Thin Ice

Thin Ice

by

Liana Laverentz

Thank you for being my inspiration.

It was no way to spend a birthday, drinking alone in some hole-in-the wal dive, but it beat sitting home alone, staring at the rented contents of his apartment. Hunched over a beer in the smoky darkness of Harry's Place, Eric Cameron wondered where he'd gone wrong. By now he should have been a family man, with a wife and three or four kids to spoil—or at least someone to go home to who'd tel him he wasn't the major screw-up at least half the Twin Cities thought he was.

But al he had to show for his thirty years was a three-day-old black eye, two bruised ribs, knees that burned like hot coals, and the knowledge he'd only dug his NHL grave deeper tonight. Even the sassy little waitress who'd given him the eye when he'd walked in would probably change her mind when she recognized him. The Minneapolis Saints jersey she filed out so nicely might have made Minneapolis Saints jersey she filed out so nicely might have made him smile back if the night had turned out differently.

But it hadn't, so instead he courted the shadows at the end of the bar, nursed his beer and wondered how many it would take to shut down his hearing. Judging by what he'd overheard since he'd wandered into the place, more than half of the maybe twenty men here had been at the game tonight and wished they'd spent their money drinking instead.

Eric didn't blame them. The Saints’ first chance to beat the Wild al season, leading by two goals, and he'd blown it by mixing it up with the Merdham brothers. The Wild had scored four unanswered goals after his ejection from the game, proving once again the only thing Ronald Stump's Money-Is-No-Object team of Al-Stars was capable of generating was hot air.

"You good?"

Eric looked up at the tal, skinny bartender wiping his hands almost compulsively on a dingy towel. He seemed a little edgy, but maybe he was always like that. Eric had no idea. He'd never been in Harry's Place before. But his liquor cabinet was as empty as his digs, by choice, so he'd opted for a late night walk to clear his head.

Instead he'd found this dive within stumbling range of his apartment.

Good seling point on an icy February night.

Stil, he'd bet good money not many strangers wandered into Harry's Place, much less after eleven on a Sunday night. Especialy not six-foot-four, two-hundred-thirty-pound bruisers wearing a not six-foot-four, two-hundred-thirty-pound bruisers wearing a fading black eye and freshly cut cheek.

"Gimme a shot. Bourbon.” Time to switch poisons. The beer wasn't working fast enough.

The bartender picked up a bottle of the cheap stuff and poured.

“You, uh, from around here?"

Was his face that messed up? Eric supposed he should consider it a blessing. “No."

"Been in town long?"

"No.” He'd been let go without warning from the St. Louis Blues six weeks ago. It stil burned him, how they'd traded him to Stump's farce of a team just before the playoffs. The Blues were sure to make the finals, at least. With or without him.

"Uh, go to the game tonight?"

Eric took a long look around the bar while he considered his answer. No one paid him any mind except the waitress, who winked at him from across the room. Go figure. His face had been al over the evening news, thanks to Stump. Maybe he needed some of whatever these guys were drinking. He'd love to forget who he was.

He looked back at the waitress. She smiled again. Not the hey-baby-let's-get-naked kind of smile he was used to. A more friendly baby-let's-get-naked kind of smile he was used to. A more friendly kind of smile. Tentatively, he smiled back. He could use a friend.

"Yeah, I was there."

"The guys can't stop bitching about it. Some of them thought for sure with ... with ... with Cameron wearing the “C” the Saints'd win this time.” He seemed to have trouble getting that last bit out.

“'Specialy McNaly over there.” The bartender nodded toward a group of five men playing cards at a round table in the corner.

“Swears he lost a bundle."

Eric eyed the group. Loggers on a bender by the looks of them.

Four nearly empty plastic beer pitchers littered the table. The big one chomped on a cigar, an unpleasant reminder of Stump. As he raked in the pot, it looked like he was wel on his way to recouping his game losses.

"Can't figure what got into the guy, myself,” The bartender said beside him. Eric wondered how the hel this guy didn't recognize him if he folowed hockey. “You'd a thought he'd a wanted to win this one, seein’ as how it was against the Wild and al."

"You got any food around here?” Eric asked, not about to talk about himself like he wasn't even there. This was downright weird.

"Kitchen closed half an hour ago."

Okay. Eric knew how this game was played. He puled out his walet and slipped a twenty across the bar. The bartender eyed it, walet and slipped a twenty across the bar. The bartender eyed it, then Eric.

"I'l see what I can do.” Darting a furtive look McNaly's way, the bartender deftly pocketed the twenty, then disappeared.

Eric settled in while he waited. He took off his black leather jacket and set it on the empty barstool beside him, then downed his shot of bourbon. A slow heat seeped from the back of his neck into his aching shoulders. He lowered his head and moved it from side to side, cursing the Merdham brothers under his breath. Voices drifted across the smoke-filed bar as if filtered through fog. He tried to tune them out, but the booze hadn't fuly kicked in yet. It had too much pain to wade through, first.

"Quitcher bitchin’ Seamus, they stil got a shot at the playoffs if they can get their shit together."

"Fat chance. Stump's Chumps ain't won a game in weeks."

"Thought that's why they traded for Cameron. To give the Saints the push they needed to make a run for the Cup."

