Tiger Threat Read online

  I was looking past him again. At the far side of the rink.

  “Look at me,” he snarled.

  “But—”

  “Look at me!”

  I looked at him. “Coach, there’s something wrong.”

  “That’s why we’re talking,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “There’s smoke.”

  “Smoke?”

  This wasn’t the time to ask him if he was deaf, like he’d asked me when I repeated things.

  At the far side of the arena, billows of black smoke were coming out of the stands.

  “Smoke,” I said, wondering if it was my imagination.

  It wasn’t.

  As Coach Thomas turned to look where I was pointing, fire alarms all through the arena began a clang that drowned out whatever he was about to say.

  Coach Thomas blew his whistle. But none of the players heard him above the fire alarms.

  And the mushroom of smoke grew bigger and blacker.

  chapter four

  “Tomato juice,” I said. “The Moores made La-Dee-Dah soak in a bathtub full of tomato juice. But that wasn’t the funniest part.”

  The entire team had been standing outside the arena for half an hour, waiting for the fire department to declare it safe to go inside. Coach Thomas had rushed all of us off the ice at the back and out through the doors that the Zamboni used to dump snow. We were still in our hockey gear and sweaters. One of the trainers had brought out tape for us to put along the bottom of our blades to protect them from the pavement.

  “What could be funnier than La-Dee-Dah picking up a skunk because he thought it was a cat?”

  This was from Todd Bailey, a gronk of a defenseman. He was one of five guys gathered in a circle around me as I told them about Vlad and the dentist and the skunk and Pookie.

  “You have to picture it,” I said. “La-Dee-Dah is on his knees choking from the skunk spray. Pookie’s yelping inside the house, taking the skunk smell with him everywhere. Kitchen, living room. Pookie jumps into Mrs. Moore’s lap, and now she’s screaming because the skunk smell is on her. Mr. Moore pitches Pookie outside, Pookie lands on La-Dee-Dah and both of them are throwing up on each other.”

  I paused, knowing all of them were hanging on every word. They had no doubt the story was true. Vlad still faintly smelled of skunk.

  “But it got worse,” I said. “Much worse.”

  Another pause. I should have been enjoying this. There was a chinook wind in the Hat, so it was pleasant to be outside with my friends. Instead, half of my mind was on what Coach Thomas had asked me to decide.

  Was I going to lead the way? Or be forced to get out of the way?

  I was a good hockey player, close to great actually. So good that no one else had cared how tough I was. But no one else had figured out the truth.

  Yes. I was afraid. I always played afraid. Afraid of injuries, afraid of pain. And, most of all, afraid that my dad would find out I was afraid.

  “So what happened next?” one of the guys asked. “Pookie and La-Dee-Dah are throwing up on each other. Then what?”

  “Mr. Moore stands in the doorway and starts yelling at La-Dee-Dah to tell him what happened.”

  “La-Dee-Dah can’t speak English,” Todd Bailey said.

  “Exactly. You should have heard. Mr. Moore yelling at La-Dee-Dah in English. La-Dee-Dah rolling on the ground and yelling at Mr. Moore in Russian. And Pookie yelping and pawing his face and throwing up all over again.”

  More laughter.

  Vlad wandered over. He knew we were talking about him.

  “Not kitty-kitty,” Vlad said, grinning. He tried out two English words I’d taught him. “Stoo-pid skoonk.”

  We howled at that, and he joined in. Then Vlad lifted his right hand and squeezed it and made a whooshing sound.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Mr. Moore tells La-Dee-Dah to strip down to his undies. La-Dee-Dah doesn’t understand a word. So I have to go up to him and try to explain. It’s not working. So Mr. Moore starts yelling at me to do a better job. Like it’s my fault that La-Dee-Dah can’t speak English and my fault that La-Dee-Dah was so loopy after the dentist that he thought a skunk was a cat.”

  “Stoo-pid skoonk,” Vlad said, nodding his head.

  “So,” I said, “all I can think of is to strip down to my undies and point at La-Dee-Dah to do the same.”

