Chasing a Blond Moon (2 page)

The room was silent. Nantz looked at Service and raised an eyebrow.

“Severely negative vibes. Charlie Parker is the father?”

“Parker and I were equals in those days and I didn't have any use for him right out of the gate.”

“He the type your ex might go for?”

“I doubt it. I met her when I was a Troop and she was a student in East Lansing. She didn't date guys her own age. Troops made good money back then. One thing led to another and we ended up married.”

“Did you love her?”

“I thought I did.”

“She fool around on you?”

“Not her speed. She couldn't handle risk.”

“But she became a lawyer.”

“Contract law isn't criminal work. She couldn't handle confrontations.”

“So you don't buy the Parker story.”

“Not her type,” he said, shaking his head.

“What if she was trying her wings with him?”

“You can't fly with a dodo bird.”

Nantz laughed. “DNA tells all,” she said. “If you're the father, that will be easy enough to find out.”

“The question is, do we
want
to find out?” he asked.

“You don't?” She looked and sounded surprised.

“If he's my son, I haven't exactly been a force in his life before this. What good would it do now?”

“Well, his mother is dead for one thing, and more importantly, if his father is alive, that father ought to be with him.”

“He's not looking for me,” Service said. “He came here to play hockey.”

“And if he doesn't make it, he's going to join the
marines
. My gut says this boy knows about you, Grady. I don't know where from or how, but my intuition says he's here for a reason. I mean he could go and play anywhere, right?”

“The Downriver Rattlers play in the best junior hockey league in Canada,” Service explained. “They've been to the Memorial Cup three times in the past five years. This is one of the premier Tier I junior clubs in North America. All the top players want into the best programs, because they're the ones the pro scouts watch most closely.”

“I doubt this is just about hockey,” Nantz said. “I've never pried about your marriage, Grady. I didn't even know your wife's name until a few minutes ago. What exactly happened between the two of you?”

The question caught him by surprise. “I told you.”

“As much as you tell anybody anything. You've never even called herby name. She's always been the ‘ex.' I'd really like to know, Grady,” she added crisply.

“Bathsheba Pope. We got married six months after Troop academy and two years later I transferred to the DNR. She lived in Lansing while I moved around in training assignments and then she came up here with me and lasted six more months. It lasted just short of four years.”

“What did she look like?” Nantz asked.

Service glanced at her. “Tall.”

“Tall? That's it?”

He grinned. “She was attractive.”

“Was she good in bed?”

He shrugged. “Not as good as you.”

She granted him a smile of appreciation. “Good looking and good in bed—so what happened?”

“The marriage was all appearances. We were going our separate ways. She finally announced that I had a death wish and she wanted out.”

“Did
you
?”

“Not any more than you.”

“Not a death wish, 'tard—did you want out?”

“I never thought about it. When one party wants out, it's over.”

Nantz said, “I happen to know that the name Bathsheba means headstrong, wants to be in charge, and wants the best money can buy. Bathshebas can be overly critical to the point of injuring, quick to fight, and always looking to dominate.”

“You knew her?” he said, looking at Nantz, who ignored him and kept pressing.

“Did she live with you at Slippery Creek?”

“No, we lived near Newberry then. I didn't get responsibility for the Mosquito Wilderness until a year after we split up. I bought the Slippery Creek parcel long after that.”

“The divorce cost you big time?”

“We didn't have much and she took most of it—with my blessing.”

“And walked out of your life.”

“Ran would be more accurate. She never complained, but one night at dinner she said, ‘I'd like another helping of cauliflower and a divorce.' I looked up at her. She said, ‘You have a death wish and I don't want to be a young widow.' She left after she finished her second helping. She was already packed.”

“You didn't stay in touch?”

He shook his head. “She filed in Nevada and I signed the papers. I never heard from or of her again.”

“Did that make you sad?”

He looked over at Nantz. “I was more confused than sad,” he said softly. “I thought everything was going okay; you know, not perfect, but workable.”

