urgent. We need someone else’s phone number. Someone who can give us directions.”
“I don’t think I’d better,” the boy said. Slade pushed the boy but it didn’t work. The boy simply hung up. Slade drove to the town. Someone there would direct him.
Ben was flipping through a magazine and chewing a toothpick. Mahatma, who lay on a couch, watched his father. Neither moved when the phone rang at 8:50 p.m. It reminded Mahatma of work. It made him think of hanging around court, taking notes, interviewing crime victims, squeezing information from cops. He wondered, as he let the phone ring, if he would dream of work that night, which he had been doing with increasing frequency. Mahatma hated dreaming of work. The phone finally stopped.
“What kind of foolishness is that, calling at this hour!” Ben said. “Anybody who phones at this time of night has been raised upside down!”
It started ringing again. Mahatma took it.
“It’s Don Betts. I need you to do some overtime. Got a car?”
“No.”
“Then take a cab over here, on the double.”
Mahatma hung up and turned to his father. “Don’t wait up for me.”
Only a few minutes ago, Ben had been planning to go to bed. But now he no longer felt like it. The house didn’t seem right with his son gone. Since Mahatma’s arrival four months ago, Ben hadn’t slept well until the boy got home from work. Ben would stay up and leave the porch light on and be watching by the curtains when Mahatma came home. He would greet his son, lock the doors and then sleep deeply.
Mahatma knew that Slade was onto the story. It was inconceivable that Slade would not be working on this. Slade would expect to clobber him. But Mahatma had no intention of letting himself get scooped. Not this time. This time he was giving it everything. He drove a Herald car straight to the town, knowing that his job would be impossible if Slade got there first. Slade had a reputation for erecting roadblocks for his competitors. When he could, he would cart off a family’s entire photo album so no one else could get it.
Mahatma arrived at the arena seventy-five minutes after the riot ended. Pushing into the crowd, he got the name of the boy who was killed. Then he found a boy with a Princeton
Hawks jacket. Peter Griffiths had been in the penalty box when fighting broke out. “Why were you in the penalty box?”
“I was doing two minutes for frog bustin.’”
“I see,” Mahatma said. “A penalty.”
“I speared a frog. Big deal. Everybody does it. You’re not putting that in the paper, are you?”
“I’m just doing research right now,” Mahatma said. “I don’t know what will go into the paper.”
“If you’re just researching, I guess I can talk to you.”
Griffiths said he had been waiting for his penalty to end when a St. Albert player—Emile Moreau—clobbered an English opponent—Jack Hunter—right in the face. Hunter was so stunned that Moreau was able to hit him again. This took place by the boards, after a whistle, and so close to the penalty box that Griffiths could almost touch the blood on Hunter’s face. Griffiths hopped over the boards and crosschecked Moreau, knocking his helmet off. Moreau fell to his knees. Hunter recovered in time to break Moreau’s nose. He cut him over the right eye with a second punch. And a third.
“Why didn’t you pull Hunter back?” Mahatma asked.
“Because Gilles Gendron from St. Albert hit me when I wasn’t looking,” Griffiths replied. “Then Ernie Cohen took Gendron out. Then a frog knocked down Ernie. I took on that frog. Then everybody got into it.”
The more Mahatma heard, the faster he wrote. Griffiths said the tensions were nothing new. “We’ve always hated them and, I guess, they’ve never been exactly crazy about us.”
“Why do you hate them? Why was that kid killed?”
“Hey, I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill him. You’re not going to put in there that I killed him, are you?”
“No.”
Friends
“I don’t think I’d better,” the boy said. Slade pushed the boy but it didn’t work. The boy simply hung up. Slade drove to the town. Someone there would direct him.
Ben was flipping through a magazine and chewing a toothpick. Mahatma, who lay on a couch, watched his father. Neither moved when the phone rang at 8:50 p.m. It reminded Mahatma of work. It made him think of hanging around court, taking notes, interviewing crime victims, squeezing information from cops. He wondered, as he let the phone ring, if he would dream of work that night, which he had been doing with increasing frequency. Mahatma hated dreaming of work. The phone finally stopped.
“What kind of foolishness is that, calling at this hour!” Ben said. “Anybody who phones at this time of night has been raised upside down!”
It started ringing again. Mahatma took it.
“It’s Don Betts. I need you to do some overtime. Got a car?”
“No.”
“Then take a cab over here, on the double.”
Mahatma hung up and turned to his father. “Don’t wait up for me.”
Only a few minutes ago, Ben had been planning to go to bed. But now he no longer felt like it. The house didn’t seem right with his son gone. Since Mahatma’s arrival four months ago, Ben hadn’t slept well until the boy got home from work. Ben would stay up and leave the porch light on and be watching by the curtains when Mahatma came home. He would greet his son, lock the doors and then sleep deeply.
Mahatma knew that Slade was onto the story. It was inconceivable that Slade would not be working on this. Slade would expect to clobber him. But Mahatma had no intention of letting himself get scooped. Not this time. This time he was giving it everything. He drove a Herald car straight to the town, knowing that his job would be impossible if Slade got there first. Slade had a reputation for erecting roadblocks for his competitors. When he could, he would cart off a family’s entire photo album so no one else could get it.
Mahatma arrived at the arena seventy-five minutes after the riot ended. Pushing into the crowd, he got the name of the boy who was killed. Then he found a boy with a Princeton
Hawks jacket. Peter Griffiths had been in the penalty box when fighting broke out. “Why were you in the penalty box?”
“I was doing two minutes for frog bustin.’”
“I see,” Mahatma said. “A penalty.”
“I speared a frog. Big deal. Everybody does it. You’re not putting that in the paper, are you?”
“I’m just doing research right now,” Mahatma said. “I don’t know what will go into the paper.”
“If you’re just researching, I guess I can talk to you.”
Griffiths said he had been waiting for his penalty to end when a St. Albert player—Emile Moreau—clobbered an English opponent—Jack Hunter—right in the face. Hunter was so stunned that Moreau was able to hit him again. This took place by the boards, after a whistle, and so close to the penalty box that Griffiths could almost touch the blood on Hunter’s face. Griffiths hopped over the boards and crosschecked Moreau, knocking his helmet off. Moreau fell to his knees. Hunter recovered in time to break Moreau’s nose. He cut him over the right eye with a second punch. And a third.
“Why didn’t you pull Hunter back?” Mahatma asked.
“Because Gilles Gendron from St. Albert hit me when I wasn’t looking,” Griffiths replied. “Then Ernie Cohen took Gendron out. Then a frog knocked down Ernie. I took on that frog. Then everybody got into it.”
The more Mahatma heard, the faster he wrote. Griffiths said the tensions were nothing new. “We’ve always hated them and, I guess, they’ve never been exactly crazy about us.”
“Why do you hate them? Why was that kid killed?”
“Hey, I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill him. You’re not going to put in there that I killed him, are you?”
“No.”
Friends
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