  Again, Vlad lifted his right hand and squeezed it and made a whooshing sound.

  “What’s that?” Todd asked. All the guys were listening by now.

  “The garden hose,” I said. “As soon as La-Dee-Dah is down to his undies, Mr. Moore hoses him down with cold water for at least a half hour.”

  Vlad knew what I was talking about. He hugged himself with his arms and made a shivering motion. “Stoo-pid skoonk.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Stoo-pid skoonk. I end up going to the grocery store to buy as many cases of tomato juice as they had. And the Moores burned Vlad’s clothes.”

  “What about Pookie?” Todd asked. “They burn him too?”

  “Very funny,” I said, not meaning it. “Pookie still smells like skunk. He’s been forced to sleep outside every night.”

  I shook my head. “It sure has messed up the little dog. Before, when he saw a cat, he’d chase it up a tree. Now he sees one, he starts whimpering and buries his nose under his paws. He must think all cats have a secret weapon like skunk spray.”

  More laughter.

  And that’s how the spirit of the team stayed. In a great mood. Especially when Coach Thomas came over and told us the firemen didn’t know what had caused the fire. The rink was safe, but there was no sense trying to practice so we might as well get dressed and go home.

  Except when we got back to the Tigers’ dressing room, it smelled like skunk.

  For good reason. Pookie was in the middle of the dressing room. Wrapped in hockey tape. Hanging from a skate lace tied to a light fixture.

  chapter five

  In the high school library that afternoon, I smiled at the beautiful girl who had spent the previous hour helping me with math. I closed the textbook.

  “What a stupid I am,” I said to her.

  She giggled. “That’s funny.”

  “Actually,” I said, “there’s a math story behind it. It’s very sad. Just like my attempts at this homework.”

  “Really.” She leaned forward at the table, resting her beautiful chin on her beautiful hands, giving me a beautiful smile. Her name was Amanda Kessler. She had long dark hair. She was wearing a light blue sweater that looked great with her long dark hair. Did I happen to mention she was beautiful? She was also the reason I pretended to be so stupid with math. So she would spend time with me to help me with it. “And what is that story, Ray?”

  I was happy to tell her. It would take my mind off the questions about the horrible thing that had been done to Pookie in the locker room. The little dog hadn’t been hurt, just very scared. It was enough to make me forgive it for all the times it had nipped my ankles.

  What a stupid I am. If you’re not brilliant —like me—the next best thing to do is use brilliant lines from stories or movies. Like when you’re caught doing something and you’re about to get in trouble, use the line from the scene in the animated movie called Madagascar, when police in Grand Central Station surround the two monkeys escaped from the zoo. Speak in a British accent and say this, just like one of the monkeys did: If you have any poo, fling it now. If this doesn’t sound funny on paper, trust me, it was funny when the monkeys said it.

  What a stupid I am. I learned about it in a sports book. See, once I wasn’t good at reading, but I had a teacher who said that all reading helped you be a better reader. Just like practice in skating made you a better skater. He let me read sports stories, sports articles and sports books all year. He was right. After enough practice, I did become a better reader.

  What a stupid I am.

  I explained the story to Amanda.

  It happened in 1968 at the famous
Masters tournament in golf. A guy by the name of Roberto De Vicenzo—roll a name like that off your tongue and what girl wouldn’t be impressed—had just tied the Masters to go into a playoff. Except he signed his scorecard without adding it up correctly. His playing partner had written down a four on a par three instead of the three that De Vicenzo had shot. But in golf, once you’ve signed yourscorecard, you have to stick with it. If it’s lower than you scored, you get disqualified. If it’s higher than you scored, you have to stick with the higher score. So De Vicenzo had to keep the wrong score, which was one stroke higher. It put him out of the playoff. He was from Argentina and didn’t speak English too well. That’s when he said the line to reporters that made him famous. What a stupid I am.

  “See,” Amanda said when I finished my story, “math is important.”

