So much had happened. The Larry Ulmar Fundraising Game was scheduled for the first Sunday afternoon of the new month. The Flying Fathers were coming, complete with their hockey-playing horse. Paul Henderson had lined up some of the greatest names that ever played for the Toronto Maple Leafs, including Eddie Shack, Darryl Sittler, Lanny McDonald, and Frank Mahovlich. And right after the big game, the Screech Owls themselves were going to play, a return match against Orillia–another chance to get the win they’d so desperately wanted for Data.
The Toronto Star and the Sun and the Globe and Mail were all sending reporters and photographers. The Sports Network was coming to do a documentary on the charity work of the Flying Fathers. And Nish was getting a new cast.
“It’s plastic and has a zipper,” he told Travis. “I can take it off and put it on. Once the doctor says I can start playing again, I can use it just for games until the wrist heals completely. I’ll be back sooner than anybody thinks.”
Everything seemed to be going well–except the investigation.
The police were getting nowhere.
“Garbage night,” Travis said to Nish.
“Huh?”
“Tonight’s garbage night.”
“Don’t look at me–I can’t lift a thing with this wrist!”
Travis shook his head. “I’m thinking about what other people put out.”
“Whatdya mean?”
“We know what the guy who hit Data drinks, don’t we? Seagram’s V.O. whisky.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So we check out Booker’s recycling bin. See if that’s what he drinks.”
Nish thought about it a while. Finally he looked at Travis and smiled. “Good idea. Let’s check it out.”
Travis told his parents he was taking his geography notes over to Nish, which was true enough–only Nish told his parents he was headed over to Travis’s to borrow the same notes. They met at the corner of Cedar and River, where Travis handed over the notes. Nish stuffed them into his backpack, and they set off for the neighbourhood where Mr. Booker lived.
It was a beautiful clear evening, already dark and very cold. Some houses already had their garbage out, in green plastic bags and blue recycling boxes for bottles and cans.
“Evening, boys!” a voice called across the road.
Travis and Nish turned to see Mr. Dickens, the old coach, set down two heavy garbage bags. He was clapping his bare hands together and rubbing them as he walked towards the boys.
“Hi, Mr. Dickens,” said Travis.
“How’s it going?” said Nish, who always talked the same, no matter whether he was speaking to a toddler or someone’s grandmother.
Mr. Dickens stomped his feet and stabbed his hands deep into his pockets. “What do you young men hear from the hospital?” he asked.
“Data’s doing pretty good,” Nish said.
“He’s moving around in a chair,” said Travis.
Mr. Dickens seemed disappointed. “Then it’s true what we hear: he won’t walk again?”
“I guess not,” said Nish. “Muck says it’d take a miracle.”
“Damn it!” Mr. Dickens said, swallowing. He smiled. “Sorry, boys–I can’t help it.”
“Everybody’s upset,” said Travis. “Data’s handling it better than anyone, to tell you the truth. You should go see him.”
“Yeah,” added Nish. “You used to coach Data, didn’t you?”
Mr. Dickens tried to speak, choked slightly, then cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was thin, breaking. “I’ll pay him a visit, boys, I will. You tell him his old coach was asking after him, okay?”
“Sure, Mr. Dickens,” said Travis.
Mr. Dickens looked at them. Travis could tell how much the old coach was bothered. It could have been the cold, but his eyes were damp, and he looked so sad, so upset. Like them, he was helpless to do anything about what had happened.
“Thanks, boys,” he said.
Mr. Dickens turned and headed back, his boots slipping on the hard, slick snow cover. He nearly went down, caught himself, and walked back towards his garage to bring out the rest of his garbage.
“Need any help?” Travis asked.
“No!” Mr. Dickens said sharply. “No thanks.”
He didn’t look back.
Travis was pretty sure he knew why. Mr. Dickens didn’t want them to see how upset he was about poor Data.
