Face-Off at the Alamo, page 5
“Is that how you check a kid’s temper?” Sarah said. “By slapping his face?”
“Butch says he talked to the manager, and the guy says he slapped his hands together hard to emphasize a point he was making, that’s all.”
“We saw his face!” Sarah protested. “It was bright red!”
“But you told me you didn’t actually see the slap.”
“We didn’t,” Travis admitted. “But it was obvious what the guy had done.”
“It’s your word against his,” Muck said. “And the kid isn’t saying anything.”
“He’s too scared,” said Sarah.
“Butch says he’ll watch them closely. I don’t think he’s a great fan of this arrangement.”
Sarah wasn’t finished. She wanted to talk more about it, but the sound of a car honking caught their attention. It was Sarah’s billet, waving for her.
“Better get going,” Muck said. “We’ll keep an eye on things, too.”
The Owls had never had such a great evening. They dined along the River Walk at Casa Rio, a restaurant right on the water’s edge at Commerce Street, not far from the Alamo. It was a spectacular setting: palm trees, multicolored umbrellas, patio tables, and even tiny lizards darting about the tree trunks and songbirds in the branches.
“Amazing!” said Sam. “I’m never going home.”
The Owls were given tables by the water so they could see the covered gondolas coming and going. There were even boats sailing by with full dinners being served on board as they made their way around the canals.
Before the Owls ordered their meals, they were given a welcome by the restaurant manager, a large man with a big mustache and a Mexican accent.
“Welcome to Casa Rio,” he told them. “Casa Rio means ‘River House’ in Spanish. This is the oldest establishment on River Walk, but long, long before this restaurant, there was a bridge here, the main bridge over the San Antonio River. This was where the Mexican soldiers gathered on the morning of March 6, 1836. It was right about where you are sitting, young man” – he nodded toward Fahd, who pointed at himself with his eyebrows turning into question marks – “that the bugle call of El Deguello was sounded. Anybody care to guess what that means, El Deguello?”
“Let’s eat?” Nish offered.
The manager looked at Nish with pity. He was not amused. “No. It means ‘Charge – with no quarter given.’ No mercy. Total destruction. It meant they were attacking the Alamo, and there would be no prisoners taken. It is the cruelest bugle call of war.”
The manager waited awhile for the reality of that to sink in. The Owls had seen where Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie and William Travis had fallen at the Alamo, but now they were seeing it from the other side, the Mexican army’s side. Young soldiers would have been standing here – some almost as young as the Owls themselves – and they must have been terrified at the thought of having to attack until every single man defending the Alamo was dead. If they were to take no prisoners, they couldn’t expect the men at the Alamo to show any mercy, either.
The manager smiled widely, his mustache bouncing, and changed the subject. “The chubby young man here,” he said, pointing out the beet-faced Nish, “wants to eat. And we want to feed you. But first let me explain our menu …”
The Owls were familiar with some of the food. You could get nachos and fajitas and burritos in Tamarack out at the Taco Bell on the highway. And all of them had eaten chili. But this was so much more complicated, all this talk about refried beans and guacamole and tortillas. Travis was losing track of all the Mexican foods they could try.
“Let me tell you about our specialty,” the manager said. “Stuffed jalapeños. Anyone here know what a jalapeño is?”
“A pepper,” Data said.
“A hot pepper,” the manager responded. “Hot, hot, hot. Caliente. Let me hear you say it in Spanish – caliente.”
“Caliente!” the Owls shouted.
“Do not forget that word,” he warned them. “Jalapeños aren’t for everyone. These are sometimes so hot they can burn your skin just by touching them. You will feel your lips and tongue go numb. But if you only eat a little of them, and they are stuffed properly, they are the most delicious food in the world. Just make sure you have a tall glass of water beside you and, above all, if you touch one of the peppers, make sure you wash your hands quickly with soap and water. You got that? Caliente.”
The Owls loudly repeated the word: “Caliente!”