"Friggin’ waste of ten milion. Stump shoulda left him and his bum knees to rot in St. Louis."

"Shit, man, give the guy a break. He's already got four Stanley Cup rings."

"Glory days. Dumb bastard oughtta know by now when to keep his

"Glory days. Dumb bastard oughtta know by now when to keep his eyes on the puck and his hands to himself."

"Try taking your own advice sometime,” a woman snapped.

"What the hel's that supposed to mean?"

Eric heard hard plastic hit the wood table. “It means I'm tired of you trying to cop a feel every time I walk by."

"Izzat so?"

Eric didn't hear her reply, but several men hooted. He looked over and saw the waitress reach for the drained pitchers on McNaly's table. Two in each hand, she turned to walk away from the men.

Suddenly McNaly reached out and hauled her onto his lap.

"Damn it, let go of me.” She lunged forward, but didn't get anywhere. NcNaly's buddies howled their approval as she tried to squirm out of his hold.

"That's it, Cass, move around some more. You're gettin’ me al excited."

The waitress stiled, a strong look of fear entering her eyes.

"Aw come on, Cass. I was just startin’ to have some fun."

"Let ... me ... go. Now."

McNaly grinned at his buddies. “Think I can get her to wiggle McNaly grinned at his buddies. “Think I can get her to wiggle again?” The waitress gritted her teeth and lunged again. Eric saw the man's hand sidle up her ribcage.

"Harry!” she shrieked.

McNaly laughed and dropped his hand to her thigh. No one in the bar seemed to care that a woman was being molested right out in the open. “Harry's in the back, playin’ with himself again. He knows better than to stick his nose where it don't belong. And you know better than to give me a hard time, don't you, Cass?” He paused.

“Or maybe that's what you been looking for al along. A good, hard time.” His beefy hand squeezed her thigh. “Been a while, ain't it, Cass?"

"You sorry son of a bitch.” The woman's voice broke even as her body went rigid.

Every conversation in the place fel silent.

"What did you say?” McNaly asked.

"She said it's time you let her get back to work."

Al eyes turned toward the man seated at the end of the bar.

"Who the hel are you?” McNaly demanded.

"A thirsty man, who'd like the lady to get him a drink since the bartender seems to have disappeared."

bartender seems to have disappeared."

No one breathed. Obviously McNaly was overlord of Harry's Place. Eric realized he should have picked up on that sooner, like when no one seemed to notice or care that the man and his friends were openly gambling. Must have been the beer duling his brain.

Or was it the bourbon? Either way, he was finaly feeling no pain.

"Wel you'l just have to wait, ‘cause the lady ain't finished servin’

me yet."

"Then I guess I'l have to serve myself."

Slowly, Eric slid to his feet. Calmly, he approached McNaly's table. He met McNaly's shrewd, flinty eyes, refiled his beer mug from a pitcher on the table, then held it up to McNaly in salute.

“Thanks. Appreciate it."

"Son of a bitch,” a man in the far corner breathed into the stilness.

“It's Cameron."

The waitress’ eyes went wide with recognition, then flashed in pure fear. She dropped the empty pitchers, rammed her elbows into McNaly's fat stomach and sprang to her feet. “I'm caling the cops,” she said as she darted past Eric.

"The hel you are!” McNaly snarled and lunged after her. He came nose to nose with Eric instead.

McNaly hesitated, then smiled as if he'd just won the main event. It McNaly hesitated, then smiled as if he'd just won the main event. It was al the warning Eric needed. No stranger to bar fights, Eric dropped his beer, ducked McNaly's left hook and arrowed a fist into McNaly's wide gut. The dough-like softness surrounding his hand startled Eric so much that McNaly's bear hug caught him off-balance. Next thing he knew he'd crashed back-first onto McNaly's table, sending cards, money and beer flying.

McNaly erupted in a roar of something that sounded like a command, grabbed the man nearest him and shoved him at another man. One of the better-built card players launched himself at Eric.

The table cracked beneath their weight and they roled across the floor, grunting and swearing until Eric found his shot and knocked the guy out.

For the next several minutes Eric hit anything that came at him.

Amid hoots, holers, thuds and groans, fists, bottles, pitchers and chairs flew. The cigarette machine crashed to the floor just as Eric spotted the uniforms pouring through the front door.

Instinctively, he backed away from the fray. A fistfight was one thing, a crack on the head with a nightstick was another. He'd seen firsthand what those could do to a man's head.

Within minutes the cops had rounded up the rowdiest of the brawlers and were herding them out the door and into a paddy wagon. Eric flexed his bloody, aching hands, glad the worst of it was over. He needed to go home and get some sleep.

But McNaly and his boys weren't through with him yet. Suddenly it But McNaly and his boys weren't through with him yet. Suddenly it was like watching a bad western—the kind where some big sleazebag owns the whole town. McNaly's boys closed ranks, swearing up and down that Cameron alone was responsible for the brawl.

Yessir, Sheriff, we was just sittin’ here mindin’ our own sweet business when this here stranger walked in lookin’ for trouble.

Someone wearing a badge and gun invited Eric to step outside. He ran through his options and agreed to go quietly. Something wasn't right here, but he didn't have time to figure out what it was. He wasn't innocent in this fiasco, but no way was he going to take the rap for al of it.