Booker lived a few blocks farther north, down a dead-end street called Poplar. There was a streetlight at the corner, but no other lights apart from the houses. This was both good and bad. Good, because the dark gave them cover; bad, because they could barely see.
“I wish the moon was full,” whispered Nish.
They were trying to walk quietly, taking soft steps so their boots wouldn’t crunch in the snow.
“That’s it–up there!” Travis whispered.
He pointed–despite being unable even to see his own hand–up towards a small one-storey wood-frame house with two dim lights attached to the side. One cast a dull glow over the front door; the other was at the near corner of the little house, barely illuminating the driveway.
“Good,” said Travis. “He’s already put his garbage out.”
It was dark, but in the poor light from the house they could make out the dark shapes of two green garbage bags at the end of the driveway. Beside the bags was a single dark box.
The two moved towards the snowbank closest to Booker’s driveway.
“No car!” Travis whispered.
“Maybe he’s at the curling rink,” said Nish, hopefully.
“Maybe.”
“Let’s do it fast,” said Nish.
Travis moved to the edge of the driveway, peeking around the high shovelled bank. He could see the recycling box. He could see the thin glow of the house lights dancing on glass.
There were bottles in it–lots of bottles!
“Go!” Nish hissed from behind him.
Travis took a deep breath. He hunched down, then darted across the front of the driveway, from one bank to the next. He stopped to gather his breath. His heart was pounding. He was sweating. Travis Lindsay, who hardly ever sweated during a game, was sweating now in the freezing cold of a black winter’s night.
One deep breath and Travis darted into Booker’s driveway. Crouching down, he hurried over to the recycling box.
He’d been right; it was full of bottles.
As he reached down into the box, his glove brushed one of the bottles on top, which slid down from the pile and clinked hard against more glass below.
“Hurry!” Nish hissed from the distance.
Travis reached into the bin and pulled a bottle out by the neck. He couldn’t read the label, but he knew from the smell it was liquor.
Nish’s voice cut through the still night air.
“CAR!”
No! Travis thought. Not a car! Not now!
He ducked down instinctively, just as the car’s headlights swept over the tops of the banks and washed along the side of Booker’s house.
But Nish must have panicked. Instead of sticking fast to the bank where he was hiding, he tried to come around it into the shelter of the driveway, where Travis was crouched out of sight.
His timing couldn’t have been worse. As the car began to turn into Booker’s driveway, Nish ran out into the glare of its headlights, and like a frightened deer stopped dead, petrified.
They could hear the whirr of an automatic window as the car came to a stop.
“Run!” shouted Travis.
“HEY! WHAT’RE YOU KIDS UP TO?”
It was Booker, all right. The same insulting, angry voice that used to burst out in the arena whenever a linesman missed a call.
The car door opened.
“Wha’ the hell ’r’ you doin’ here?” Booker growled. He was drunk, judging by the way his words were running together.
There was no choice. They would have to run directly at the car and then break to the left, putting the vehicle between themselves and Booker.
Travis bolted first. He could hear Nish yelp behind him–the sound Nish’s dog made when his tail got shut in the sliding door.
“Hurry!” Nish shouted.
“YOU LITTLE…!” Booker roared as he lunged across the hood of the Chevrolet, reaching for Nish and catching the hood of his jacket.
“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!” Nish howled. He jerked ahead with all his might, the hood tearing away slightly from his jacket, but ripping free of Booker’s hand at the same time.
“Move your butt!” Nish screamed at Travis.
Travis was racing as fast as he could. The two Owls ran out under the brighter streetlights of Sugar Maple Drive, and turned hard to head back down towards Cedar and safety. Behind them, Travis could hear Booker’s car door slamming and the engine race as the tires whined in reverse.
“He’s coming after us!” Nish warned.
He was, too. Even in the brighter lights of Sugar Maple they could see the headlights playing in the trees as Booker reversed and turned and pulled out behind them.