“Hot!” the manager said as a final warning.
The food was delicious. Travis sat at a table with Sarah, Sam, Dmitri, and Nish, and they ate everything the waiters brought. They even tried the stuffed jalapeños, but Sam spat hers out and downed half a glass of water, and Nish just left his sitting on his plate. Travis and Sarah and Dmitri ate theirs slowly and, so long as they washed each bite down with water, they tasted wonderful, and were even fun to eat.
“He’s right,” Sarah giggled. “I can’t feel my lips.”
“Just be careful,” Travis warned.
“Well, look at that,” a voice said from the next table. It was Lars. Everyone looked up to see a large boat come into view, the kind that served as a floating restaurant. It moved gracefully through the water and had a large canopy over it. There was a mariachi band on deck playing music, and as the large boat made its turn, the Owls were able to see who was on board.
It was the Cheetahs hockey team from Kansas City. Travis instantly recognized Butch Ruby, the coach, sitting off to the side enjoying the Mexican band. On the near side, sitting at a table together, were Tanner Brady – the big kid who had slammed into Travis and been kicked out of the game – and the Cheetahs’ manager. What was his name again? Oh yeah, Jimmy Vim. Strange name.
“Watch this,” Nish hissed.
He had taken the stuffed jalapeño and was packing it like a snowball.
Before Travis could say anything, Nish launched the stuffed pepper over the railing, and it splattered against an empty chair and rolled under the table where Jimmy Vim and Tanner Brady were sitting. Jimmy Vim heard the impact, spun around, and stared hard at the restaurant patio, where Nish’s face was giving him away. Jimmy Vim pointed and yelled something, but the Owls couldn’t make it out, and in an instant, the big boat was around the corner and slipping out of sight. Jimmy Vim stood at the back of the boat, shaking a fist at the kids sitting in the Casa Rio.
Nish was laughing so hard, Travis thought he’d explode.
“I’m gonna pee my pants,” Nish announced.
“Good grief,” Sam said. “You’re disgusting.”
“I gotta run,” Nish said, jumping up and scrambling toward the washrooms at the back of the restaurant.
Travis looked around. Muck and Mr. Dillinger were deep in conversation. They hadn’t noticed anything.
“He’s insane,” Sam said.
“We know,” Sarah said. “We’ve known since kindergarten.”
Suddenly, the Owls’ special meal was interrupted by a scream.
Mr. Dillinger and Muck stood up fast, almost knocking their table over.
Travis turned just in time to see Nish, his fly wide open, come screaming from the washrooms, push past a waiter, race past Travis’s table, and plunge over the restaurant railing. Headfirst into the San Antonio River.
When he surfaced, he was still screaming.
“What the heck’s going on?” Mr. Dillinger shouted.
Sarah was laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Travis asked her.
“Guess who forgot to wash his hands before he went to the bathroom?”
Instantly, Travis knew. Right before Nish raced off to the bathroom, he had been packing that jalapeño pepper like a snowball.
He would have had it all over his hands.
Caliente!
11
Nish walked gingerly from the parking area to the arena doors as if he were riding a horse. His beet-red face was already dripping with sweat – and he hadn’t even put his equipment on yet.
“You gonna be okay to play?” Travis asked as Nish came in through the doors.
“Mr. D gave me some cream.”
Nish looked a mess: lip still swollen from the stitches, face beaded with sweat, legs held wide enough apart for a kid on a tricycle to pass through.
But he was going to play.
Travis’s awkward moment was saved by Sarah and Sam coming fast along the corridor. Sarah seemed baffled; Sam looked angry.
“What’s up?” Travis called to them.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Sam said, shaking her head.
“Come with us,” Sarah instructed.
Travis turned to Nish, who seemed not the slightest bit interested in what the girls had found out. “You go ahead,” Nish told Travis. “I’m going to get dressed early.”
Travis moved along with the girls, puzzled by their air of mystery.
