Piano bar after an ugly game (bad scene
at the buzzer). None of the boys from either team
around, we meet for a couple of brews. Blonde in a shimmery
dress at the bar fending off two assholes. Black guy playing some
blues in a corner. Built like Leo Boivin, not much bench
unoccupied. “Smooth,” says the kid, “Fats Domino,
Chubby Checker—you ever make the connection, Bill?”
Reminds me how he says to me once, “Enola Gay.
It’s backwards, Bill, it’s code—You Are Going Alone.
Jesus. Alone for the rest of your life. We think
we get jerked around.” Still spending a lot of
time alone yourself, I say. “Not enough,”
he says and grins. I ask about the trade and how he likes it
out in California. “Yeah, it’s great. Wouldn’t have missed it
for the world. California.” And mentions a night against Montreal,
Meloche can’t keep us in the game all by himself. He’s taken
so many shots he can’t bend over to loosen his pads and
Glover goes up one side of him and down the other.
Another time Finley himself breaks into a game
to announce all Golden Seal tickets on sale for half price.
You have to laugh, I say. “You do,” he agrees.
“But where’s it going, this fucking game?”
However you cut it, it’s crappy getting traded.
Always comes out of the sun. Sorry to say you don’t fit
into the plans any more. I ask how he liked it in Chicago,
playing for Tommy Ivan and Billy Reay. Oh, they taught him
a lot, gave him a lot to think about. Like what? I ask.
“Like never trust two guys with four first names,” he says.
“Lessons everywhere,” he says and tosses a twenty on the table.
“Always a pleasure, Bill. Give my regards to the boys.”
He watches the piano player a moment, watches his fingers
melting over the keys. I see the blonde holding his eye
in the mirror. The assholes turn to give him a look,
then sink a little lower on their stools.