There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool (22 page)

"Sylvie?" he whispered.

"Derek? Why are you whispering?"

"Because ... because ..."

Mr. Machismo went racing down the hallway ...
narrowly missing an encyclopedia salesman just entering through the
door at the end of the corridor.

"... Because there's a guy goin' door-to-door
out here."

"Hmmph. Well, do me a favor and tell him I'm
not home."

Cyril Shelton had been selling Ferret Student
Encyclopedias for five weeks. The meek, clean-shaven 20-year-old
had sold all of four sets. He was on the bubble ... or in
encyclopedia sales parlance, the hollow globule. If a rookie
salesman went three straight days without selling a set of the
$1,500 reference tool, they were retrained the following day.
Retraining consisted of a senior salesman chaperoning the junior
salesman in the field for the entire day. The senior seller would
show the trainee the way it should be done. Ideally, the trainer
would sell a set of books. If no order was written, the trainee was
doubly disappointed because he'd wasted a day playing co-pilot,
taking turns ringing doorbells.

Cyril had been retrained five times by his
supervisor, Eddie Dunwoody. Last week in Brantford, one family
asked if they always traveled in pairs. Dunwoody replied, "It's a
rough neighborhood." End of presentation.

Shelton needed an order. He couldn't blame
his lack of sales on Eddie. Cyril was uncomfortable with the white
lies his profession lived by. His peptic ulcer kicked in each time
he purposely didn't mention the interest involved in the ten-year
plan. Instead, the Ferret sales force would talk up the client to
the three-year plan, assuring them they didn't want to "take out a
mortgage on a doghouse". As well, many encyclopedia sales teams
operated with provincial, but not city licenses. With a new town to
take on each day, staying completely legal would've meant spending
all their time sitting in license bureau offices.

Cyril and the other Ferret schleppers all had
licenses for Ottawa, however. Canadians by definition were
info-maniacs, but residents in the nation's capital thought
encyclopedias were part of the housing code. Shelton had written
two of his four orders there. He needed some of that Ottawa magic
now.

"Sylvie", said Derek. "I need you. My heart
is pouring out to you ... splattering all over these two sheets of
metal between us. Please open the door. It's getting messy out
here."

"Don't do this to me, Derek! I'm not
something you can toss around to see which way I land. Get yourself
a cat. That's it! Me or her, Derek. Choose. Now."

Derek's cellular phone rang.

"Beautiful. I'll bet it's a cat lover. Hold
that thought, hon."

Derek turned away from the door, pulling the
cellular phone out of his pocket to answer it.

"Artie? What's up."

"I just got off the phone with LaBonneglace.
I was checking out some details."

"Wha-? Hold on there. Who?"

Derek didn't hear at first because Cyril, at
the end of the hallway, had just had a door opened -- and slammed
in his face.

Cyril looked down at his shoes.

From his vantage point upon the face of two
shiny, heads up, American pennies nestled in the tops of young Mr.
Shelton's penny loafers, Abraham Lincoln cleared his throat.

"Four score and seven doors must be knocked
upon nightly. Ten doors must be successfully navigated. Four
families must be presented. Accomplishing this, one order is yours.
You are an optimist lost amongst pessimists. The individual inside
that door ... and many more ... is fraught with negativism. Enliven
them, I say. Enliven them."

The words from Honest Abe helped Cyril make
it through the book droughts. When he was really down, he thought
of the set of Ferret Student Encyclopedias he'd win if he could
sell another 26 sets before the end of summer. Cyril loved books.
Family tree experts would point to the cousin and two nieces he had
in book-mad Ottawa.

"Gaston LaBonneglance," Artie said to Derek.
"He's the best thing on blades in Montreal West and nobody's heard
of him."

"Great. We'll go over it when I get back to
the office."

"There's just one problem."

Cyril Shelton knocked on the next closest
door. The door opened shortly ... and was summarily slammed in his
face.

"What's that?" said Derek.

"When I spoke with him, he said he's playing
for Erskine."

"But ..."

"Derek?" asked Artie.

Shelton knocked on the next door, now just
one away from Derek. Once more, the door opened and was quickly
shut in his face.

"Yeah?"

"Sylvie dropped his paperwork on the floor
when she, uh ... was in the office this morning. When I spoke with
LaBonneglace ... he said she was the first person he spoke
with."