They passed the Owls’ dressing room and stopped at a little side room where Mr. D had set up his portable skate sharpener. As always, the Owls’ manager had laid everything out perfectly, tools all squared up, sharpener ready to go, skates lined up in order for sharpening.
“Sure seems to be a lot of skates,” Travis said, as he glanced around.
“They’re the Cheetahs’ skates,” Sam said.
“What’re they doing here? This is Mr. D’s room.”
Just then, Mr. Dillinger himself backed through the swinging door to the room, carrying an armful of skates – more skates.
“What’s going on?” Sarah demanded.
Mr. D, always in a good humor, just chuckled. “I guess I’m now the equipment manager for the Cheetahs, too.”
“Why are you doing their skates?” said Travis.
“Because they asked me to,” Mr. D shrugged, setting down the skates and lining each pair up in his usual orderly fashion. He stopped and scratched his bald spot.
“Their manager says their machine isn’t working right. But I don’t think he knows how to sharpen skates, actually. When I let him bring the first pile of skates in, I started lining them up in pairs and told him to go ahead with the first batch – but it was pretty clear he hadn’t a clue.”
“Some manager!” Sam said with disgust.
“Ah, not everyone can sharpen,” Mr. D said. “It’s an art – and I’m the best there is, don’t you know.”
He laughed harder at his own little joke than the kids did, then happily went about sharpening the rest of the Cheetahs’ skates. He carefully set the first skate up, ran the blade across the grinder – sparks flying – and then stopped.
“He is a strange one, Jimmy Vim, I have to admit. But if you can’t help out another hockey team, what good are you?”
“I’d grind their blades down to nothing,” growled Sam.
“Oh, now, now, now,” chided Mr. D, returning to his task.
The kids headed back to the dressing room together. To get there, they had to pass the dressing room where the Kansas City team would be getting ready for their next game later in the day.
“Let’s see if they even have a sharpener,” Sam said, pushing open the door.
“We’ll get caught!” Sarah said.
“Nah – c’mon,” Sam said, stepping in. The others followed, Travis’s heart pounding so loud he thought the girls would hear it.
The Cheetahs’ bags were piled in a heap in the center of the room. Mr. D would have already set out the bags in front of each player’s stall, their names thumbtacked to the top so there could be no doubt where each team member sat and where each of the numbered equipment bags should go.
“This guy’s a team manager?” Sam asked in despair.
“Over there,” Travis pointed. “I bet that’s their sharpener.”
But it was impossible to say. Mr. D’s portable sharpener folded up to pack neatly into a small bag. And it was carefully labeled “Sharpener – Property of the Screech Owls” so there could be no mistake.
This was a padlocked metal box, and heavy – Travis had trouble budging it – with no label on it whatsoever.
“I bet they don’t even have a sharpener,” Sam said. “I bet he lied to Mr. D so he’d do his work for him.”
“Why would anyone want to be the manager of a hockey team if he didn’t know what he was doing?” Sarah asked.
“Who knows?” said Travis. “Look at the way he treats that kid – and apparently it’s not even his son.”
“He’s only manager because he pays for everything – like that fancy bus,” added Sam. “I hate this team.”
Travis giggled. “You can’t hate them – you don’t even know them.”
“I hate them. I hate their manager. I hate the kid.”
“Well, get used to them,” Travis warned. “Muck is convinced we’re going to meet them again if we make the final.”
The Owls were about to leave when they noticed a poster taped to the far wall. It was slightly battered and torn, as if it had been repeatedly taped up then taken down in whatever dressing room the Cheetahs happened to be in.
Sam read it aloud:
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Travis asked.
“No idea,” said Sam. “No idea at all.”
The Screech Owls played the Oklahoma City Ice Breakers later in the morning. Nish played, but not well. Travis could only shake his head and wonder how he could even play at all. He seemed slow and tender, and didn’t go down to block any shots. Fortunately, Dmitri was having a terrific game, twice roofing backhands as he came down on his off wing and cut across to draw the Ice Breakers’ goalie out.
