length of the bathroom.
A grime lay upon the glass sconces above the toilets, and the light they gave off cast an oily sheen over everything. The radiators thumped with steaming water, and a long stream of hissing air sounded miserably through the valves. From one of the stalls came a painful-sounding groan, and someone shouted, “For Christ’s sake, give us a fucking mercy flush, would you!” Outside, the sound of the game, the growing cheers, and then the sudden, exasperated moans of the Garden crowd. The amplified, barely intelligible voice of Frank Ryan came from the loudspeaker.
Fierro swayed at the urinals and splashed the tin loudly. Cal stepped to his right away from him and when he was done went outside and waited. He stared into the dark stands. It was so cold inside the Garden, most of the fans hadn’t bothered to remove their overcoats. He cupped his hands together and blew into them. Fierro was at his shoulder. “C’mon,” he said, “follow me to the bar.”
At the beer stand Fierro ordered two cold ones. He raised his glass and eyed Cal blearily. “You need something warm in you,” he slurred, reached into his overcoat and pulled out a silver flask.
Cal watched Fierro as he drained half his beer. “Anthony, I’ve never seen you so drunk. Something get under your skin today?”
Fierro nodded slowly, pursed his lips. “You could say that.”
“You found something, yeah?”
“She was pregnant, Cal.”
“Pregnant? Sheila was pregnant?”
“It sure seems that way. She’d given birth recently.”
Cal reached for the flask, unscrewed it, and poured a liberal shot into his mouth.
“How long before her death, you think?”
“I don’t know. It’s tough to say. She was still healing. A few days perhaps—a week at the outside. She wouldn’t have been in good shape before her death. Very weak.”
“She had no chance, then, before he tied her up and tortured her.”
“She would have had a hard time fighting back.”
Cal hit the flask again. He drained what was left of his beer and he turned the empty glass in his hand. Fierro stared at his own.
“Is this in the medical report?” Cal asked.
“Yes, of course, but we don’t release that to the press. Owen doesn’t think it’s a big deal. But I just thought you—and Dante—should know.”
“Thanks, Tony.”
Cal went to move his feet, but they were stuck to the concrete floor. He lifted his shoe, tried to scrape off what was stuck there: popcorn, peanut shells, bits of hot dogs and buns made sticky by spilled beer. As he turned away from the counter, he looked up and caught the malevolent glare of two rats staring at him from beneath the slatted seats in the top row of the balcony, and he paused, glared back at them, but the rats didn’t budge. Rats thrived in the Garden. It had been this way when he was a kid, too, and he wondered if they ever cleaned the Garden’s floors. If anything the number of rats had multiplied.
“So,” Fierro said, spreading his hands, “what do we do now?”
Two blood-smeared fans were trading blows in the balcony and they’d caught the attention of the crowd, who seemed to be more interested in watching the two men go at it than watching the game. Cal looked toward the scoreboard and lowered his head. The Canadiens were up, 4–1. An uproar of cheers and screams and taunts came from the left side of the balcony as another group of men went at it, a drunk man falling headfirst over into the next row and a big square-jawed man pulling him up by the hair and driving a fist into his face. It seemed hopeless at this point, Cal thought. Fucking savages everywhere.
Below, Cal could see that Owen had left his seat and was making his way up to the beer stand, weaving among and momentarily lost in the crowd. He sighed, turned back to Fierro, and smiled grimly. “What do we do now? We get the fuck out of here and get us a drink somewhere more civilized. That’s what we
A grime lay upon the glass sconces above the toilets, and the light they gave off cast an oily sheen over everything. The radiators thumped with steaming water, and a long stream of hissing air sounded miserably through the valves. From one of the stalls came a painful-sounding groan, and someone shouted, “For Christ’s sake, give us a fucking mercy flush, would you!” Outside, the sound of the game, the growing cheers, and then the sudden, exasperated moans of the Garden crowd. The amplified, barely intelligible voice of Frank Ryan came from the loudspeaker.
Fierro swayed at the urinals and splashed the tin loudly. Cal stepped to his right away from him and when he was done went outside and waited. He stared into the dark stands. It was so cold inside the Garden, most of the fans hadn’t bothered to remove their overcoats. He cupped his hands together and blew into them. Fierro was at his shoulder. “C’mon,” he said, “follow me to the bar.”
At the beer stand Fierro ordered two cold ones. He raised his glass and eyed Cal blearily. “You need something warm in you,” he slurred, reached into his overcoat and pulled out a silver flask.
Cal watched Fierro as he drained half his beer. “Anthony, I’ve never seen you so drunk. Something get under your skin today?”
Fierro nodded slowly, pursed his lips. “You could say that.”
“You found something, yeah?”
“She was pregnant, Cal.”
“Pregnant? Sheila was pregnant?”
“It sure seems that way. She’d given birth recently.”
Cal reached for the flask, unscrewed it, and poured a liberal shot into his mouth.
“How long before her death, you think?”
“I don’t know. It’s tough to say. She was still healing. A few days perhaps—a week at the outside. She wouldn’t have been in good shape before her death. Very weak.”
“She had no chance, then, before he tied her up and tortured her.”
“She would have had a hard time fighting back.”
Cal hit the flask again. He drained what was left of his beer and he turned the empty glass in his hand. Fierro stared at his own.
“Is this in the medical report?” Cal asked.
“Yes, of course, but we don’t release that to the press. Owen doesn’t think it’s a big deal. But I just thought you—and Dante—should know.”
“Thanks, Tony.”
Cal went to move his feet, but they were stuck to the concrete floor. He lifted his shoe, tried to scrape off what was stuck there: popcorn, peanut shells, bits of hot dogs and buns made sticky by spilled beer. As he turned away from the counter, he looked up and caught the malevolent glare of two rats staring at him from beneath the slatted seats in the top row of the balcony, and he paused, glared back at them, but the rats didn’t budge. Rats thrived in the Garden. It had been this way when he was a kid, too, and he wondered if they ever cleaned the Garden’s floors. If anything the number of rats had multiplied.
“So,” Fierro said, spreading his hands, “what do we do now?”
Two blood-smeared fans were trading blows in the balcony and they’d caught the attention of the crowd, who seemed to be more interested in watching the two men go at it than watching the game. Cal looked toward the scoreboard and lowered his head. The Canadiens were up, 4–1. An uproar of cheers and screams and taunts came from the left side of the balcony as another group of men went at it, a drunk man falling headfirst over into the next row and a big square-jawed man pulling him up by the hair and driving a fist into his face. It seemed hopeless at this point, Cal thought. Fucking savages everywhere.
Below, Cal could see that Owen had left his seat and was making his way up to the beer stand, weaving among and momentarily lost in the crowd. He sighed, turned back to Fierro, and smiled grimly. “What do we do now? We get the fuck out of here and get us a drink somewhere more civilized. That’s what we
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