The Guardians by Andrew Pyper Page A

times' sake and all that. It's
sweet."
        "I'm
here because Ben died, not for some shag at the class- reunion weekend."
        "What?
You can't walk and chew gum at the same time?"
        The
bar is even busier tonight. A Leafs game on the flat- screens, an excuse to get
out of the house in the middle of the week for some draft and half-price Burn
Your Tongue Off! wings advertised on the paper pyramids on the tables.
        Among
the customers is Tracey's boyfriend. A good-looking, dark-haired kid who comes
in wearing a Domino's Pizza jacket to give her a full kiss on the lips. Here's
what you can see right away, as surely as you could see it when I kissed Sarah
Mulgrave outside the Grimshaw Arena on game nights: these two are in love. And
you can see that the Domino's kid knows how special a young woman Tracey
Flanagan is. That he is trying to figure a way to not blow it with her and go
all the way, out of Grimshaw and beyond. A whole life with Tracey. That's what
this kid wants, and is right to want.
        "That
yer fella?" Randy asks after the Domino's kid has left and Tracey returns
to our table. He's decided to use his Irish accent again.
        "Sure
is," she says. "You better watch yourself."
        "No
need to be warned about those pizza-delivery guys. They don't mess about."
        "Gary
played for the Guardians too."
        This
declaration changes things. And it makes Randy drop the dumb accent.
        "What
position?"
        "Right
wing."
        Randy
slaps me on the back. "That's where Trev played! Though that was many
moons ago."
        "So
my dad tells me."
        "Your
Gary, does he have a last name?"
        "Pullinger."
        "Rings
a bell," I say.
        "Bowl-More
Lanes," Randy says, clicking his fingers. "Didn't the Pullingers own
that place?"
        "Gary's
dad. But it burned down about ten years ago."
        "The
Bowl-More burned down?" Randy slams his fist onto the table in real
outrage. "Had many a birthday party there as a youngster. You remember,
Trev?"
        "I
remember."
        Randy
raises his mug. "Here's to Tracey and Gary. May you find love and
happiness."
        "Already
have," she says.
        The
night goes on to gain a comfortable momentum, buoyed by Bushmills and the Leafs
going into the third period with an unlikely two-goal lead over the Red Wings.
They will ultimately lose, of course. But for now, Jake's is a place of hope
and mild excitement and we are part of it.
        I
decide to quit while I'm ahead. I'm feeling pretty good, considering the grim
business of the day—not to mention the strange encounter with the boy, and an
observer I guessed to be Carl (though now, on the firmer ground of Jake's, I
doubt either was who I thought he was). But much more of what's making me feel
this way will only be pressing my luck. I'm tired. From the long day, from
burying a friend, from fighting to keep the Parkinson's hidden from the world.
And tomorrow I have to assume my duties as Ben's executor. A first-class
hangover would make that unpleasant task only doubly so.
        I
head up to the bar to give Tracey my credit card.
        "Wrapping
up?"
        "Just
me," I say. "I wanted to pick up the tab before my friend and I
wrestled over it. Though Randy is usually willing to lose that particular
fight."
        She
swipes my card and taps the terminal with a pen, waiting for the printed
receipt. It gives me a handful of seconds to study her profile up close. No
doubt about it: something of Heather Langham lives in this girl.
        She
looks up at me.
        "Sorry,"
I say. "It's rude to stare."
        "Were
you staring?"
        "Honestly?
I was thinking of someone else. Someone you remind me of."
        "A
girlfriend?"
        "No.
Just a person I looked up to."
        "Are
you flirting with me?" she says.
        "Is
that what this sounds like?"
        "A
little. But then, I don't really know you. And