Authors: Travis Hill
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Sports, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Kidnapping, #Murder, #Organized Crime, #Noir, #Crime Fiction
Enforcer
Enforcer
By Travis Hill
Copyright June 2013
Cover art by Yoly @ Cormar Covers
This book is dedicated to everyone who has ever played the sport of hockey. I envy you for your skill, your stamina, your strength, and your passion for the game.
And to my current home, Boise, Idaho. It’s truly a great place to live, even if it maybe isn’t so much in this story.
CreateSpace ISBN:
ISBN-13: 978-1496157027
ISBN-10: 1496157028
CHAPTER 1
Winter
Connor sat on the bench, sweating more in the locker room than he had during his few short shifts on the ice. He wondered if the maintenance crew would ever fix the air conditioning, or if Mr. Ojacarcu purposely had it turned off when his team was losing. He looked over at Coach Lamoureux after hearing his name.
“—one,” Coach Lamoureux was saying. “That guy runs Gansy again, make him eat the rest of his teeth.”
“Got it, Coach,” Connor said.
Connor looked down at the knuckles of his right hand as his coach moved on to another aspect of the game, yelling occasionally at one of his teammates for some screw-up or other. The team’s trainer had given him an icepack after he’d spent his five minutes in the penalty box. The ice kept the swelling down, but it didn’t seem to stop the steady trickle of blood from between two of his knuckles where he’d slugged number twenty-two in the mouth.
“All right, ladies, we’ve got one period left. How about we look like we aren’t trying to piss everyone off that paid for a ticket? Move your asses!” Coach Lamoureux yelled.
The team snapped on helmets, put on gloves, and grabbed their sticks as they left the locker room to head back to the ice. As Connor was making his way to the exit, Coach held out an arm to stop him, his other hand holding a mobile phone.
“The boss needs you,” he told Connor with a frown.
“Got it, Coach” Connor said once again, turning around and heading to his locker bench to change into his street clothes.
Coach Lamoureux stared at Connor for a few seconds before turning and heading down the hallway to the ice. Connor watched him go as he removed his skates, wishing he could finish the game, even knowing he might only get two or three shifts in the last period. If his team couldn’t get within three goals again, he probably wouldn’t see the ice at all unless one of the Tornadoes needed an attitude adjustment. Even with his fist swollen and still bleeding, he would drop his gloves without hesitation.
*****
“Good game, Dunzer,” Coach Walters said as Connor walked by the coach’s office. “You should probably have Derek stitch that hand up before you go see the boss.”
Connor gave the assistant coach a wave as he passed by. At the walkway leading to the team benches, he turned left, and found Derek, ‘Griff’ to the players, swapping latex gloves. He glanced up and Connor showed him the hand, eliciting a low whistle and a wink, the usual reaction whenever one of the Bombers needed a few stitches. Connor had learned four years ago that it was simply a part of the trainer’s personality.
“Damn it!” he hissed a couple of times in pain as the stitches wound their way through his skin.
Griff had sprayed the wound with Numb-It, the aerosol anesthetic used in every professional sports league in America. Most of Connor’s teammates had given it a more accurate nickname of “Damn-It,” since that’s what everyone said when sprayed with it before taking a stitch or some other treatment. He wondered if he’d been sprayed with the stuff so much that his body had become immune to the effect.
“There ya go, kid,” Derek said, giving him another wink and tossing the needle into the plastic bucket next to him.
“Thanks, Griff,” Connor said with a grin before walking back to the corridor and toward the stairs.
Connor twisted his hand a little, stretching the skin by slowly making a fist as he walked. Derek Giffords had been the trainer for the Boise Bombers for over a decade, and did exceptional work when it came to cuts, sprains, cramps, and bruises. The trainer wasn’t a real doctor, but no one ever complained.
Each team in the United Professional Hockey League had to have a licensed, practicing doctor on their team, and as far as the UPHL brass knew, the Bombers complied. Dr. Timothy O’Reilly was listed in the contracts, but he was probably never closer to a game than twenty miles, getting paid a kickback just for putting his name on a piece of paper. Connor hadn’t had to pay a visit to Dr. O’Reilly and have a
talk
with him, so if he was in the boss’ pocket, he kept his nose clean.
As he came out of the stairwell and onto the lower level concourse, the crowd roared in a chorus of boos and shouts of “REF YOU SUCK!” Connor glanced toward the ice, and saw four of his teammates in a scrum with five of the Tornadoes. As he walked around the curve of the arena, he saw the fifth Bomber, face down on the ice. Griff held a white towel to Elvin Gannett’s face. Connor was sure he’d catch hell from someone for not being dressed and out on the ice to protect his captain, or at least get some payback on the next shift when the puck dropped.
A few fans noticed him as he walked toward the elevator, and paused in their merciless, insulting shouts toward the officials in zebra stripes to talk to him. They asked him if he was hurt or sick, or had been kicked out of the game while they were getting a beer, or emptying a beer from their bladder. He made quick smalltalk with them, showing them his stitched knuckles, getting a few sympathetic
awww’s
from the females and a few nods of respect from the men.