Travis had a fine game himself, once scoring on a breakaway after Sarah sent him a long pass straight up over center ice, and later making a nifty back pass to Lars at the point, who shot a bullet that clipped in under the crossbar.
The game finished with the Owls up 5–1. The victory put them into the next round, giving them only two hours’ break before a big match against the Dallas Shooting Stars. The winner would advance to the championship game.
“Let’s get some lunch,” Travis said to Nish as they dropped off their sticks and headed for their stalls to undress.
“Bring me a milkshake, will you?” Nish said. “I’m just going to wait here until the game.”
Travis was about to argue but then thought better of it. “Okay,” he said. “But take your jersey off and let it dry. You don’t want to catch a cold.”
Nish set about taking off his jersey and shoulder and elbow pads while Travis and the rest of the Owls slipped out of their gear and into their tracksuits. Travis set off to the tuckshop, where he picked up an egg salad sandwich, an orange drink, and, after he had finished, a chocolate milkshake for Nish.
“Where are your straws?” Travis asked looking around as he was handed the shake.
“Oh, sorry,” said the woman running the cash. “We’ve had to keep them back here.” She reached behind the register to get a straw for Travis. “Some stupid kid was helping himself to them to the point where we ran completely out.”
The two hours passed quickly. Nish was first dressed, slipping his shoulder and elbow pads, then jersey, back on before anyone else could even get out of their tracksuits. Mr. Dillinger quietly closed the door, the signal that Muck was about to give one of his rare talks to the team.
“The Cheetahs won their game 8–1,” Muck began. “Seems the kids never had such good skate sharpening before.” Muck turned and looked hard at Mr. D, whose eyebrows and mustache seemed to leap together in mock surprise.
“They get a bye into the championship, meaning the winner of this game will meet them tomorrow. We beat them once; I think we can take them again, but first we have to get past this Dallas team, and I want your full concentration on the task at hand – you got that, Nishikawa?”
Nish sat with his head nearly on his knees. He nodded, never looking up.
“This team is strong and quick,” Muck continued. “They have one kid with a cannon from the point, so if you’re going to block shots, make sure you go down right and position yourself properly. If you can’t block it, get the heck out of the way so the goalie can see the shot. Understand, Nishikawa?”
Nish nodded again. He knew how poorly he had played against Oklahoma City. He hadn’t blocked a single shot. And they had scored off a shot that ticked in off Nish’s stick as he stood in front of Jenny, seeming unsure what to do.
“Let’s go, then,” Muck said quietly.
“LET’S GO OWLS!” Mr. D shouted, opening the door.
“GO OWLS!” the players shouted as they rose and hurried to the door, grabbing their sticks from the rack as they passed.
Travis felt good. The ice had just been flooded, so it glistened like polish. There was still enough water that he could hear his skates sizzle on the first corner. He hit the crossbar on his very first try.
There was something different this time about Nish. Right from the opening face-off, he was a new player. More accurately, he was the old Nish: charging up the ice, rubbing Dallas forwards out along the boards if they tried to beat him to the outside, dropping in front of pucks.
Travis had to admire Muck’s coaching strategies. Muck sometimes seemed to control Nish as if Nish came with switches and buttons and Muck knew exactly which one to push or flick on or off. Two little jabs in the dressing room and Nish was transformed.
But Travis knew how hard this was for Nish. He had seen the pain that Nish was in when he arrived at the rink.
With the score tied 1–1 in the second period, Nish gathered the puck back of his own net. He stood there, swaying side to side as he tried to sucker the Dallas forechecker into chasing him so that he could use the net by slipping out the other side, away and free.
The checker fell for it, darting hard behind the net. Nish calmly tapped the puck forward off the back bar of the goal, the checker passing by so fast he had no time to react.
Nish gathered up the puck as it bounced back to him and took off on the free side. He was skating hard, head up, hands soft, and puck silently moving on the blade of his stick – the sure sign of a player with good hands.
