There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool (13 page)

Derek concentrated on taking long, sweeping,
rhythmic strokes with his paddle. As he paddled, he thought about
Gabardine Lamente ... a Canadian bronze medalist in rowing ... who
was up to her squeeze-tight lid in the country's most recent
pharmaceutical fiasco. She had been bounced from a race in Guam a
few months before when she'd failed a post-race drug test. She'd
tested positive for a banned substance, dichlorodifluoromethane, a
colourless nonflammable gas used as a propellant in aerosols. The
chemical was found in liquified trace amounts in the mouthwash that
her local drug store -- Instant Relief Associated -- had sold her
over the counter.

Two weeks before the testing, she'd taped a
television commercial for the same company. In the ad, the
pharmacist handed Lamente the prescription and assured her that,
"Your safety is ensured with your local I.R.A." After the dope
story broke and the medal was ripped off Lamente's chest, I.R.A.
officials decided to bite the bullet. They went ahead and ran the
commercial. The Hippity Hop Poll immediately conducted a "truth in
advertising" survey, asking 2314 people, "Do you feel that your
drug store assumes your addiction to their products will force you
to believe whatever they say is gospel?" Final results of the poll
were never released as Liberal and Conservative politicians forever
disagreed on the wording of the question.

Derek caught himself staring at the water
swooshing into the hollow whirlpool following each stroke. The
bubbly foam chased the oar as it traced its path through the water.
It was too peaceful, too quiet.

"I feel like Radisson and Grosellier."

Derek took another stroke and rested the
paddle across the canoe's gunwale.

"A pair of mapmakers trekking across the
nation for a cause they believed in. Battling the odds ... the
elements ... to pull out of the wilderness something calculating
... functioning ..."

"-- And able to do the Savardian Spinarama,"
said Artie.

Marcotte and Hammond portaged with their
canoe along a narrow trail. Being the taller of the two, Derek led
the way, the boat bobbing up and down as they carefully made their
way down the trail. The spruce and birch trees were speechless as
the two city boys snapped, crackled and popped their way through
the bush. Several times Derek noted smaller paths shooting off from
the main trail. These were mother nature's on-ramps, wildlife
highways with no speed limits posted. The autobahn of Audubon.

The path soon met another trail that appeared
to be more traveled than the one they were on. They set the canoe
down. The trees were too dense to get a bearing on where the lake
was.

"Uh-oh, which way now?" Derek asked.

"That native at the marina said that on our
fifth portage to Lake Luggacannu we'd have a straight path for a
mile, a left at the fork and a half-hour paddle to Portage
Beaucoup," said Artie.

"No, no, no. That was the fourth portage. On
this one -- the fifth -- we make a right after half a mile. Have we
gone half a mile yet? All we have to do is check your
pedometer."

Artie frowned. Derek twirled around, looking
skyward in despair.

"I don't believe it. You wear that damn thing
in Toronto on your lunch break, for chrissakes ... and you forget
to bring it."

"We - we left in such a hurry," Artie
blurted. They'd zipped out of the office as fast as they could ...
only to wait at the airport for six hours to fly standby. They then
had to plead with a young couple on their way to the Yukon -- he,
being a Carleton grad of Environmental Studies; she, a poet of
Celtic chants -- that the trees would still be there for them to
hug the next day.

"Well then, we'll flip to decide our ...
hereafter," Derek said. He reached into his pocket for a coin.
Producing a quarter, he balanced it on his thumb.

"Wait a minute," Derek said. "Did Radisson
and Grosellier have coins to flip when they came across an obstacle
like this?"

"Maybe they decided by playing
paper-scissors-rock," said Artie.

"Certainly not," Derek said. "They used fur
pelts for currency in those days. Of course the toss wouldn't leave
much to the imagination. But I read in one of those
'your-history-teacher-was-full-of-crap' books that the early fur
traders didn't lose their year's supply of furs when their boats
capsized in the Lachine Rapids. No siree. They'd already lost their
furs ...

"Gambling?" asked Artie.

"That's right. With the likes of the
notorious Fur Flipper. The guy could put an incredible
six-and-one-half spin on a beaver pelt and it would always land
hide-down. Every time. They say that's how our buck-toothed friend
wound up on the nickel.

