Bryan Gruley - Starvation lake

“ Tribune. Sheryl Scully.”

“Hello. It’s Gus Carpenter at the Pine County Pilot. ”

Richard, I thought. Or, as any hockey player might see it, REE-shard, the French pronunciation.

“Thanks for returning my call,” Sheryl Scully said. “I called to ask about one of your reporters: M. Joan McCarthy?”

“Joanie,” I said. But I was still thinking REE-shard. Like the great Montreal Canadiens Maurice “The Rocket” Richard and Henri “The Pocket Rocket” Richard.

“Are you her direct supervisor?”

“I’m her only supervisor,” I said, but I was barely listening. I was thinking that Blackburn had named his mutt Pocket for Henri Richard, his favorite NHL player.

“I see,” Sheryl Scully said. “We’ve got a position in one of our suburban bureaus we’re considering her for. What can you tell me about her?”

An image of the dog popped into my head. I saw him sitting on our bench watching us practice, his head swiveling back and forth with the motion of the puck.

“Mr. Carpenter?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you going to hire her?”

“She’s a candidate. Her clips look promising.”

Joanie really was out of there. I should have felt the envy then. But in my head the image of Pocket now was jumping and yelping. REE-shard, I thought. Like Blackburn’s mutt, like his favorite player, like Ree-shard Ltd., the company in Virginia that owned Blackburn’s property.

“Oh my fucking God,” I gasped.

“I’m sorry,” Sheryl Scully said. “We’re really not here to steal your reporters, Mr. Carpenter. Is that-is that an endorsement?”

“Ms., um, I’m sorry?”

“Scully.”

“Ms.Scully, I’ll have to call you back. I’m on deadline.”

I went to Joanie’s desk and riffled through the documents I’d seen earlier on the floor. I found the one listing Richard Ltd., with an address and phone number in Springfield, Virginia. I went back to my desk and dialed the number.

It was disconnected.

I grabbed the front page of the Pilot and looked again at the dates that had bothered me beneath the photo of Blackburn. “January nineteenth,” I said to myself. His birthdate. I rummaged through the junk on my desk and located the phone bill with all those long-distance calls. I ran my finger down the list. The call I was looking for went to a place called Fairfax, Virginia, with a 703 area code. The charge was $57.28, for 176 minutes. The date was January 19.

I wanted to call the Virginia number immediately. But the clock said 11:51. I dialed Trenton. I could not get arrested now.

“Got to push it, don’t you?” he said.

Tillie appeared. “Hang on,” I told Trenton. “What?”

“Joanie said to tell you she’s over at Audrey’s,” Tillie said.

“OK,” I said. I watched until she left the room. “Scott?” It was eight minutes to noon. “You want a name? Here’s your name.”

“Hold on,” he said. “I know what I’ve advised you, but are you sure?”

“What choice do I have?”

“You say it could cost you your career.”

“Going to jail isn’t going to help it much either.” Seven minutes to noon. “Got a pen?”

“Yeah.”

“OK,” I said. “The name”-I hesitated for just a second-“is Durnan. D-dog, U-underwear, R-Robert, N-Nancy, A-apple, N-Nancy.”

“First name?”

“William. Regular spelling.”

“Middle initial?”

“No idea.”

“How about a title?”

“The deal was for a name.”

“All right. I’ve got about three minutes to call Superior. Sit tight. You did the right thing, Gus. This guy’s a sleaze.”

“Do me a favor,” I said. “Tell the Hanovers I wish them well. Tell them everything in my stories was true, and I’ll come and testify to it if they want me to.”

“Will do.”

“And tell them I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For their loss, Scott.”

I didn’t want Tillie to hear, so I went up to my apartment to call the Virginia number. It rang once then burst into the middle of a recorded announcement.

“…located just off Route 50 in Fairfax. For directions, press one. For the pro shop-”

I pressed zero. It rang another four times before I heard the cracked, indifferent voice of an adolescent boy.

“Fairfax,” he squawked.

“Hello,” I said. “What’s Fairfax?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, what’s this place I’m calling?”

“Fairfax Ice House.”

“You mean a rink?”

“Uh, yeah. Can I help you?”

“Like a hockey rink?”

He paused, probably thinking how stupid is this guy. “Yeah, a hockey rink.”

“When are you open?”

“We’re open now.”

“No, I mean, what time do you open?”

“Seven on weekdays, six Saturdays and Sundays.”

“So you’re open tomorrow at seven?”

“Yeah.”

I hung up and dialed my mother. Her answering machine picked up. Of course I could barely make out her message, but I heard enough to remind me it was her bowling day. After the beep, I said, “Mom, I’ve got to make a little trip. You might hear some things, but don’t worry, OK? I love you.”

Back down in the newsroom, I grabbed my coat and swept past Tillie and out as if she weren’t there. After closing the front door behind me, I patted the pocket that held Perlmutter’s photograph. I was filled with a strange mixture of excitement and dread. Leo had told my mother that he did a terrible thing on that night in 1988. It was terrible, all right. Worse than if he’d just put that bullet in Blackburn’s head. But that bullet was never shot.

Crossing Main Street, I saw two blue-and-gold state police cruisers parked front to back near the marina. The officers had their driver’s-side windows down and were talking. Instinctively, I ducked my head.

Inside Audrey’s, Joanie was at the counter digging into a grilled Swiss on pumpernickel. Behind her hung the old photo of Audrey’s girlfriend’s uncle, the great Gordie Howe. I sat down next to her and whispered, “I’m going out of town.”

She stopped chewing. “Now? Where?”

“Keep it down, please,” I said. Elvis Bontrager was sitting at his usual table nearby. “Just for a couple of days. I’ve got an emergency to attend to.”

“For the story?”

I couldn’t tell her yet, certainly not in Audrey’s. “Sort of,” I said. “I’ll have to fill you in later. Hey, Audrey.”

Audrey poked her head out of the back. “Hello, Gussy.”

“Could you wrap me two tuna fish on whole wheat to go?”

“Toasted?”

“No, thanks.”

Joanie grabbed my arm. “You better not be going to Detroit. You’re not going to give up your source.”

“No. But you’ve got to take over for now. I’ve made arrangements for Traverse City to handle our copy, but I need you to get a Blackburn story in shape. It probably won’t run tomorrow, but Saturday for sure.”

“Gus-”

“Your best story, Joanie. Everything you know. Put it all in. File it directly to Traverse. Then I want you to call Kerasopoulos directly and tell him what you’ve filed. Make sure you get him on the phone.”

“I’m not talking to that stiff.”

“Just do it. Which reminds me.” I leaned closer. “See if you can find a guy named Jeff Champagne. He used to live here. Played for Blackburn with me.”

“Champagne? Like bubbly? Where is he?”

“Like bubbly. And I have no idea.”

“Why do I care?”

“Think Brendan Blake.”

“No.”

“Yes. And the Perlmutter story-get that ready too.”

“Didn’t we promise him-”

“Not a damn thing. Get it ready.”

“What about the lawyers?”

“Fuck the lawyers. Even if it doesn’t run, you can show it to the Chicago Tribune. A woman from there called me today. I’ll call her as soon as I get back, and I’ll say good things.”