Mr. Dillinger had a treat in store for the Owls. He’d booked a section of the new ESPN Zone restaurant just off Times Square. Travis had never seen anything like it: three floors, entirely dedicated to great hamburgers, delicious fries, and wall-to-wall sports. Everywhere he looked there were televisions tuned to sporting events across the world, hundreds of huge screens filled with basketball, football, hockey, soccer from Europe, a Formula One car race from Australia, and, best of all, in the room reserved for the Owls, three sets tuned to the World Junior Hockey Championships in Finland.
Nish strolled in like it was his own living room. He walked to the front row of fat recliner chairs, plunked himself down in the middle seat and called out, “Chips, Coke, burger – no onions, triple ketchup – and the Mighty Ducks versus Detroit, if you don’t mind!” One of the waiters, laughing at Nish’s nerve, flicked a remote until Nish got exactly what he wanted. Nish pumped a fist in the air in thanks and sank so far into the big seat he all but disappeared from view.
Travis sat at a table with Sarah and Sam and Andy. They ordered onion rings and burgers and were sipping on their Cokes when Sarah, with the straw still in her mouth, nodded towards the far corner.
“Muck’s enjoying himself,” she muttered, the straw dropping back into the huge glass.
Muck was sitting by himself in the corner, as far removed as possible from the roar of two dozen television sets, each with the volume turned up so loud it sounded like a sports riot was in progress. He had his big arms crossed over his chest and was glowering at one of the screens tuned to the World Juniors.
“Canada losing?” Sam asked.
Sarah shook her head. “Muck hates things like this. Hates sports bars. Hates the way they broadcast games. Remember how he once told us, ‘If you can’t see it live, you won’t see it at all’?”
Travis nodded, giggling at the memory.
“Whazzat supposed to mean?” Sam asked.
“He thinks you can only enjoy a game by seeing the whole thing,” explained Travis. “He says things like, ‘A camera chasing a puck is as useless as a player chasing the puck.’ You know Muck – he thinks the game away from the puck is often more interesting than the play around the puck. So he won’t watch it on television.”
“He’s weird,” said Sam.
“He’s Muck,” Andy said, as if in explanation, and it seemed enough for the other three, who all giggled and nodded.
Finally, Muck could take no more. He stood up at his table, drained his Coke, and set the big glass down sharply.
Travis watched as Muck picked up his jacket and tuque and walked over to Mr. Dillinger, who was sitting with Jeremy and Jenny and Derek at another booth. Muck whispered – or perhaps shouted – something in Mr. Dillinger’s ear, and Mr. Dillinger nodded and looked up sadly, as if it were somehow all his fault. Muck grinned and rapped the team manager lightly on the arm with a fist. He wasn’t upset; the ESPN Zone just wasn’t for him. It was perfect for the Screech Owls, though.
They stayed to the end of the Canada– Slovakia game in the World Juniors – the Screech Owls cheering wildly as Canada scored into the empty Slovak net to win 4–2 – and then, their stomachs full and their ears ringing, they paid their bills and headed out again into the street for the walk back to the hotel.
It was snowing again. Large, fat flakes drifted down like feathers between the tall buildings, sparkling as they drifted past the streetlights before joining the snow already lying along the streets and gutters of New York.
It was late, but still it looked like rush hour, the streets plugged with snow and yellow taxis and police cars and even the odd private vehicle that had failed to heed the week-long warnings to stay out of the downtown core.
The Screech Owls enjoyed the long walk back to the hotel. They tried catching the large flakes in their mouths. They threw snowballs and washed Nish’s face and dumped snow down the back of Andy’s jacket.
Once they got back, Travis and Sarah caught the first elevator. They held it until Fahd had wheeled Data on, then pushed the button for the second floor. The doors of the old elevator slowly closed, and they rose to the second floor, stopping with a shudder. As they waited for the doors to open, Fahd began stabbing the open button.
“Hold your horses,” Travis said, thinking for a moment he must sound like his grandmother, who was always using phrases like that.
“I don’t like elevators,” said Fahd.
The doors caught, then opened.
Travis blinked in disbelief.
A body lay crumpled on the carpet before them, a large body, wearing a jacket with the collar turned up high so it partially covered the face. A tuque lay to one side.
There was blood oozing from a blow to the back of the man’s head.
Sarah screamed.
“MUCK!”