  “Very, very important,” I agreed. “So maybe we better meet tomorrow to work on my homework again?”

  “And maybe you have some gum?”

  I noticed she avoided my question, but I hid my disappointment. I did what any guy would do in that situation. I looked for gum.

  I was wearing my jean jacket, so I patted the chest pockets.

  There was something in the right front pocket.

  I opened it. Felt the crinkling of a Ziploc plastic bag. Remembered what it was.

  “Not that,” I said.

  “Not what?” she said.

  “You really don’t want to know,” I said.

  “I really do want to know,” she said.

  I pulled out the Ziploc bag. “It goes in your mouth, but it’s not gum.”

  “Gross,” she said. “A tooth.”

  It was Vlad’s tooth. In all the confusion after he’d tried picking up a skunk, I’d forgotten to give it to him.

  I shook the bag. “It’s a Russian tooth.”

  She pointed and corrected me. “Actually, it’s now a broken Russian tooth.”

  I looked closely. It had broken in two. Part of it was the roots of the tooth. The other part was a crown that had fallen off the tooth.

  I looked even more closely. “That’s weird.”

  “What?”

  I opened the bag and shook out the pieces on the table. “Look. There’s a tiny capsule too.”

  I picked up the pieces of the tooth and squinted. The crown and the bottom half easily fit together. I pulled them apart and looked into the center of the crown. There was a small indentation in the gold of the crown. In the inside of the crown.

  “Do you have tweezers?” I asked. Not many—actually none—of the guys on the hockey team carried tweezers with them. Or eyeliner. Or lipstick. But Amanda was definitely not a guy. Or on the team. So I figured my chances were good.

  Amanda nodded. She dug into her purse.

  “Look at this,” I said. I used the tweezers to pick up the small capsule. I put the crown upside down on the table and gently placed the capsule in the crown. It fit perfectly in the small dent inside. “Strange.”

  “The capsule fits inside the tooth?” she asked.

  I nodded. I left the crown upside down and placed the other half of the tooth into it. “And the tooth fits the crown. With the capsule hidden inside.”

  “Do you think Vlad knew it was hidden inside?” she asked.

  I thought about that before answering. Then I shook my head.

  “No,” I said. “He didn’t ask me about the tooth. And this capsule is probably too valuable for him to forget if he did know about it.”

  “Why would you say that?” she asked.

  “Someone went to a lot of work to hide the capsule,” I said. “You don’t hide things unless they are valuable.”

  “That makes sense,” she said. “Want to try to open the capsule?”

  “I do,” I said. I paused, thinking a lot of other things.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It belongs to Vlad,” I finally said. “It wouldn’t be right to open it. Right?”

  “Right,” she said.

  I didn’t tell her what I was really thinking. I was wondering if this hidden capsule had anything at all to do with the fire in the arena. Or with Pookie being hung from the ceiling.

  Like some kind of warning.

  chapter six

  “Ray Hockaday! What brings you here? Looking for a wedding ring?”

  I had stopped after leaving the library. Downtown wasn’t too far from school.

  “Very funny, Mr. Jewel,” I said.

  Mr. Jewel wasn’t his real name, but that’s what everyone called him. He owned a small jewelry store downtown on Third Street. The shops were quaint. The sidewalks were brick. There were gas lamps and, in the summer, hanging flower baskets. It was like stepping back in time.

  Same thing inside Mr. Jewel’s jewelry store. He was in his fifties. He was tall with long flowing gray hair. He had a gray handlebar mustache that he waxed so that it stuck out beneath his nose like horns on a steer. He wore a pinstripe suit, with a vest and bow tie. He looked like a saloon-keeper in a western movie. And he was one of the Tigers’ biggest fans. I knew him because I’d bought a couple of watches from him for Christmas presents one year.

  “Isn’t that something, about the coaching change?” Mr. Jewel said. “What do you think so far?”

  His eyes showed his excitement. Mr. Jewel loved to talk hockey.

  “Coach Thomas knows his stuff,” I said. That was true. Coach Thomas knew exactly what I feared on the ice.

