“Derian Hatcher, Kevin Hatcher. Are they brothers?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But they’re both American.”
“Mike Richter in goal,” Vinnie said.
“And John Vanbiesbrouck.”
“All right already,” Bruckman said. “You guys are real comedians. I didn’t know Indians could be so funny.”
“We forgot Brett Hull!” Vinnie said.
Bruckman grabbed Vinnie’s shoulder. “I said all right already.” His smile was gone.
“Get your hand off me,” Vinnie said.
“You’re making fun of me and I don’t fucking appreciate it,” he said. “Last guy who made fun of me lost most of his teeth.”
The whole place got quiet. His teammates were all looking at us, as well as the men at the bar. There were maybe a dozen of them. They had all been watching the Red Wings game on the television. The bartender had a shot glass in one hand, a towel in the other. He didn’t look happy.
“Bruckman,” I said. I looked him in the eyes. “Walk away.”
He held my eyes for a long moment. He was sizing me up, calculating his chances. I could only hope the chemicals racing around in his brain didn’t make him decide something stupid, because I sure as hell didn’t want to have to fight him without skates and pads on.
“You were lucky,” he finally said. “I should have had the hat trick. You never even saw that puck.”
“Whatever you say, Bruckman. Just walk away.”
“Look at you guys,” he said. “You Indians are so pathetic. I don’t know why they ever let you have those casinos.”
The bartender showed up with a baseball bat. “You guys gonna knock this shit off or am I going to call the police?”
“Don’t bother,” Bruckman said. “We’re leaving. Too many drunken Indians in this place.”
He gave me one last look before he went back to his table. I didn’t feel like telling him I was really a white man just like him.
When they had all put their leather jackets back on, knocked over a few chairs, muttered a few more obscenities, and then left without paying for their beer, the place got quiet again. Vinnie just sat there looking at the door. His friends all sat there looking at the table or at the floor. I tried to think of something to say to break the spell, but nothing came to me.
“You know what bothers me the most?” Vinnie finally said.
“What’s that?” I said.
“Those women that were with them? One of them, I know her.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I grew up with her,” he said. “On the reservation.”
It was a little after one in the morning when I left. Vinnie thanked me for playing with his team. Most of the team thanked me. A couple of them were already too far into their beer glasses.
I went up to the bar, apologized to the man for whatever part I almost had in fighting on the premises.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “If I don’t have to read about it in the paper tomorrow, then it never happened.”
I threw a couple bills on the bar. There were two men sleeping on their bar stools, their heads buried in their arms. The only difference was the man on the left was snoring and the man on the right wasn’t. I didn’t think either of them was an Indian. Just two white men who come into the place every single night, I would bet, and drink themselves unconscious. Somebody once told me that 3 percent of the people who live in Michigan live in the Upper Peninsula, and that they drink 28 percent of the alcohol. That’s not just the Indians drinking all that. And yet I didn’t hear anybody telling me what a disgrace it was, those white men, they’re all just drunken degenerates.
“Hey,” the bartender said, “aren’t you that private investigator? The one that was working for Uttley?”
“I was,” I said.
“Where’d he go, anyway? I never see him anymore.”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. It was the truth.
“He had a tab going here,” the man said. “He never paid it.”
“How much is it?” I said. I pulled my wallet back out.
He held his hands up. “It’s between him and me,” he said. “I’m not gonna let you pay it. If you ever see him, though, you tell him he owes me.”
“If I see him, I’ll tell him.” The thought of it made me smile a little. Just a little.
When I stepped outside, the cold wind off the lake slapped me across the face. I closed my eyes and held my gloves against my face. When the wind died down, I took a deep breath. The air had a smell and a weight to it that held the threat of more snow.
I looked out across the St. Marys River. It had been frozen solid for almost a month. The locks were shut down for the winter. The next freighter wouldn’t pass through them until March at the earliest. From the other shore the lights of Canada beckoned to me. I could walk right across the river if I wanted to. No customs, no toll. I wouldn’t be the first to do it. There were stories of men who left their wives and families behind them and walked across the ice to a new life in another country.
I started the truck, got the heater going full blast. It took a good ten minutes to take the edge off the cold. The clear plastic that was covering my passenger side window didn’t help matters any. I made a mental note to call the auto glass place again the next day to see if the new window was in yet. They told me two to three weeks when they ordered it for me. That was almost three months ago.
I drove across town in the dim light of street lights and barroom windows. I had the plow hanging on the front of the truck, a good eight hundred pounds of cinderblock in the back for traction. The roads were clear of snow that night, but I knew that wouldn’t last long. It never did. Not until spring.
When I got onto the highway, it took a long while to get the truck up to fifty-five miles per hour. I could feel the engine struggling against the weight. I-75 to M-28, west through the Hiawatha National Forest to 123. I had driven it so many times I didn’t even have to think about it. I had the road to myself, pine trees loaded with snow on either side. The wind whistling through the plastic. When I finally get this window fixed, I thought, the sudden quiet is going to drive me out of my mind.
There’s one main road in Paradise, with one side road that takes you west to the Tahquamenon Falls State Park. The intersection has a blinking red light. When they change that to a regular stop light, that’s when we’ll know we’ve hit the big time. For now it’s just a gas station, three bars including the Glasgow Inn, four gift shops and a dozen little motels for the tourists in the summer, hunters in the fall and snowmobilers in the winter. Plus a lot of cabins scattered throughout the woods.
The lights were on at the Glasgow Inn, but I passed it by. I don’t have to stop in there every single night, after all. After eighty or ninety nights in a row, a man is entitled to a night off.
A mile north of the intersection, there’s an old logging road that heads west into the forest. The first cabin on the left is Vinnie’s. I knew he wouldn’t be home yet-he was doing his designated driver routine for his teammates, dropping them off at the Bay Mills Reservation, and probably having to talk to a hundred tribal relatives who still didn’t understand why he moved away. He’d be lucky to make it home by daybreak.
The next six cabins were mine. My father built them in the sixties and seventies, one per summer until he got too sick to build them anymore. When I left the police force, I came up here figuring I’d stay a little while and then sell them. That was fourteen and a half years ago.
Maybe Sylvia was right. Maybe I was hiding from the world.
I didn’t want to think about it. I was tired. My muscles were already starting to stiffen up in the cold. For that night I wanted only a warm bed. Beyond that simple desire, there were only two other things I could ask for. My first wish was not to wake up the next morning feeling terrible. A little soreness I could take. Just let me get up and walk without screaming. My second wish was not to have to deal with that Bruckman clown ever again. Guys like that bring out the worst in me. Just don’t let me run into him again.
Just those two tiny requests. Surely that’s not too much to ask for in a man’s life.
Is it?