Shelton stood directly behind Derek. He
knocked on the door opposite Sylvie's. At the sound of the door
opening behind him, Marcotte placed his hand over the cell phone's
mouthpiece. The door behind him slammed shut. Derek removed his
hand.

"What?!? Do you realize what you're saying,
Artie?"

"You don't know how I wish this was someone
else talking to you right now. I'm sorry."

Derek paused and lowered his head. He stared
at his feet. His eyes moved slowly to the big bold "WELCOME" mat
before him with its raised lettering, sole-scrubbing font. He felt
about as welcome as Howard Stern at a deb ball in the bible
belt.

Cyril Shelton's knocking and pessimists'
closing doors grew fainter in the distance.

"What's to be sorry about?" said Derek. He
didn't have time to get into it with Artie. Nor did he want to.
"I'm a walking whipping post," he said in jocular fashion. "I
refurbish all whips every thousand lashes. Later, pal."

What were friends for? Derek winced from the
effects of this gun shot blast point-blank to his integrity. He
could discuss business, broads and badminton with Artie. But
Marcotte's love life was his kinetic kitchen. Not many cooks had
banged pots and pans in there. He was working on his own recipe for
love and he guarded it like Colonel Sanders. Marcotte had all the
herbs, but he was still looking for the right spice.

Derek returned the cell phone to his pocket
and turned to face Sylvie's door.

"Open up or I'm gonna blow this sucker
down!"

"What? You spend three minutes on the phone
and that's the best you can do? The big, bad wolf? No wonder you
need a consultant."

"What's the story on this LaBonneglace?"

"It's a surprise!"

Cyril Shelton suddenly raced by Derek. An
apartment dweller, clad only in a bath robe and slippers, was in
hot pursuit.

"And I'm onto it," said Derek. "The jig is
up, kiddo! How long have you been working for Erskine?"

"What?!"

"I told you already ... this is hollow metal.
You're reading me loud and clear, sweetheart! How long has Erskine
been signing your check?"

Sylvie swung the door open wide.

"Now we're getting somewhere," said Derek
triumphantly.

She slapped him in the face and slammed the
door shut. Derek slowly, thoughtfully, repositioned his jaw with
his right hand.

"Corridor diplomacy is becoming a lost
art."

In his office, Erskine carefully examined a
computer print-out as Bittman stood across the desk from him.
Bittman wrung his hands nervously behind his back.

"You're positive this information is
accurate," said Erskine.

"Yes, sir."

"And this takes the current line-ups into
effect?"

"That's right, sir," said Bittman.

Erskine sneered at the piece of paper in his
hands. It was a score sheet of a computer-simulated game between
Herculean and May-Ja-Look. The final score read: HERCULEAN 8,
MAY-JA-LOOK 2. Erskine's office door burst open. Marcotte stood
there, nostrils flaring.

"You lying sonofabitch."

"Should I call security, sir?" Bittman asked
Erskine.

"That won't be necessary. Marcotte, come in.
I was expecting you."

Erskine slipped the computer print-out into a
folder on his desk.

"What the hell's going on here?! LaBonneglace
is mine. I have the rights to Verdun."

"In a matter of speaking ..." said
Erskine.

Erskine picked up a remote control from his
desk. With a press of a button, a wall panel moved sideways
exposing a large screen TV. Erskine pressed another button and a
map of Montreal's metropolitan area appeared on the screen.

"Observe. The area in question ...
Montreal."

Victor activated another button and three
areas -- numbered 1, 2 and 3 -- were soon highlighted on the
screen's map.

"Area number one ... Anjou. LaBonneglace
played his high school hockey there with a team called the Banjos.
Area number two ... Dorval. Gaston spent summers with his Aunt
Therese. And in the third area, St. Laurent, he had two newspaper
routes. All three of these areas belong to me. Where a person is
from, you see ... can be interpreted in a number of ways."

"You're making up your own rules," said
Derek.

"In the game of life, Marcotte, sometimes you
have to. Does it matter if we're sharing the same sandbox? The same
boardroom? The same hockey rink? A prick is a prick is a prick. A
rich prick, that is."

"What more do you want?" asked Derek, masking
his exasperation with the resolve of a monk.