  “You like him?” Mr. Jewel asked.

  I nodded. Yeah, I liked him. About as much as I liked the thought of putting a needle in my eyeball. But this wasn’t something a player said. It always got back to a coach. Besides, if I told Mr. Jewel I didn’t like Coach Thomas, then I’d have to explain why I didn’t like Coach Thomas. And Ray Hockaday, son of the famous “Bear” Hockaday, was not supposed to be afraid of anything.

  “So, seriously,” Mr. Jewel said. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Anything wrong with the watches you bought?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “And no wedding ring?”

  “I’m only seventeen,” I said.

  “Big, strong hockey player like you,” he said. “I’ll bet there must be a hundred girls hoping you’ll ask them for a date.”

  If only one of them was Amanda. But that was another thought I kept to myself.

  “Once I came in here,” I said, “and you were repairing a small watch.”

  “Part of my services,” Mr. Jewel said. “But you said you weren’t having problems with the watches.”

  “I remember your workbench in the back,” I said. “The big magnifying glass. The tiny tools you used.”

  “Still there,” he said. He grinned. “Thinking of learning a new trade?”

  Spying. I kept that thought to myself too.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve got this little capsule.”

  I pulled the Ziploc bag out of my jean-jacket pocket. The tooth and the crown were in my pants pocket. I didn’t want Mr. Jewel to figure out where the capsule came from. That would lead to too many questions.

  I put the Ziploc bag on the counter.

  Mr. Jewel looked closely at the bag. “You’re right. It is small.”

  “Think you can find a way to open it?” I asked. “And think you can find a way to put it back together so that it won’t look like it was ever opened?”

  Mr. Jewel stroked his mustache.

  “Ray,” he said, “if anyone can do it, that would be me.”

  chapter seven

  It was a home game against the Lethbridge Hurricanes. The Tigers were in third place in the standings, easily ahead of the Hurricanes. In terms of playoffs, this wasn’t a must-win game. The playoffs were still a couple of months ahead.

  In terms of our home crowd, however, it was an absolute must-win. The Lethbridge Hurricanes were our traditional rivals. Tigers’ fans loved to see the Hurricanes loseagainst us just as much as Hurricanes’ fans loved it when we lost in their building.

&nbs
p; That, however, wasn’t the reason I was nervous.

  I was at center ice, listening to the singing of the national anthem, and barely able to hear it above the thumping of my heart. We had a new coach and he was going to suspend me if I didn’t prove myself to him. Could I play the kind of hockey he wanted? The kind of hockey that my dad wanted?

  It didn’t take long to find out.

  With the anthem finished, I skated to center ice to start the game. The Hurricane center was there waiting for me. He was two inches taller than me, and I knew him well. Joe Tidwell. Long hair. Long reach. A great scorer. And a great fighter.

  “How about we drop the gloves?” he asked. “Right now and get it over with?”

  I said nothing.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot. You’ve never been in a hockey fight.”

  Again I said nothing. Fear burned in my stomach like indigestion. Why couldn’thockey just be about skating, shooting and passing?

  The referee drifted closer.

  “Heads up,” Tidwell said to me just before the referee reached us. “And I mean that sincerely.”

  The referee held the puck. Dropped it. As I tried to pull it back with my stick, Tidwell spun around and blocked me, kicking the puck to his left defenseman. I moved to skate past Tidwell, but he shadowed me. He stayed so close that there wasn’t any daylight between us. He gave me a jab in the ribs with the butt of his stick.

  “See you in the corners,” he said. Then, with a burst of speed, he broke for an open spot.

  His left defenseman put a pass perfectly on his stick. He took a couple of hard strides, then dumped the puck into the right corner of our end. He put his head down and broke hard across our blue line.

  I followed.

  The puck took a weird bounce on the boards. Our right defenseman was forced to juggle it briefly. That was enough time for the Hurricane winger to move into the corner. Both of them fought for the puck.

  I hoped the ref would blow the whistle.