Frank Zafiro: No Good Deed

“Did she say where she was staying?”

Bourdon’s look of indignation faded to amusement. “No.”

“What’s so funny?”

“She said she was hiding to avoid trouble from Phillipe.”

I watched his eyes. They were a stony gray and the amusement in them was genuine. “Why would she hide from him?”

“I don’t know. But she wasn’t any good at it.”

“Why?”

“Because her telephone number appeared on my caller ID.” He brought out his cell phone from his jacket pocket and pushed a few buttons. His smile grew and he turned the phone around toward me. “Can you do anything with that?”

I scrawled the number down. “Thanks.”

He replaced the cell phone and rose. “The coffee is finished,” he said.

That afternoon, I met Adam at the Rocket Bakery. He showed up five minutes late, ordered his latte and sat down across from me.

“What’s happening, Cochise?” he asked me.

“I have a job,” I said.

He took a drink and licked the foam from his lips. “Doing what?”

“It’s more of a favor,” I said, and explained it to him.

When I was finished, he shook his head and held up his latte. “I knew I should have let you pay for this.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to ask me for something.”

I didn’t answer right away. When I worked Matt Sinderling’s case, Adam gave me some important help. He put his career on the line for me, even though I was an ex-cop that most of the agency held in contempt. I rewarded his help by getting myself arrested. On the plus side, I found Matt’s daughter and I kept my mouth shut about Adam’s help. Our friendship had been a little dicey for a while, but it endured.

“What if I buy the next one?” I asked.

“What if you buy the next three? ”

An hour later, he called me at my apartment.

“You’re only on the hook for one,” he said. “I didn’t even have to work on it. The number was in the printed reverse directory.”

“Where is it?”

“The Celtic Spirit, up on Division.”

I thanked him and hung up.

I drove to the Celtic Spirit Motel. It was right on Division Street, the main thoroughfare through the city. The motel was really a series of small cabins butted up to one another in a giant, square U-shape. The parking lot was only half full and I found a spot easily. I wandered around for a minute, getting my bearings and then located room twelve.

Light music came from the other side of the door. I listened for a moment, identified it as Enya or some rip-off of her, then knocked.

The music stopped. The door opened four inches and a pair of suspicious eyes appraised me.

“Who are you?” There was no trace of an accent.

“My name’s Stefan Kopriva.”

“I don’t know you. What do you want?”

“Phillipe Richard sent me to discuss something with you.”

Her eyes widened at Richard’s name, then narrowed as they swept over me again. I waited, trying to look casual and not at all dangerous. My small frame probably helped. I was maybe five-ten. In boots.

She made her decision and let me in. As the door swung open, I did what every man does. I looked at her breasts. They were nicely shaped and some cleavage was showing. My gaze swept downward to her belly, looking for tell-tale signs of pregnancy. She looked healthy, not too thin, but I saw no real signs of impending motherhood.

Anne Marie either didn’t notice my own appraisal or she was used to men doing it and ignored it. She closed the door behind me and pointed to one of the chairs at a small kitchen table.

I sat down. The room was neat, but in the sterile way many motels were. I didn’t get the sense that it was anything she did that kept the place tidy.

She sat down opposite me. She had auburn hair, probably well past her shoulders, but it was done up in a braided bun. Her nose and lips were thin in a way that suggested elegance, but her eyes were tired and wary.

“How did you find me?” she demanded.

“Were you trying not to be found?”

She scowled.“What does Phillipe want?”

“To solve this situation,” I said.

She crossed her arms and examined me some more. “Solve it how?”

I smiled at her. “The same way most situations get solved. With money.”

She laughed then, a sharp bark that disintegrated into a rueful chuckle. “You are not from British Columbia, Mister…Kopriva, was it?”

I nodded.

“Fine. Well, Mr. Kopriva, in the Western Provinces of Canada, we solve many of our situations with blood.”

“You don’t want money?”

She shook her head. “No, money is fine. Money will do. It will solve this situation.”

“Good.”

She cocked her head at me. “That’s why you are here? To dicker with me? Are you Phillipe’s negotiator?”

“Something like that.”

She laughed again, a mirthless bark. “Oh, Phillipe is such a coward. Big, strong hockey player, eh? But he can’t even come settle with me himself. He has to send some messenger.”

“Miss Stoll, I-”

“It’s Mrs. Stoll,” she snapped. “Or didn’t Phillipe tell you that?”

“He did. I’m sorry.”

She stood suddenly. “I don’t think we have anything else to talk about. You tell Phillipe that he was with me when this situation started. He can be with me to finish it, no? And it will be finished when I know the terms of his NHL contract. Not before.”

I frowned. “Mrs. Stoll-”

“I realize that it doesn’t look it, but this motel does have security. Do I need to call them?”

I shook my head and left. She slammed the door behind me.

Richard started the game that night against the Creston Otters and when the opening puck dropped, he and an Otter player dropped the gloves and removed their helmets and waded into each other.

“Why do they do that?” I wondered aloud.

“Do what?” a voice behind me asked.

The fight ended with Richard sending a brutal uppercut to the Otter player’s chin. The crowd went wild.

I glanced over my shoulder at the old man behind me. He wore a battered Flyers ball cap. “Take off their helmets before a fight,” I said.

“It’s the Code,” he told me. “The code of honor.”

I gave him a quizzical look.

He smiled back at me. “Just the rules between enforcers,” he said. “Let’s see. It’s goes something like this.” He began ticking off fingers. “Don’t challenge a guy near the end of his shift. Or when he has an injury that prevents him from fighting. Take all comers. No punching on the ice or once the linesmen step in…”

“And take off your helmet?”

He pointed his finger at me. “Right. But only when it’s a planned thing, like that last one. If it just starts up, well…” he shrugged. “That’s different.”

I thought about what he said. “Code of honor, huh?”

“Yes,” he said, “just like the knights of old.”

I met Patrick Bourdon the next morning and told him where I’d located Anne Marie Stoll.

“And you spoke with Madame Stoll?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She wasn’t interested in settling just yet,” I said. “She wants to wait until he signs his NHL contract.”

Bourdon pressed his lips together and sighed. “Shrewd.”

“She didn’t look pregnant, either.”

Bourdon gave me a surprised look. “No?”

I nodded. “She wasn’t showing at all.”

Bourdon swallowed and took a sip of coffee. “Of course not. She is probably only three months along.”

“So the affair occurred over the off-season?”

“It ended over the off-season,” Bourdon said. “I’m not certain when it began. Anyway, the important part is that we now know where we stand.”