"Wow."

"That's right. So they didn't have coins then
... and neither will we." Derek stuffed the quarter back in his
pocket.

"Now if Radisson or Grosellier went the wrong
way down a path," Derek continued, " ... and the map hadn't been
drawn yet ... technically speaking, they didn't make a wrong
turn."

"But they drew all those maps themselves,"
Artie said. "Which means they never got, uh ... totally lost."

"Unlike Foie and Oignons."

"Who?" Artie asked.

"Foie and Oignons," Derek said. "They were
just two of several map making merry men who ... let's just say ...
met their maker before they finished their first map."

"Gee. Thanks for the words of
encouragement."

An hour later they were paddling on Lake
Luggacannu. They'd finally taken a right because Radisson began
with the letter "R". So giddy were they at their good fortune, more
hard-to-believe-but-true stories about Pierre Esprit Radisson and
Medart Chouart de Grosellier followed.

"They were the first white men to see
Minnesota," Artie said. "I wonder how they did it. Did they look at
the horizon, pick a point, and jot down twenty miles in their
mileage book?"

"Well," said Derek. "They were on Lake
Superior. Maybe they had it down to paddle strokes. What do you
think ... maybe 500 strokes per mile?"

"Would that be Radisson's strokes or
Grosellier's?"

"Don't forget their wingspan. No wonder those
early maps were way out of whack," said Derek.

Artie checked the map and shoreline for
distinguishing marks.

"It should be coming up soon," he said. "Keep
your eyes peeled. If you blink between strokes, you might miss
it."

In the distance, close to shore, a solitary
figure in hip waders cast his fishing line. At first Derek thought
the fisherman was a mirage, a shoreline tree whose reflection off
the water was playing tricks with his eyes. Tuckapuk had told
Marcotte that bush fever -- like the payload of a water bomber --
could strike without warning.

"Look, Stanley. It's Livingston," said Derek,
tapping Artie on the shoulder with his paddle and pointing at the
fisherman.

A few minutes later, Derek and Artie were
beside the angler. He was native, about five-feet-six, with
shoulder-length hair. He wore a black sweat shirt under his red and
blue checkered bush jacket. He expertly waved the tip of his rod
through the air like a fencer trying to hypnotize his opponent.
This maneuver was equally effective at keeping the black flies and
mosquitoes at bay. After fifteen seconds of this, he released the
fly fishing lure onto the surface of the water twenty feet away.
The housing of the reel clicked shut and the low, steady whir of
the reel began ... winding the twelve-pound test line back inside.
This simple action had Derek's hands itching to do the same.

"Hi," Derek said, finally. "Are they
biting?"

"Not even a nibble. Your paddles make sure of
that."

"Sorry," Derek said.

Artie looked at the native, then to his
paddle and yanked it out of the water.

"S'okay," the native said. "I don't get many
visitors."

"We're looking for a Danny Short Hand."

"Why?" asked the native. The low buzz of the
winding reel stopped.

"We understand he's a heckuva hockey player,"
Artie said.

"Surely you've heard of him ..." Derek said.
"As most everyone else ... around ... here ..." Marcotte paused to
look around, realizing that the closest thing to a grapevine here
was the bark of the poplars.

The native resumed his black-fly brow-beating
casting. As the lure lightly landed on the water, the native used
his free hand to indicate the small dock behind him in a broad
sweeping gesture.

"This is the home of Danny Short Hand," he
said.

A small boat with an outboard motor was tied
to the dock. A narrow trail from the dock meandered back into the
bush, past spruce trees and rock outcroppings laced with lichen.
The trail ended thirty yards distant at the screened porch of a
modest split-level cabin.

"And that makes you Danny Short Hand?" Derek
asked.

"I should have your luck with the
rainbow."

Rainbow? Was he making reference to some
native coming-of-age ritual? Derek looked skyward, mulling this
over with a puzzled expression. It hadn't rained in three days.

"I'm Danny Short Hand," the native said
proudly, letting fly with another cast.

Derek was still searching the horizon. Artie
caught his attention and nodded toward the lake.

"He's talking about the trout," said
Artie.

