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 flashed 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—Canadiens! The crowd erupted with insults: “You suck, Ilia! You throwing this game?”

Then the announcer came over the PA. “Canadien 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 Canadien center, Bowen, plowed through a half-hearted 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—Canadiens!

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 Canadiens 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.”

Chapter 80

Chapter 80

THAT NIGHT AT eleven-thirty I planned to enter the Wolf’s Den for the first time. I needed the help of Mr. Potter, though. Homer Taylor had been moved to Washington for the purpose. I needed his eyes.