, a telephone and an Internet connection is all I really need.”
“Is Richard on the verge?”
He spread his arms with a flourish. “Well, I am here, after all.”
“Signing with who?”
“Several teams are interested. My duty is to ensure that he goes to the right team at the right price.”
The aroma of the brewing coffee floated over us. I had to admit it smelled pretty good. “He said he might sign for a half million dollars.”
“Oh, surely,” Bourdon said. “But it will likely be two or three times that. It just depends.”
“On what?”
Bourdon smiled. “On how well he plays. And who gets hurt or traded up in the show.”
“So he’ll go to the NHL?”
“Oh, certainly,” Bourdon said. “But he will have to toil for a bit in the American Hockey League, to prove he is no fluke.”
“Like he’s doing now, in this league?”
“Precisely. Now, Mr. Kopriva, Phillipe told me you were trying to help him with this Stoll situation.”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“What are you intending to do?”
“Just what he asked me to do. Find the woman and make an offer.”
“Which Phillipe has no intention of paying.”
“No,” I said. “But he seems to think that I’ll be able to tell whether she’s lying or not.”
“Yes, he said you used to be a constable of some kind?”
I didn’t answer, only nodded.
Bourdon didn’t push the matter. “Well, if it will put Phillipe’s mind to rest so that he can focus on what is most important right now, then I am all for it. What can I do to help?”
“He said that Anne Marie Stoll called you recently?”
“The woman calls me at least once a week.”
“When was the most recent call?”
“Yesterday.”
“What was the call about?”
“Same as always. When is Phillipe going to sign his big contract? How much will I get for him? And so on.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing,” Bourdon said, indignant. “She is not my client.”
“Did she say where she was staying?”
Bourdon’s look of indignation faded to amusement. “No.”
“What’s so funny?”
“She said she was hiding to avoid trouble from Phillipe.”
I watched his eyes. They were a stony gray and the amusement in them was genuine. “Why would she hide from him?”
“I don’t know. But she wasn’t any good at it.”
“Why?”
“Because her telephone number appeared on my caller ID.” He brought out his cell phone from his jacket pocket and pushed a few buttons. His smile grew and he turned the phone around toward me. “Can you do anything with that?”