“So you just buried yourself in work, right?”

“Pretty much.”

“Which is partly what prompted her to leave in the first place.”

“I was never around and when I was, she wasn't. She had a degree in accounting and was a junior trust officer at a bank in Marquette. I think we just wanted different things. I assumed it was my fault.”

“Which is why there was no second Mrs. Grady Service.”

“I stopped thinking in those terms.”

“In those terms, or stopped thinking?”

“That too.”

“What I heard is that you did most of your thinking with a certain body part for a long time. Then came Kira Lehto.”

Kira Lehto was a veterinarian and had been his girlfriend when he met Nantz.

“Not until years later.”

“And that was good?”

“Apparently not for her.”

“But you lived together.”

“For about a week. She was pressing for a commitment and I just asked her to move in. She couldn't handle it.”

“She's a classy lady. Maybe you couldn't handle her.”

“I was willing to try.”

“Even marriage?”

“We never got that far.”

Nantz laughed. “Service, I don't see you as afraid of commitment. I see you being afraid of commitments that aren't significant enough to warrant your full focus. When the right relationship comes along, you'll go for it in a big way.”

“I already have,” he said, and since they were having a confessional, he asked, “Why haven't we ever talked about kids?”

Nantz sucked in a deep breath. “Part of me wants kids, and another part of me doesn't want any impediments, but I guess we should talk about this kid now.”

“He's here to play hockey,” Service said, “not to find his daddy.”

“Denial leads nowhere,” she said. “Just look at him. He's the spitting image of a young Grady Service. The least we can do is make sure he's settled down here with the team, and then we can get him up to our place when he has breaks.”

“You leave for the academy in November.”

She made a face. “There are no problems, Service, just opportunities. We can handle any challenge that comes our way.”

“Together,” he said.

“That's what
we
means, you big jerk. Let's go talk to your son.”

He balked at the door but she pressed the flat of her hand to his back and urged him forward. “Be a good boy and maybe I'll give you a quickie under the bleachers.”

Treebone and Bernard were in a detailed discussion about bowel habits when they came back.

Bernard was saying, “It's like plumbing. You gotta keep the lines cleaned out—you know, three, four dumps a day.”

“I hear you,” Luticious Treebone said, nodding solemnly.

The coach turned his attention to Service and Nantz as they walked up. “You talk to the stepfather?”

“He says he'll sign whatever he needs to sign.”

“You want to talk to the boy now?”

When Service didn't answer, Nantz said, “He does.”

The coach climbed up on the bleachers and yelled across the ice.

“Commando, get your ass over here!”

The boy came swooping across the ice with remarkable grace and power and dug in his blade edges to spray the glass with snow.

“S'up, coach?” He had the body of a man, but the face and voice of a boy.

“This is Grady Service,” Bernard said with a nod.

“Hey,” the boy said. He had long dark hair and intense blue eyes. He avoided looking directly at Service.

Nantz leaned over the plexiglass and said, “Maybe we can talk after practice?”

The boy shrugged and skated away.

“That went well,” Service said.

“He wouldn't look at you,” Nantz said.

“I saw,” Service said.

“Dawg, that kid's you,” Treebone said.

“He's also Bathsheba,” Service said.

“That ain't a good thing,” Tree replied.

“I gotta get these kids moving,” Bernard said. “We got to the Cup finals last year and fell on our keesters, but I'm gonna get 'em back there again.”

They watched as he circled to a Zamboni door, let himself onto the ice, and started bellowing. The players reacted immediately.

Walter skated with powerful strides and a confidence that didn't betray his age. Most of the other players were seventeen to twenty. He handled the puck with a feathery touch and moved it around effortlessly. The only weakness Service saw was a slight hitch in making moves to his right, but it was hardly noticeable and virtually every player alive always had a weak side.

