“It is,” I said. “I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “If I think of something, I’ll call you.”
“Thanks, Leon.”
“Good night, partner.”
“Good night, Leon.”
I hung up the phone, put it back down again. Now there was nobody else to call, nothing else to do.
I stood up. From across the room Jackie expressed his amazement at the feat. Then he asked if he could have his phone back sometime that evening.
When I stepped outside, I regretted it instantly. I pulled my coat tighter around my body and went to my truck. I just couldn’t stand the idea of sitting in that place all night again. I didn’t feel like going back to the cabin. The renters were all gone, anyway. I didn’t know what to do with myself.
You’re going to drive yourself crazy, I thought. You’re going to keep thinking about this until you’re ready to kill yourself.
I got in the truck and drove. I didn’t even know where I was going. I just wanted to keep moving.
Let it go, he said. He actually said that.
Out of sheer habit, I drove east toward the Soo. Maybe I’ll go to the casino, I thought. See how much money I can lose playing blackjack. I’m already sitting on five empty rentals at the height of the season. Let’s see just how low I can go.
“There’s nothing you can do,” I said out loud. My voice sounded thin against the roar of the heater and the cold air whipping against the plastic window. “They’re gone. You can’t find them.”
When I thought it was Bruckman, at least I had a shot at him. I had reason to believe he was still around. I had a way to find him. Or Leon did, anyway. But Molinov. Pearl and Roman. The names were absurd even, like something out of a James Bond movie. What could I do with names like that? These men were ghosts to me. They were invisible monsters in the night.
“You can’t find them,” I told myself again. I was in the Soo now, driving north on 1-75 toward the International Bridge.
I seem to be driving to Canada, I thought. Why am I doing this? What am I going to do in Canada? Try to find Bruckman again? What will that get me?
I want to get back at him.
No, it’s not worth it.
Yes, I want to hit him again, with my hands this time. I want to feel the point of his chin against my right fist. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t brought her here.
It doesn’t matter. I won’t be able to find him, anyway. He won’t be at that bar. And besides, I don’t think I should go over that bridge again for a while. Not after what happened the last time.
I pulled off the freeway, just before the bridge. I took Easterday Avenue into the center of town, past the college. There was a hockey game going on at the arena. Alaska-Fairbanks was in town to face the hometown Lakers. What a long way to come to play hockey, in a place that’s just as cold as the one you left.
Hockey. Bruckman’s teammate. What was his name?
I kept driving. A right on Spruce, another right on Shunk Road. I was going south now, toward the other arena. The Big Bear, where we played our game. The first time I saw Bruckman.
What was his teammate’s name?
When we were in that bar, in the bathroom. Bruckman talking finally, with a gun pointed at his head. A teammate who lived in town, the one who was at the bar when Dorothy asked about me. He called Bruckman, left a message. Bruckman came home, saw the police cars, took off to Canada. Never got the message. He called the teammate back a couple days later, asked what the hell had happened. What did that guy say? He told Bruckman about Dorothy then, two days after she was kidnapped. So Bruckman couldn’t have taken her. But what else? “He was freaking out.” I heard Bruckman say the words again in my head. “Said he was getting fucking paranoid, like they were coming to get him.”
They. He said they were coming to get him. When Bruckman had told me that, I thought it was just something this guy would say because he was coming down off a high, with no more speed to take him back up. But maybe there was more to it. Maybe this guy knew where this stuff came from, and who was looking for it.
Gobi. His name is Gobi. Like the desert.
What the hell, I thought. I pulled into the parking lot. It looked like the Big Bear was having a busy league night. I went into the arena, stood against the glass and watched the game for a while. It was another “slow puck” league game, but this one seemed to have a real referee. Then I went back into the locker room. A dozen players were getting dressed for the next game. They were making a racket, so I had to shout. “Hey! Anybody here know a guy named Gobi?” The shouting made my ribs hurt.
The players stopped what they were doing and looked at me. There was one man who was sitting on the bench, lacing up his skates. “Don’t tell me Gobi did that to you,” he said.
“Did what?” I said.
“Destroyed your face. Gobi’s that little shit who plays with Bruckman, ain’t he?”
“He didn’t do this to me,” I said. If there’s one good thing about having bruises on your face and a bandage above your eye, it’s that you have no trouble passing for a hockey player. “I’m just looking for him.”
“I haven’t seen him since last week,” he said. “I think Bruckman’s team is out of the league.”
“Ain’t that a shame,” somebody else said.
“Do you know where he lives?” I said.
“Nah, no idea,” he said.
“Anybody else?” I said. Nobody did.
I went back out to the rink and sat in the stands, waiting for the game to end. When it did, the Zamboni came out and cleared the ice, then the teams I had just talked to came skating out. About ten minutes later, I figured more players would be in the locker room, suiting up for the next game. I was right. There were a dozen new faces in the room when I walked in.
“Anybody here know a player named Gobi?” I shouted again. I was already getting tired of this game. I couldn’t imagine how Leon had done this for hours on end.
“Who wants to know?” said one player.
“I do,” I said. “Why do you think I’m asking?”
“I might know him,” he said.
“Either you do or you don’t,” I said. “When you make up your mind, let me know. Anybody else know him?”
He stepped up to me. He was young, not more than twenty years old. There was a shine in his eyes like maybe he wasn’t always on the same planet as the rest of us. “I might know him,” he said, “if the price is right.”
“I just need to find Gobi,” I said. “It’s important. Can you help me or not?”
“For a hundred bucks I can.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
“There was a guy in here a few nights ago looking for somebody. He paid me a hundred bucks for the information.”.
“I’ll give you twenty,” I said.
“No way, man. The way I see it, this guy sort of set the market value at a hundred, you know what I mean?”
“Fifty bucks,” I said.
“He had hundred-dollar bills, man. He was flashing them around like they were nothing. It was my pleasure to help the man.”
“Thanks, Leon,” I said as I reached into my coat pocket. I took a hundred-dollar bill out of the envelope the renters had left me and handed it to him. “Where does he live?” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But Eddie does. Hey Eddie!”
A teammate came hopping over, one foot in a skate.
“Eddie’s gonna need a hundred, too, man. He’s the one actually knows where Gobi lives.”
“Then why am I paying you?” I said.
“Finder’s fee,” he said.
“Finder’s fee,” I said. “This is great. How about the two of you just share that hundred?”
“I guess you don’t want to find Gobi too bad,” he said.
I pulled out another hundred and gave it to Eddie. “All right, that’s it. Now where does he live?”
“Whoa, who’s this dude?” Eddie said, peering at the bill.
“That’s Benjamin Franklin,” the first player said. “Don’t you know your presidents?”
“Where does he live?” I said.