The bottle! Travis knew he could run better if he wasn’t cradling the empty bottle in his jacket. But he needed it for evidence.
He could hide it! And get it later…after they’d escaped.
Travis ran quickly to the side of the nearest snowbank and screwed the bottle down under the soft snow at the top.
Nish was now ahead of him. Travis could almost feel the headlights on his back; Booker was flicking his lights, from high beam to low, and he was gathering speed on the slippery street.
We don’t want another accident! Travis thought. He was sure Booker was drunk, and he knew the alcohol would slow his reflexes. They had to deke him just as if they were playing a hockey game.
“Next–corner!” Travis shouted through his puffs. “Turn–sharp–on–him!”
With the car now roaring right behind them, they came to the next side street, and just as they seemed to be bolting straight through the intersection, both boys turned hard to the right.
Travis could hear Booker’s car horn blast as the Chevrolet’s weight carried it right past the turn and down the street, the brakes on full and the tires sliding helplessly.
“He’ll come back!” said Nish.
“I think so, too,” said Travis.
“Where next, then?” Nish asked. It was a good question. This street was another dead end.
“Head for Mr. Dickens’s!” Travis shouted. “We’ll duck in there till he goes.”
Nish was already headed towards Mr. Dickens’s driveway on the corner. The boys raced past the garbage and stopped at the side door, where a light burned brightly.
“What’ll we tell him?” Travis asked.
“Nothing,” said Nish. “He’s a good guy–he won’t even ask.”
Nish pushed the buzzer. Pushed it again just as headlights swept down the empty street. There was a shadow at the door window, peering out.
It was Mr. Dickens. They were safe!
The door popped open.
“What’re you boys up to?” Mr. Dickens asked. He was smiling, but seemed nervous, almost blushing.
“There’s a guy in a car chasing us!” Nish said. Good old Nish–always right to the point.
Mr. Dickens stuck his head out the door. He was quite red in the face now. Anger? Travis wondered. The cold?
“I don’t see anybody,” Mr. Dickens said.
“He just went by again,” said Travis.
“Can you give us a ride home?” Nish asked, again to the point.
Mr. Dickens looked stricken. Was he afraid of Booker, too?…No, how could he be? He didn’t know who was chasing them.
“Can’t,” Mr. Dickens said, shaking his head vigorously. “No can do–car’s not running right.”
Travis couldn’t shake the feeling that Mr. Dickens was hoping they’d just go away. Did he not believe them?
“Who’s chasing you, anyway?” Mr. Dickens asked. He still hadn’t asked them in.
“Some guy who thought we were firing snowballs at him,” Nish invented.
Mr. Dickens turned and stared hard at Nish. “Were you?”
“No, sir. We didn’t throw anything at anybody.”
Mr. Dickens looked once more down the street. “Well,” he said. “Whoever he was, he’s gone now.”
It was clear to Travis that they weren’t going to get invited in, and he was almost glad. The warm air from inside the house smelled sickly sweet, and of smoke. Not clean and fresh like his own home, or Nish’s home. And there was something not right about Mr. Dickens. He seemed to have a bad cold. Maybe that was why he’d been so reluctant to help them out.
Mr. Dickens closed the door on them, shutting off the flow of warm air and unpleasant smells.
Nish turned, his face puzzled. “What got into him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe he’s sick,” said Nish.
“Maybe.”
They were still standing on Mr. Dickens’s porch. They scanned both directions.
“I don’t see the lights any more,” said Travis.
“It’s all clear,” said Nish. “Let’s get out of here.”
“We’ve got to go back for the bottle,” Travis said.
They hurried down the driveway and back up the street until they came to the spot where Travis had hidden the bottle. It took them a minute to find it in the powdered snow. Travis held the bottle up towards the streetlight, turning it carefully.
“What’s wrong?” asked Nish.
“This isn’t a whisky bottle,” said Travis, turning the label towards Nish. “It’s rum–Captain Morgan’s rum.”