After thirty minutes, Bernard called the players together at center ice and talked to them with great animation. Service couldn't hear what he was saying, but Walter surreptitiously looked in his direction several times before most of the players headed to the bench. Walter stayed on the ice at left wing and lined up against another winger who was obviously older and heavier.

The opposing center drew the puck back to a winger, who rifled it ahead to the opposite fast-breaking forward, who dumped the puck off the boards. It caromed and skittered loudly behind the net.

Walter shadowed his winger down the ice, his head up, and when the winger went into the corner, Walter dipped a shoulder and pinched him against the dasher, knocking him off balance, deftly collared the loose puck, fired it out to his curling center, and dug to get back up ice to join the rush. The big winger pursued, but didn't catch up until they were crossing the far blue line and Walter's center slid the puck back to him. The opposing winger lifted Walter's stick and stuck a shoulder into him, knocking the puck loose as he drove him sideways toward the boards. But Walter's legs were strong and he was able to counter the pressure and spin off the check as the other team recovered the puck and started in the opposite direction.

Once again Walter shadowed his man down the wing and slammed him hard when the puck came to him, this time knocking him flat on his back. By the time the player was up, Walter was in the neutral zone with the puck back on his stick. He feinted outside and sharply split two defensemen, quickly firing a hard low wrist shot from the top of the slot. The goalie swept at it with his blocker, but missed, and the puck clanged off the metal goalpost and into the net. The goalie slapped the blade of his paddle on the ice in frustration and all the players hooted.

Bernard changed lines. On Walter's bench his teammates were butting his helmet. On the other bench the players were obviously ridiculing the opposing winger.

The next time Walter's line came out, they came over the boards on the fly and Walter's defensive mark got the puck and raced for the middle, but dug in his skate edges, let the puck slide on, and made a ripping backward motion with the butt-end of his stick, catching Walter high in the stomach.

Walter dropped to his knees, but immediately popped up, shaking off his gloves, and was on top of the other winger immediately, clawing to get his helmet off and punching with bare knuckles against hard plastic.

“Tell me that ain't your son,” Treebone said gleefully. “Check it out. He come from the shoulders on that busta.”

Bernard let the boys wrestle and punch until they were spent, then banished them to the bench. When play restarted, one of Walter's teammates started shouting and waving at the coach. Walter was nowhere in sight. He was crumpled on the floor by the bench and the team trainer had to hop over the wall between them to get to him.

Everything stopped and before he could think, Grady Service was pushing the trainer aside and on the floor, cradling the boy's head. His eyes were closed, his breathing labored, and he was clammy.

“Call 911!” Service roared.

Four hours later, they were in a hospital. The doctors diagnosed a seriously damaged spleen, with more than a thousand milliliters of intraperitoneal blood and a rapidly falling hemoglobin concentration. A surgeon explained that he usually took his time with spleen injuries in youngsters in order to try to preserve the organ, but Walter needed immediate surgery. After a quick phone call to Thomas Commando, Walter was wheeled into an operating suite and the rest of them settled in to wait. Coach Bernard was in the hospital the whole time, which impressed Service.

“He don't need a spleen,” the coach said.

“He could've been killed,” Service said.

“Goes with the game, Banger. C'mon, you know that. Kid give 'im the short stick is Fitzhenry. Projected to be a top-ten draft pick this year. Your boy's been kicking his ass every day since he got here and things just come to a head. You embarrass any player long enough, he's gonna try to get his pride back.”

Service said, “Somebody ought to run a short stick up that kid's ass.”

Nantz squeezed his arm.

Bernard said, “I talked to the doc and he says they're doing this thing with a laparoscope, same as a knee, eh? He'll be out of the hospital in a day or two and he'll feel better in a few days, but he can't do anything strenuous for two to six weeks. Take a lot longer to get him back to full play. Truth is, I can't carry an untested kid. He had the team made, but now I can't take 'im. Next year he'll have a spot for sure.
If
he don't join the marines,” he added sarcastically.