Free The Skeleton Box by Bryan Gruley

radio: “There is no ice in hell . . .”
    Tex squirmed past his uncle, towering over both Tatch and me, pale biceps bulging against the threadbare sleeves of his gray Spitfires T-shirt. “Thanks,” he said, taking the skates. One by one he turned them over, shut one eye, and peered with the other down the length of each blade. Each time, he nodded and said, “That’s it.” Then he looked at me. His hair, black as a puck, was matted on one side. He’d been napping.
    “Who’s Mic-Mac’s guy again?” he said.
    “Holcomb,” I said. “Pinky Holcomb. Number nine.”
    “Pinky? The guy a fag?”
    “Be tolerant, son,” Tatch said.
    “You don’t want to mess with Pinky,” I said.
    Mic-Mac’s captain and top scorer had gotten his nickname after dropping his gloves in a hockey fight and having his left pinky severed by a skate blade in the melee. He wasn’t the most skilled player, but he played with unrelenting fire, a little cannonball who would skate through a brick wall for a stray puck.
    “Well, only wimps wear nine,” Tex said.
    I hesitated because Gordie Howe, the Red Wings great, had worn number 9.
    “Right,” I said.
    Tex’s eyes focused behind me, his smile fading.
    “I’m out of here,” he said. “Thanks for the skates.”
    “Hey there, Mr. Breck,” Tatch said. “Was just about to come up.”
    I turned around. Standing before me was the clapping man from up on the ridge. He wore a long denim coat and a wool cap tight on the back of his head. His too-small wire-rim glasses pinched his face in a way that made him look like a sallow John Denver. I felt unsure that I would like him. He smiled and offered his hand. I took it.
    “Mr. Gus Carpenter,” he said. “Of the Pilot. ”
    “That’s me.”
    “I am Mr. Breck.”
    “You’ve seen my byline?”
    “Some, yes. Forgive me, but I find that newspapers offer little of value. There is no salvation to be found on the sports page.”
    “Hard to argue with that.”
    “What brings you here?”
    The way Breck had commandeered the conversation, with Tatch just standing meekly by, made me wonder if Breck, not Tatch, was actually in charge.
    “Brought Tex his skates,” I said. “He’s a little superstitious.”
    “Matthew,” Breck said.
    “Matthew.”
    “He’s got a warm-up skate before the game on account of it’s a playoff tonight,” Tatch offered, sounding apologetic.
    Breck folded his arms and looked at the trailer behind Tatch. “We need his strong shoulders on the hill. Everyone’s working hard. We cannot count on the county to do the right thing. We will have to force their hand.”
    “I’ll get him going,” Tatch said.
    “Thank you, Mr. Edwards.”
    “What about the county?” I said.
    Breck turned back to me. “Your town,” he said. “You come looking for a boy to bring you a trophy so you can hoist it high over your head.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You ask a boy to carry your town on his shoulders.”
    “Actually, I just did him a little favor.”
    “On the contrary, Mr. Carpenter, you did yourself a favor.” He smiled again. “You have a mistaken idea of what a messiah is. You and everyone down there.”
    I gave Tatch a who-the-hell-is-this-guy glance. “Well,” I said, “I’m not sure what to say. It’s just a game.”
    “Indeed,” Breck said. “You, of all people, should understand that.”
    Tatch touched my elbow. “Mr. Breck’s been a good friend since he come to us a few months back. Met him at a Christian convocation down to Monroe. He’s helping us out with our tax issue, the legal stuff.”
    “Have you told him?” Breck asked Tatch.
    “No,” Tatch said, looking guilty nevertheless. “Told him he might want to attend that drain commission meeting tomorrow.”
    “I see.”
    “You from around here?” I said.
    “I am now,” Breck said. “We are building a Christian community. I’m sure it doesn’t look like much to you. But we are working hard. Our faith sustains us.”
    “And a