THE TORONTO GARDENS WERE BUILT IN 1947. WW II was good to old Clinton, he spent a lot of time building an airbase near Regina that never received a solitary airplane, he manufactured a certain flywheel necessary to some bit of machinery inside some piece of weaponry. At any rate, by the time Adolf was put down, Clinton had greenbacks popping out of his ears. So Clay announced the building of the Toronto Gardens, which he said would be the finest hockey arena in the world.
The construction of that edifice set some sort of record for safety—the lack of it, that is. There were scores of injuries and no less than seventeen workers died. There is a story that one death was no accident, that a worker pushed another off the high scaffolding during an argument about a woman. This started the rumor that the Toronto Gardens is haunted. I believe a ghost is wandering around the place, but I don’t believe it’s an offed construction worker. No, sir, I think it’s just some old-time hockey boy who’s got no place to go. If there is life after death (what a thought), I know where I’m headed.
It used to be that there was a secret entrance to the Gardens, which was used only by me and Clay, and women either too well known or too unsightly to be seen with Clay Clinton. This entrance led first of all to a tiny apartment that the architect had secreted away at Clay’s behest, and then there was a long hallway, dark and always smelling like mud, that led to a private booth at the north end of the ice, where Clay and I and the occasional visiting potentate could watch the action. But after Clay’s death, this secret entrance was bricked over, Clay not wanting people to discover the dirty socks and underwear that lay scattered about his little hallway.
So we pull up to the front main entrance. The sidewalk is packed with people, shoulder to shoulder. As bad as the Maple Leaves are (and they would have a tough time mustering a win against the world-record losers, the South Grouse Louses), the Toronto townfolk always turn out to see them. I’ve heard it said that Torontonians wouldn’t show up in such numbers if the Leaves were any good. People go to see them for the same reason that some people watch automobile races, the possibility of great catastrophe.
It’s like stepping into a wind-whipped ocean, we get swallowed up by the throng. I watch Blue Hermann’s bald and speckled head bob away. He’s calling out for help, but it’s a small sound against the rumble of the crowd. The Claire thing reaches over people and manages to lock his long fingers around Blue’s collar. Iain squeezes next to me and wraps his hand around my elbow. I don’t shake him off. For one thing, it’s better than being trampled and/or crushed to death. For another, Iain is none too steady on his own pegs, and I would hate for something bad to happen to the lad.
I see something that stops me dead in my tracks. There’s a beggar standing in the middle of all this commotion. He’s being whipped around like a dead leaf in a hurricane. In one hand a battered tin cup rattles to the tune of maybe eight cents. In the other hand this beggar holds a stenciled sign that reads: BLIND AS A BAT.
What shocks me is this mook’s face. He is Brother Isaiah.
The beggar breaks into a broad grin and shakes his tin cup with enthusiasm. “Blind!” he sings out. “Blind as a bat! Couldn’t see the sun if it landed in my backyard! Amblyopic to the max!” Mind you, the beggar is about the same age as Brother Isaiah was when I knew him, somewhere in his midthirties.
I point him out with my dragon-head walking stick. “Iain,” says I, “give this bum a copper or two.”
“How come?”
“The King always gives out a copper or two.”
Iain reaches into one of his many pockets and comes up with about sixty-five cents. He tosses it into the tin cup.
“Hey, thanks heaps!” says the beggar. “But—this won’t get you through the Pearly Gates!”
“Who asked you?” I demand.
The beggar gets bounced away. He calls out, “Blind! Blind as a mole! Couldn’t see the moon if it fell on me!”
We make it through the front doors. Claire and Blue are standing off to one side, squeezed into a corner. Blue Hermann is breathing heavily and sweat is beaded on his upper lip. The Wringer of Life has wrung him again.
The walls of the Toronto Gardens foyer are covered with pictures. The biggest is a painted portrait of Clay and Jane Clinton. They’re posed with Clay sitting down, one leg draped easily over the other, Jane standing behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder. This painting is a heap of lies. Clay’s potbelly is gone and the artist has lightened up the rum-ruddiness of Clinton’s face. Around the age of fifty-two, blood vessels started exploding on Clay’s face, and sometimes his aspect was like a road map. The other lies have to do with Janey. Not that the artist hedged on the weight or changed her complexion or anything. No, the big lie is that she was there at all, with Clay.
Over there is a photograph of Manfred Armstrong Ozikean.
I look back at Clay Bors Clinton. He’s still grinning.
No, I tell him.
No, I don’t think we better had, Clay-boy. He’s doing fine right here. Everybody’s happy. It’s a bad idea. What the hell was you thinking? I believe I’ll put the kibosh on that deal pronto.
Hand on the elbow.
Blue, I got a quote for the Daily Planet. Take this down. Clay Clinton came up with an idea for a trade, but the King ix-nayed it. I said no, forget about it, and it never happened. Print that up in the Daily Planet, will you, Hermann?
I know Hermann will run that story, because I’m director of hockey operations here at the Toronto Gardens. That’s my job. My office is right down this way. I notice that Blue Hermann is following along. Lord, he looks awful. He must have caught a hangover that won’t let go. He likely wants a scoop. All right, Hermann, I’ll give you all the gen on the Toronto Maple Leaves. You want a quote about tonight’s game against the Canadiens? Surely. You know me, Blue, I got the gift of the gab and I’ve kissed the Blarney Stone. Step into my office. Well, sir, the Montreal defense is a little like Old Mother Leary. Ancient and holy. That’s a quote for you, Hermann, print that up in the Daily Planet. Wait a second. Lonny Chandrian is in my office. What can I do for you, Lonny? Why haven’t you got your head usher’s outfit on? You can’t do tonight’s game in that fancy checkered sports jacket. By the by, what the hell happened to your hair? You just got two little gray strips that circle around your sticky-out ears. Not many boys go bald at sixteen, Lonny. I think maybe you better see your family doctor.
Now, Hermann, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, about tonight’s game. Run along now, Lonny. Change into your head usher’s outfit. If you see Mr. Clinton, tell him I’ll be along directly. I’m just having a chat with Hermann, star reporter from the Daily Planet. Who’s that over there? That there is the Claire thing, Lonny. That is Iain. You surely ask a lot of questions for a head usher. Director of hockey operations? Wait a second here.
Hand on my elbow.
I’ll go sit on my chesterfield. Yes, all right, that’s a good idea. Iain, I hope I don’t have to fire Lonny. It would break his mother’s heart. What do you suppose got into the boy? He dresses like an oddball, he thinks he’s got my job! Rest for a while? Are you crazy, Iain? Big game tonight, Leaves versus Canadiens. Traditional rivalry. Ottawa? No, we played Ottawa last week. Got stung for seven goals, mostly because Jim McMann stank up the joint. What’s that, Lonny? McMann died? McMann might have played like a dead man, and if he ever plays another game like that, by Jesus he’ll wish he were dead, but as far as I know he’s fit as a fiddle, although I’m putting the rookie Linehan between the pipes tonight. Iain, can I go back to my room now? I’m a wee bit slackered. Maybe Mrs. Ames could give me a little something. Blue Hermann, I got a quote for the Daily Planet. Take this down. “Leary Says No. En-Oh. No.” I put the kibosh on that deal, Blue-boy. Good idea, Iain, I believe I will stretch out. It’s been a long day. Always a lot of excitement when the Canadiens come into the Gardens. Traditional rivalry. The best kind. Traditional rivalry.