There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool (4 page)

Sylvie steeled herself against remarking that
her French family included a few Italians.

"My portfolio includes extensive work with
high-profile clients."

"So go ahead, amaze me." Derek leaned back,
locking his arms behind his head.

Her intuition pegged Derek as the type of
adman who invited door-to-door salesmen into his home, listened to
the entire presentation and then gave them pointers.

"What's your client sell?"

"Financial freedom ... uh, it's a sports
lottery. Quick Pucks."

"Ah," Sylvie said, nodding. "Gambling at your
corner store, courtesy of the Liberal Party."

"Oh, they've liberated enough money from me,
all right."

Sylvie stood up and walked across to the
window. With her back to Derek, she closed her eyes and tripped
into her think tank. Hockey. Gambling. What was she expecting?
Wellworth's Christmas line of peanut brittle?

Twenty seconds later she turned around and
returned to her chair. Derek's eyes didn't leave her.

"How about ... how about a referee ... about
to drop the puck for the face-off. He stares into the camera ...
out into TV land, waiting impatiently. We cut to various people
sitting at home in front of their TVs -- each clutching their Quick
Pucks tickets and pens -- staring back. They're crazy with worry.
The ref says, alright, already. Pick three games or more. What's
the problem? Then close with the graphic, Quick Pucks ... where the
action's as fast as the cash."

Derek smiled. Whatever he was paying
Bellwether was worth it.

"Not bad for a flash brainstorm. I see I can
dismiss with the formalities."

They looked at each other and didn't speak
for a few seconds. Something inside Derek fluttered. Irregular
heart beat? Perhaps a hint of nausea ... like the butterflies he'd
felt so long ago before a big game.

She was beautiful and smart. He was handsome
and married -- a kept, common man. Eight years with Helen flashed
by in a flood of brief, bright sentiments that ran deep into murky,
troubled waters. Was Sylvie a raft ride down the love canal or
another barrel ride over the falls? He lost track of time. Say
something. Anything. By now she probably thought he was the
Cheshire Cat hooked on crack.

He snatched her resume back up.

"Uh ... you went to McGill."

"Does it show?" She returned his gaze with a
curious twinkle.

"Quick ... what NHL goalie studied law
there?" he asked.

"Why, Ken Dryden, of course."

Derek nodded slowly.

"I'll bet that's part of the entrance
requirements," she said.

Talking hockey had calmed his nerves. And his
libido.

"This job will be tougher than my trivia
questions. But it's yours ... if you want it."

"I do." Sylvie reached across the desk and
placed her hand in his.

... 6 ...

Derek, Sylvie and Artie had two weeks to
complete their presentation. The main office area of May-Ja-Look
quickly became a battle zone of warring ideas and brainstorming
strategy. Concepts from the silly to the sublime were lobbed
around, almost all eventually becoming crumpled balls of paper
tossed off the backboard of a miniature basketball net above the
waste paper basket for two points.

The best ideas doggedly clawed their way to
the top of the white board. Before arriving there they were
reshaped, pulled apart, kicked around and put back together again.
Half a dozen of these were storyboarded, broken down scene by
scene.

The trio played with every aspect of
gambling, from minimum wagers to maximum bets, from throwing dice
in the back alley to hobnobbing with Omar Shariff. May-Ja-Look was
motoring along. There hadn't been this much activity at 212
Sheppard since Derek turned the place upside down looking for his
season tickets to the Leafs. As they closed in on the deadline, it
was often hard to tell which was colder, the coffee or the
pizza.

In the end they decided to go with two
proposals. The first one had a Brett Hull-look alike staring down a
gunslinger, a la ponchoed Clint Eastwood, at high noon in Fort
Dodge. The cowboy in black had his trigger finger ready, the hockey
player his stick half raised, ready to blast away. A tumbleweed
rolled past in a tiny dust bowl. The street was empty except for
Clint and Brett. The townsfolk peeked from behind the doors of the
saloon and through the windows of the general store. Extreme
close-ups featured the beads of sweat rolling down the cowboy's
face, his itchy trigger finger and Brett's cheesy grin. Not a word
is spoken until the end of the thirty second spot, when Brett says
to the gunslinger, "I know you're asking yourself ... how quick am
I today?"

