“Gus,” Philo said, “what the hell’s going on?”
“Nothing. City drivers. What were you saying?”
The large man was still standing in the street, shades off and arms folded across his chest, when I turned right on Martel. I took that to Allen Road, swung another right, and hoped I’d lost him.
“I’m guessing these envelopes have to do with those freedom-of-information requests you made a while back on Mr. Haskell,” Philo said.
“Probably, yeah.”
“Would you mind if I took a look?”
My heart was pounding. What a wuss I was. Why didn’t I just get out and talk to the guy? Maybe he knew something. I couldn’t think about it now. Philo suddenly wanted to pry his way into the Haskell story.
“Why do you want to look at that stuff?”
“Fair question. I don’t blame you. I haven’t been, shall we say-well, let me put it this way. When I was leaving the drain commission meeting this morning, that Elvis fellow took me by the elbow and steered me into the men’s room, where he proceeded to, as he put it, ‘advise’ me of his confidence that the Pilot wouldn’t write a word that would jeopardize the future of the community. He also mentioned he’s having dinner with my uncle tonight.”
“Elvis is a pillar of the community, you know.”
“And while he’s talking to me, Haskell walks in and takes a leak.”
“Just like hockey. It’s all about two-on-ones.”
“Yes, well, frankly, it ticked me off a little. Plus I missed that meeting at headquarters.”
So maybe it wasn’t me that had gotten to Philo, but Elvis. And Haskell. And that meeting he missed.
I crossed Oakwood going south, watching my rearview for the Suburban while keeping an eye out for Wally’s Wonder Print. “Are you planning to cover the town council meeting tomorrow?”
“I’m considering. Somebody told me it was routine and I probably didn’t need to bother.”
“Somebody, huh?”
“Yeah. Somebody.”
I considered telling Philo about the note I’d received in the mail, decided his new interest in real stories had come up a little too abruptly for that. But I thought maybe he could help me.
“Can you do me a quick favor?”
“I’ll try.”
“Go online, do a clip search. Just the Detroit papers. Look for someone named Trixie the Tramp. See if you can figure out who she is, where she is.”
“Trixie the Tramp. Is this family too?”
“You could say that. And go ahead and look at what’s in the envelopes. You probably won’t find much. But you never know. If you see something interesting, give me a call.”
“Will do. And Gus?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t forget. Eight a.m. tomorrow. Sorry.”
“Uh-huh. Gotta go.”
I swung my truck into Wally’s, over the paved lot, and into the back. I parked between a Dumpster and a utility pole where I thought the truck would be hidden from the road.
I stepped outside. The wind snapped my coat collar against my cheek. I pulled the zipper all the way up and stuffed my hands in my coat pockets. Knobbo, I thought as I walked around to the front door. If anyone could refresh my memory, Wally could.
sixteen
The three glass walls that enclosed Ron Wallman’s office faced out on a room filled with laser printers, computer terminals, paper cutters, and tall steel racks stacked with boxes and rolls of paper. Signs hanging from the ceiling cheerfully exhorted the workers bustling between printing jobs to bustle a little harder: “Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference” and “Don’t judge those who try and fail, judge only those who fail to try.”
Dozens of photographs, plaques, pennants, and certificates crowded the plaster wall behind Wally’s wooden desk. Most of the pictures hung in cheap black frames at haphazard angles: Wally posing on a rink with his hockey pals; Wally on the tee with his hockey pals; Wally hoisting a frosted mug of beer in a bowling alley with his hockey pals. A row of plaques pronounced him Melvindale Chamber of Commerce Businessperson of the Year from 1992 to 1996. At the center of it all were professionally framed photos of his wife, Sheryl, and their kids, Joe and Roy.
“What happened to the jersey?” I said.
I was sitting in a cushioned folding chair across from his desk, nursing a Labatt Blue and still feeling the hurt Wally had put on my ribs when he had hugged me in the reception area. The last time I’d been in his office, drinking Scotch after a late-night hockey game a few years before I’d left Detroit, the centerpiece of the wall had been a framed display of his old gold-on-black jersey with the name PIPEFITTERS running diagonally down from the shoulder. Wally had been the star defenseman on the team that had beaten us in the 1981 state final, a six-foot-six, 225-pound bruiser with agile feet and pretty fair hands for a big man.
“Ah, you know, time to grow up,” he said. He was sitting on the front edge of his desk, which I could barely see for his bulk. He grinned and winked. “Got it hanging behind my bar at home. The wife never goes down there.”
I smiled. “Looks like you’re doing OK, Wall.”
“Can’t complain. Wife’s good, boys good, life’s good.” He thrust his right hand forward again. It swallowed mine. “Always good to see you, buddy. What brings you to town? You bring your gear? I got a nine forty skate now every Tuesday at the Yack. I can tell one of the ’tenders to stay home tonight.”
“Nah, gotta get back. Got a game. And I’m not playing goal anymore.”
“I thought I heard that. What the hell?”
“Like you said, gotta grow up some time.”
I’d gotten to know Wally playing late-night hockey against him during my years at the Times. He sponsored a thirty-and-over team in Melvindale called Wally’s Wonders. On the ice we’d scrap and bitch and try to beat the hell out of one another. Then we’d have a beer in the parking lot before closing Nasty Melvin’s. We got to be friends over bad Buffalo wings and worse nine-ball.
Wally had only teased me once or twice about the state title game. I’d only teased him about a thousand times about his ballooning up to three hundred pounds. I noticed he’d grown another chin since I’d last seen him.
“Hell,” he said, “maybe I’ll bring the boys up there for a couple of games some weekend.” He’d been talking about coming up for years. Thinking of my liver, I hadn’t encouraged it. “Hell, the hockey, I don’t even care. Seeing all the boys, having a few pops, that’s the thing, right, man?”
“Absolutely.”
“How’s old Soup?”
“Still skating.”
“Still dangling? That fucker could play, boy. He went by me once like I was a turnstile. I think he grabbed a token.” It was an old hockey line, but Wally laughed like he’d just thought of it. He lifted the Blue to his mouth and drank half the bottle in one long pull.
“Yeah. He bought the bar on Main Street.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Now there’s trouble. You know, I’ve done some work for his ex. She’s got a nice little business in Lincoln Park.”
“Didn’t know she’d moved there,” I said. “Small world. Speaking of which, I’ve been working on this little feature story and came across a guy I think might’ve played for you or played in your league a while back.”
Wally was leaning over his fridge again. “Ready?” he said.
“I’m good.”
