The Big Bad Wolf

CHAPTER 79

THE WOLF WAS in Philadelphia that night, birthplace of a nation, though not his nation. He

never showed it, but he was anxious, and he liked the emotional charge it gave him.

It made him feel more alive. He also liked it that he was invisible, that no one knew who he

was, that he could go anywhere, do anything he wanted to do. Tonight, he was watching the

Flyers play Montreal at the First Union Center in Philly. The hockey game was one he had

arranged to have fixed, but nothing had happened so far, which was why he was anxious,

and also very angry.

As the second period was winding down, the score was 2-1. Flyers! He was seated at center

ice, four rows back behind the penalty boxes, close to the action. To distract himself he

watched the crowd a mix of yuppies in business suits and loosened ties and blue-collar

types in oversized Flyers jerseys. Everybody seemed to have plastic tubs of nachos and

twenty-ounce cups of beer.

His eyes shifted back to the game. Players rushed around the rink at dazzling speeds, making

a slashing sound as the blades of their skates tore into the ice. C’mon, c’mon. Do something!

he urged.

Then suddenly he saw Ilia Teptev out of position. There was the shotgun crash of a slapshot

as it left the stick. Goal Canadians! The crowd erupted with insults: “You suck, Ilia! You

throwing this game?”



Then the announcer came over the PA. ?nadien goal by number eighteen, Stevie Bowen.

Time of goal, nineteen minutes and thirty-two seconds.”



The period ended like that, 2-2. The Zamboni chugged out, resurfacing the ice between

periods. More beer and more nachos were consumed. And the ice became a slick glass sheet

once again.

For the next sixteen minutes, the game was knotted at 2-2. The Wolf wanted to garrote

Teptev and Dobushkin. Then the Canadian center, Bowen, plowed through a halfhearted

check and burst into the Flyer zone. He dropped a pass along the right boards. A shot! Wide!

Recovered by Alexei Dobushkin who settled behind his own net with the puck.

He skated to his right, then snapped a pass across the ice across the goal mouth and it

was picked off by Bowen. Bowen slapped the puck into the corner of the net.

Goal Canadians!

The Wolf smiled for the first time that night. Then he turned to his companion, his seven-year-old son, Dimitri, whose existence would have surprised everyone who supposedly knew

the Wolf.

“Let’s go, Dimmie, the game’s over. The Canadians will win. Just like I told you they would.

Didn’t I tell you?”



Dimitri wasn’t convinced about the outcome, but he knew better than to argue with his

father. “You were right, Daddy,” said the boy. “You’re always right.”