The Code by Gare Joyce

practice with that injury, even though Red would have let him get away for a while and concentrate on school. He was getting on the bike and holding on with one hand until Red chased him off. Just tries to do everything right. He helps out the headcase that’s his roommate like he’s a little lost brother or somethin’. God knows why. I’m surprised Red didn’t run that kid or at least put Mays with a more regular kid. Why?”
    â€œWe’ll probably never know,” Arena Sweeper said.
    â€œWell, Busher doesn’t know … wouldn’t know,” said Slow Oval Fellow. “What’s he gonna do now? He had to ask Red the combination for his lock every day.”
    At that point the arena workers were joined by the security guard who was working the parking lot the night the Ol’ Redhead and Bones crushed their last beer cans. The guard wore thick glasses, not the type for the average near- or far-sighted Joe, but the ones with convex lenses that the near-blind need to make their way through the haze. The boys yelled his name and he turned his head, not to look at them but to hear better and figure out the general direction of their seats. He paid for a bowl of soup at the counter with what he thought was a twenty but was in fact a five-dollar bill. First he couldn’t find the spoons on the counter. After he was handed a plastic one by the young girl who made his change, he sat down with us and couldn’t find it on his tray. It was a white spoon sitting on a white napkin.
    â€œHow did it go?” the Zamboni driver asked.
    I wasn’t sure what “it” was. Then it was clear.
    â€œThey asked me a lot of questions. I told them what I knew.”
    â€œWhich was nothing,” Mr. Maintenance said.
    â€œNo, no, I told them that nobody came in the lot from outside.
    The only people who were in that lot had to come from the arena. Nobody got by me. It’s pretty closed off, right.”
    â€œSomeone could get by you if you were left to guard an open manhole,” the driver said.
    â€œNaw, couldn’t have. I told them that all the cars left the lot by 11:30 except for a white Caliber, which left at 11:45, and Red’s old Cadillac, which didn’t leave at all. I couldn’t leave until Red’s car was gone. I was there right up to when the police got there. Muzz, the night maintenance guy, went on break for a smoke and when he went out the back door he saw the bodies.”
    â€œIf you don’t mind me asking …”
    I was going to double back and, actually, it wouldn’t have mattered to me if he did mind me asking.
    â€œâ€¦ how do you know it was a white Caliber?”
    â€œIn the first period I went around the lot, counted the cars, checked to make sure that they had their tickets on the dashboard. I counted the cars on the way out after the game. There were two left and then the Caliber went belting out of there. It was the only white car parked there that night.”
    The boys didn’t look up from their Timbits and the guard spilled soup on his shirt.
    â€œThey asked you if you got the licence plate number? Did you have it copied down on a slip when it came in?”
    â€œHe’d have been lucky to see a car, never mind the number. He couldn’t have read the plate if you held it six inches from his nose.”
    â€œYeah, I just ask for passes. I don’t ask for the licence plates ’cause I check the lot after. I don’t want anybody to get towed unless they’re by a fire exit or something.”
    This repartee quickly lost its appeal. I bade farewell. In search of a Box of Jelly-Filled Deep Background, I came away with crumbs.

13
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    Next stop: O’Murphy’s. As if Murphy’s wouldn’t have been Irish enough for a faux Irish bar. O’Murphy’s was a favourite haunt of scouts and former players who lived in Peterborough. It was just pricey enough to scare off Joe