"Oh, I have what I want," said Erskine. "Of
course, if you have a problem ... you can always call
Muldowney."

Erskine motioned to the phone on his desk.
Derek looked at it, willing it to ring so he could quickly exit.
Erskine had him by the short and curlies. Erskine knew Marcotte
would just as soon claim responsibility for the Lockerbie bombing
as go crying to Muldowney. Derek slowly looked around the office.
He was tremoring like Mt. St. Helena. He could take the photo of
Sir Wilfred Laurier and -- for effect -- launch it out the window.
He considered grabbing the nickel-plated putter and clearing
Erskine's desk with it. The glass of bourbon would look good on
him. If he was lucky, the airborne zirconium pen holder might poke
an eye out.

If wishes were horses, OTB would stand for
Off-Track Beggars.

The gilt-edged hockey card holder beside the
pen holder would go flying as well. Derek stopped. The card holder
hadn't been there before.

Erskine followed Derek's stare.

"I thought you might like to see my latest
acquisition ..."

Erskine spun the collector's item around to
face Marcotte. Mounted in the card holder was Terry Sawchuk's
rookie card.

"Picked it up at Swanson's. Terry's playing
for me now."

Derek felt like he'd been kicked in the
kidneys. He peered into Sawchuk's face. Had the gaping grin dimmed
somewhat? It had the facade of a smile, like that of a hostage at
the other end of the phone line, trying to sound cheery. It was a
hopeful smile at best. The jersey hung limply on Sawchuk's frame.
Had he lost weight? The smile said Sawchuk hadn't wanted to be
traded ... but that maybe he'd make the best of it.

I'll get you back, Derek thought. I've got my
business riding on the outcome of a hockey game and two women who
are just plain riding me. I'll get you back, Terry. I'll get you
back.

... 4 ...

Derek trudged uptown from Queen's Quay West
under the Gardiner Expressway. He'd been down to the Lakefront.
Usually the windy wake off Lake Ontario picked him up, rinsed his
wrinkled demeanour and strapped him back into his Crooks cross
trainers, raring to go. The wharf was a public place with plenty of
private spots. He'd hoped that parking his butt on one of the many
wide, wooden posts along the pier would help. An idea, a solution,
a new mutual fund ... he needed something to spring forth from his
subconscious. But tonight the harbour held no answers. He may as
well have been waiting for a marlin. All the collar-rippling, stiff
breeze did was advise him of anti-histamines he should seek out
tomorrow.

His mental VCR was stuck on a clip featuring
the glory years of the Toronto Maple Leafs with Foster Hewitt
calling the action. The highlights were interwoven with shots of
Derek's up and coming career. The dream footage included several
vignettes of him playing with the Maple Leafs. He could never quite
catch what number he was wearing. The director in the dream truck
kept cutting to another camera, or going to commercial before Derek
could make out his sweater number.

The mental commercials were public service
announcements. They warned of gambling addicts who were willing to
bet on the astronomical odds that, on a breakfast table somewhere
in North America ... was a bowl of cereal whose box featured a
professional athlete ... and the milk in that bowl of cereal was
from a milk carton bearing the face of that same professional
athlete's ... missing child.

When the dream sequence came back out of
commercial, Derek was down on the ice, clutching his ankle. His
Maple Leaf jersey slowly changed to the colors he wore while at
Guelph. Erskine ominously glided away from the scene of the
accident. Erskine's uniform transformed as well. It was an angry
"morph" into the black robes of the Grim Reaper ... with his hockey
stick changing into a gleaming scythe. With one swipe he had
claimed the deep soul of Derek's best intentions.

Marcotte turned left onto Peter Street and
looked up to see a man in a ball cap smiling from behind Bedrock
sunglasses. The stoned fan to Bedrock Shades' right had his beer
cup hoisted in good cheer -- and much straighter than one might
expect -- given the pronounced jocularity. The woman beside him,
her wild hair flying, reached out with her hands, begging for
more.

The SkyDome cornerstone fanatics. They'd
always fascinated Derek. Human gargoyles with a cement-grip on
their beer cups. Their souvenir flags never went limp in the wave
after wave of raucous laughter. Very cartoonish and all too campy,
yet they highlighted the fun time being had by all. They were
rooted rooters. Lifeless, lifetime season ticket holders.