The second proposal featured computer
animation. Two pucks are shot into the net during practice, one off
the crossbar, the other dinging the post. The two pucks compare war
stories and talk about getting out of the racket. The first puck
mentions that he's seriously considering taking part in Quick
Pucks, the new game in town. The second puck turns to him and says,
"you mean we'll be bigger than the zamboni?" The second puck
replies, "Now I know you've had too many slaps to the head."

... 7 ...

Marcotte sat at a long, dark mahogany-topped
table. He was inside the Quick Pucks boardroom at the Lottery
Canada building. May-Ja-Look had done it. Derek received the good
news yesterday. He'd been immersed in a Hockey Bible sporting
equipment ad when the phone rang. After hanging up, he looked at
the price of the skates again. They were still $249. He wasn't
dreaming. They had the job.

The room had that regal splendor that federal
taxes like the GST can never hide. Promises of a country going to
hell in a hand basket -- with a maple leaf-red checkered table
cloth from the 300-year-old Mutiny Bay Company. But whatta ride. It
was here the Quick Puck thinkers decided how many goals they were
going to make the home team favored by. Had any of them ever
actually wagered on a game? Marcotte supposed compulsive gambling
wasn't a related skill you highlighted on your resume.

A large white board was wiped clean. There
were no loose pieces of paper lying around. No evidence of what
games they'd had difficulty on deciding how to place the odds. No
coins that had been flipped and forgotten on the floor.

No matter. He was sitting in the henhouse.
More precisely, the digs of the government goose ... with a
colossal, golden nest egg. May-Ja-Look had finally outfoxed Erskine
after eight long years. If Derek had never been sure of why he'd
entered the advertising business, this moment was a sweet reminder.
He smiled smugly, savoring it. How did he like his eggs?

The Quick Pucks director, Bradley Muldowney,
stood at the head of the table. A large man in his forties, his
contacts at Revenue Canada had kept his salary safe from the
two-year freeze that gripped the majority of government workers'
wages. He commanded attention like a tank at a student
demonstration. He was a dictator in civil servant's clothing.

"We're very pleased with your concept."

"Thank you, " said Derek. "I'm sure it will
translate into great numbers for you."

The intercom on the table buzzed.

"Mr. Muldowney?" The nasal delivery of the
secretary was only slightly less annoying than the buzz.

"Yes, Cynthia," Muldowney said.

"There's a Mr. Erskine here to see you."

Derek snapped to attention. No. It couldn't
be. Not now. A deal's a deal. Erskine was too late. The henhouse
was his. There was no farmer with a gun in this scene.

"Ah, yes. Send him in, please."

Derek willed the door of the boardroom to be
welded shut and permanently sealed. There was no place to run.
Nowhere to hide. Muldowney's golden handshake contained fool's
gold.

But the door did open and Victor Erskine, in
all his gory glory, crossed the threshold. His choreographed
entrance hit a hitch, however, when he saw Derek.

"Victor, good to see you," Muldowney
said.

Erskine acknowledged him, all the while
staring down Marcotte.

Something was up beside the hairs on the back
of Derek's neck. Either Erskine was watching too much daytime drama
on TV, or he was just as surprised as Derek at this ridiculous
rendez-vous.

Muldowney motioned for Erskine to take a seat
across from Marcotte at the head of the table.

"Ah, I believe you know one another.
Good."

Muldowney took his place at the head of the
table. A sterling silver pitcher of ice water with three glasses
was in front of him. More water would be needed to put this fire
out.

"Thank you for dropping by, Victor. I was
just telling Derek how impressed we were with his proposal."
Erskine acknowledged Marcotte as if Derek had just been named
classroom monitor of the month.

"Better to be lucky than good, eh, Marcotte?"
Erskine turned to Muldowney. "Now then, I've got some ideas for the
campaign ..."

Victor hesitated and glanced Derek's way.

"If you wouldn't mind running along ... we've
got business we'd like to discuss."

Muldowney reached for Erskine's arm to
interrupt him.

"On the contrary, Victor. We want you to put
your heads together on this one."

"I don't believe I heard you correctly. It
must be the air conditioning. You want Herculean to team up with --
with ... May-Ja-Look?"