Marcotte and Short Hand sat in a beat-up,
beige sofa on the porch of Short Hand's cabin, looking out over
Lake Luggacannu. The sofa must have been airlifted ... and dropped
... judging by its condition. It was slob room contemporary ... a
sofa that any man would welcome slumping into. Women on the other
hand, would get no further than perching on the arm rest.

It was a narrow veranda, just wide enough for
a person to pass in front of the sofa ... which was strategically
placed so as to allow its occupants to prop their feet up on the
waist-high railing. The mosquito screen thankfully extended from
the railing to the ceiling. Artie stood nearby with his hands in
his pockets, leaning back against a corner post. Derek took a sip
of beer and placed his bottle on the railing. The sinking sun made
for a picture postcard -- yet another item not in their budget.
Derek sighed. Vocations and vacations made strange bedfellows. One
demanded the other, but for best results they were experienced
miles apart.

"Look, Danny. We need a defensive specialist
and you're our man. My guy in Winnipeg says you score more goals
when you're a man down than when your team's on the power play.

"A native takes his tribal name seriously,"
Short Hand said. "But I'm sorry I won't be able to play in your
game."

A person in marketing is used to hearing the
word "no" in opening negotiations. Derek knew a marketing
specialist in New York who began every sentence with "no" -- even
when he was agreeing with someone -- the word was so ingrained in
his thought. But this was muskeg alley, not Madison Avenue, and the
word smacked Derek in the face like an errant paddle stroke. He
shook his head and turned to Artie.

"Is it me, or do I look like an encyclopedia
salesman?

"Funky Wagnalls, maybe," Artie said. "You're
just not cold and removed enough for Encyclopedia Icelandia."
Hammond wasn't helping the situation. Marcotte turned back to Short
Hand.

"And why is that?" Derek asked Short Hand.
Derek took another slug from his beer to help soften the blow of
any more stinging rebuttals.

Short Hand reached over his shoulder to a
ledge behind the sofa and picked up what appeared to be a calendar.
Derek wondered what native ceremony or ritual he was staring down
the face of now. He didn't have any pups in the canoe and they
would need both oars. He wondered how many months it would take for
him to make a fishing fly. It would probably end up looking like a
Christmas tree ornament. Would the fish mind?

Short Hand pointed to a nearby calendar,
displaying a picture of a bull moose with enough antler-space to
accommodate caps from all 26 NHL teams. There was a circled date
below the wooly hat rack. April 4 ... two days away. Written within
the date's box was the message: "Bass Fishing Season Opens".

Derek and Artie prepared the canoe for the
return trip. In the distance, Short Hand made his way down the
path. Derek shoved his jacket into the bow of the canoe.

"You're killin' us, Artie. You're killin'
us."

"Do you want the guy or not?"

"Of course we do," Derek said. But, I mean
... the baseball cap ... official parka ... compass ...
pearl-handled fillet knife ... and a guest appearance as tour guide
on the Bad-Ass Bass fishing show?"

"Sssh. Here he comes."

Short Hand came up behind Derek. Derek busied
himself loading the boat, kneeling on the dock on his hands and
knees. Artie looked up to greet Short Hand, but the native put a
finger to his lips, signalling Artie to be quiet. Short Hand pulled
a large, grotesque-looking, fly-fishing lure out of his breast
pocket and carefully placed it on Derek's shoulder.

The fly looked like it had crawled out of a
Stephen King novel. It's lime green head was huge. Two dark crimson
eyeballs glared their menacing, metallic stare. The fleshy body
below was puffy with warts and a pair of open wounds. The fat wings
were speckled with yellow puss.

Artie shook his head in wonder. Short Hand
pointed at the dragon fly, then to Artie. Artie nodded back. Derek
was still busy packing away gear in the canoe.

"Derek, what's that on your left shoulder?"
Artie asked.

Derek checked his shoulder and his eyes
opened as wide as SkyDome's roof.

"Aaaaagggh!"

He stabbed at it with his right hand,
catching the hook in his index finger.

"Yeeeeowwwwww!"

Spinning crazily on the dock, Derek fell
backwards into the water with a splash. When his head broke the
surface of the water, his wounded right hand was in the "up
periscope" position. He paddled furiously with his good left
hand.