He finally broke away from the fans and made it to the elevator. Dracul stood in front of the call button, hands clasped behind him, dark sunglasses looking suspiciously out of place in the arena at 9 P.M. Connor stood in front of the man for half a minute before Dracul finally acknowledged him. It was a game Dracul played with him every time the boss called him up to the office.
“Mr. Ojacarcu is expecting me,” Connor told the hulking Romanian.
Dracul gave a single nod before turning to press the call button. When the door opened, Connor stepped in and pushed the button for the fifth floor. Before the elevator door closed, he saw Dracul turn and give him a phony smile. The boss told him once that Dracul’s name meant “dragon” or “devil” in English, and had laughed when Connor asked him what the Romanian word for
asshole
was.
He was sure that the big bodyguard wanted to see if Connor’s reputation as a tough guy was true. He had no doubt if both of them were on skates, he’d pound the big man’s face into hamburger, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to test that theory out away from the ice where he would lose a major advantage. Fighting on skates was a skill that took a lifetime to master, and if done right, as Connor knew from plenty of experience, it could be the deciding factor in a fight against another enforcer who had an iron chin and expert fists.
The elevator chimed as it reached the fifth floor and the doors slid open. Vadim, another Romanian in a suit, stood in front of the call button for the elevator. Vadim gave Connor a grin and a thumbs-up when Connor showed him the stitches in his right hand. Vadim was one of the few Romanians who didn’t treat him like an outsider, and Connor had formed a semi-friendship with the man over the years. They’d even had a few beers on a couple of occasions, talking about hockey, Canada, Romania, and of course, all of the women who threw themselves at Connor.
He knocked two short raps on his boss’ door, and entered when commanded through the intercom. Costache Ojacarcu sat behind a cherry desk so dark it looked like ebony, so shiny that Connor had to sit or stand at certain angles so the ceiling lights wouldn’t reflect a glare into his eyes. The thick carpet, a rich, blood red that he imagined was heaven on bare feet, saturated the floor of the office, ending at the foot of oak bookcases that lined three of the walls.
“Ah, Connor, I’m happy to see you,” his boss said.
Connor smiled as he showed the older man the stitches on his right hand, a routine that was habit each hockey season. His boss laughed and waved him to one of the chairs in front of the expensive desk. As he sat down, there was a knock at the door he’d just come through.
Ojacarcu pressed the intercom button and said, “Intră!”
The door opened and Petre strolled in, wearing his best business suit and tie, his shoes almost as shiny as the boss’ desk. Connor groaned internally. If Petre was here, it meant they had to pay a visit to someone that the boss was unhappy with. He hoped that whoever they had to
talk
to was in the mood to do everything possible to walk away with a smile instead of a broken nose. Connor’s hand was beginning to throb again now that the numbing spray had completely worn off, the cut combining with the pain of punching a hard jawbone earlier in the night.
“Ah, Petre, good to see you,” Ojacarcu said to the sharply dressed man. “Please, have a seat for a moment.”
Petre gave Connor a grin as he sat down in the chair next to him. Connor gave the newcomer a lopsided grin in return, showing his stitches to yet another person. Petre’s grin turned into a chuckle and a quick double-nod of his head. Petre loved watching hockey, and he especially loved watching Connor deliver a beating to an opposing player.
“Ah, you see Mr. Dunsmore’s injury,” Ojacarcu said, matching Petre’s grin. “Hopefully you won’t have to be as… persuasive tonight. But, if you must convince our friend the error of his ways, I’m sure Petre here can give you a bit of help so you can use your other hand.”
Petre smiled and pretended to give the air in front of him a bear hug, getting a laugh out of the others.
“I would like you to go see our friend Mr. Benton,” Ojacarcu said, sliding a piece of paper across the glossy desk surface toward Connor. “His address and his two usual locations. His phone number as well, in case he is playing hide-and-seek. If you have to call him, call Ivana first to set up a meet. Ivana is our friend’s most favorite peach.”
Connor grabbed the paper, glancing at the information before stuffing it in his pants pocket. He felt a little under-dressed compared to Petre, but he was the muscle after all. His faded jeans, black t-shirt, and Maple Leafs jacket were a sharp contrast to Petre’s suit. Connor, like most professional hockey players at any level below the NHL, owned one good suit, the one that the league mandated all players wore to and from the arenas on game nights. He wondered when that had become a rule or a routine that was now sacrosanct. He didn’t want to have his suit dry cleaned every time he had to
talk
to a client.
*****
“You fight well,” Petre said as he drove the two of them west on I-184 out of downtown.
“Fought,” Connor corrected him. Over the years he’d helped a few of the Romanians learn to speak English a lot better than they’d been able to when he first met them. “You say, ‘You fought well,’ and then you can add ‘tonight’ or ‘during the game’ to make it a little more complete.”