Chapter 13: Friday at Eight

Vasko posted the place at noon, and it was his own arena, with the press invited.

My father had not said a word since dawn.

At seven he came out of the bedroom in a black suit and put his keys in his pocket.

"We're going," he said.

"Dad, you don't have to watch this," Paolo said.

"If I stay home, he tells them I hid."

Luca was already at the door on his crutches.

Nine Anvils players were waiting under the Kings' scoreboard when we pulled in.

Nobody had called them.

They stood in team jackets in a row, and the oldest one nodded to my father and said nothing.

We took the front row behind the Kings' bench.

Down on the ice a table stood at center with a white cloth over it.

My mother's grey case sat on the cloth.

Somebody had cut the lock off, and the lid stood open.

I made a sound, and Luca put his hand on my arm.

Two hundred reporters filled the lower bowl, and every camera in it faced the table.

Lev stood behind his father's chair in a dark suit.

His phone was in his pocket for once, and he did not look at us.

At eight exactly Gregor Vasko walked out in his camel coat and took the microphone.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "Twenty-two years ago I told the league that Aldo Brescia was using banned drugs."

A murmur went through the press rows.

"I was caught myself that year, so they called me a liar and a cheat, and they were half right."

He let it sit.

"They never asked whether the other half was true."

He reached into the case and lifted out a stack of yellowed pages.

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