"That is correct."

Muldowney arose from his chair.

"But that's absurd," said Erskine. "You must
be kidding. This is some kind of a joke, right?" Erskine looked
around the room.

"You've got some kind of candid camera set
up, don't you? A blooper tape you're going to show at your
Christmas party."

"I'm afraid not, Victor," Muldowney said.

"But ... we are worlds apart in our
philosophy and marketing approach. You don't mix caviar with
cauliflower."

Derek wanted to leap out of his chair and
attack. The only thing that kept his cheeks massaging the
lemon-pledged seat was knowing a blow-up here would nix the first
real job to fall into his lap in years. Erskine would die two
thousand deaths in due time. Slowly. Another not-so-innocuous
infomercial, brought to you each week by the latest slicing,
dicing, Brussels sprout and ball-splicing kitchen appliance.

But maybe Marcotte should stand first in
line, testicles in hand. Working with Erskine would surely be just
as painful.

Muldowney raised his hand for silence. He
walked to the wall behind his seat. Turning around he flashed
Erskine a cheese-eating grin.

"I'm sure you can work something out."

Derek and Victor's eyes locked together in a
stare that didn't suggest they were mulling over which Yonge Street
bistro they might share lunch. Muldowney sensed the animosity.

"Otherwise you leave me no choice but to
...

He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a
looney. He balanced it on his right thumb nail. Derek was sure it
was his stomach sitting on Muldowney's thumb, waiting to be hurled
end over end in the air. What would hash browns and a western
omelette look like on the short-cut, burgundy carpet?

"No, wait," said Victor. A slight tremor,
measuring 2.8 on the boot-licker scale, made his voice a tad
shakier. "We'll ... uh, work something out."

Muldowney returned the looney to his
pocket.

As Derek got up from his chair, he couldn't
help wondering how many board room decisions Muldowney had made
with the help of the off-pitch, often-pitched, bronzed bird.

... 8 ...

The next day at May-Ja-Look, Marcotte
reclined in his chair. He closed one eye, raised his right arm and
pointed his weapon across the room. With a pull from his trigger
finger, a plastic dart flew through the air. It plugged itself to a
large bull's-eye photo of Erskine on the inside of the closet door.
The shot was off center, nicking Erskine's left ear lobe.

"Damn."

The phone rang. Derek answered it.

"Hello. May-Ja-Look. Marcotte speaking."

"Giving the hired help the afternoon off? How
nice."

"What the hell do you want, Erskine?"

"Relax. I've been giving our dilemma some
thought."

Derek loaded another dart into the dart
gun.

"And?"

"I will take the Quick Pucks campaign off
your hands for the princely sum of $30,000."

Derek snapped the dart at the bull's-eye.
Erskine was minus an eye. Marcotte lowered the plastic pistol to
his lap, waiting for the cry of anguish to come from the other end
of the line.

"No dice."

"Think it over, Marcotte. $30,000 is a few
weeks work for your outfit. Or should I say, months? Splurge, man.
You can put in new carpet, upgrade your software ..."

Derek looked at his well-worn carpet, unable
to remember if it had been green or brown when May-Ja-Look had
moved in.

"Nice try. You and I may be stuck at the hip
in this like some kind of Siamese Samurai, but I'm in it for the
long haul."

"You leave me no alternative," Erskine
said.

Derek loaded another dart into the gun. The
man would have to be put out of his misery.

"Let me guess. Your group insurance doesn't
cover harikari so you're handing your sword over to me."

"I was thinking we could solve this sticky
situation the Canadian way," Erskine said.

That wouldn't be a problem. Marcotte could
disembowel him while humming Gordon Lightfoot's Black Day in July.
Derek took aim once more and fired the dart at the bull's-eye. It
whizzed over Erskine's shoulder. Victor sounded so close.

"A hockey game," Erskine said. "We'll each
pick areas of the country where we can choose players ... like a
hockey pool. International players are up for grabs -- no
restrictions. Though I doubt you'll have the funds to travel
outside the metro area. We play the game in two months. The winner
gets the Quick Pucks campaign ... should Muldowney agree, of
course. Are you game, Marcotte? By the way, how is the knee these
days?"