by Dave Belisle
"As a matter of fact ..." Derek said.
"I didn't see this coming," Artie interrupted. "All I've wanted is what's best for the firm."
"And that's precisely what adding a member will do for us. Make us better."
"Adding?" Artie looked for a chair. The candy apple-red antacid tow truck had arrived and was hauling the ton of twisted steel tension off his back.
"Hey. On our budget we can't exactly multiply. But if we get this contract we'll be on easy street."
Artie settled back in his seat. His mouth was dry but his armpits were drenched. He mopped his furrowed brow. It was no longer a mogul run for beads of perspiration. His pull-over sweater and casual slacks no longer felt like they were made of asbestos. He felt good, if he didn't look it.
"Uh, yeah ... sure. Sounds great."
"We'll get ourselves a consultant who can make our marketing magic really jump out of the hat," Derek said. He stopped and slowly looked Artie up and down.
"Are you feeling okay? You look like shit."
"It's 11:00 and I haven't had my coffee yet. Any particular agency you had in mind?"
"This looks like a job for Bellwether."
... 4 ...
The red metal flag waved goodbye to Sylvie Desjardins as she released the parking meter's knob after depositing a looney. An attractive woman of 29 with nary a worry of 30, she glanced back at her white LeMazze 2X-OOH sports car before stealing a quick look each way down Sheppard. It looked safe enough. There were no car thieves hiding behind mailboxes or peeking out from alleyways. But there were no good Samaritans waving back either, motioning her to go on about her business, that they'd keep an eye on her car.
Toronto was still new to Sylvie. She was wise to the red flags of big city life however, since she'd been old enough to apply rouge. Sylvie was from Montreal. Her father owned a chain of restaurants there and was also a minor share-holder with Mulesin breweries. She'd been well fed and the beer money meant private schools and all the perks. Choosing a career in marketing had thrilled her father ... until she told him she wanted to see more of the country. That was yesterday. She wondered if her dad had eaten yet ... after drinking something stronger than Mulesin Dry.
Sylvie looked up at the short, squat building and slung her handbag over her shoulder. She took a deep breath, walked up the steps and pulled the door open.
... 5 ...
Massaging his temple with one hand, Derek poured over Sylvie's resume. She sat in a chair across the desk from him, trading glances out the window with an occasional peek at him. Crossing her legs, Sylvie checked the hem line of her skirt. She recalled a freshman course in business school that had dabbled in body language. It preached a knee-high location favorably blended professionalism with friendship. She could never remember if it was while standing or sitting. Her calves would convince the confused.
Derek looked up from the resume.
"I need someone who is quick on their feet. Capable of sure-fire proposals. Someone who thinks with their hands ... while they talk with them."
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?"
Derek's left leg twitched. His toes wiggled, trying to calm his suddenly wide awake knee. But like any arthritic joint signalling a change in the weather, it was busy battening down the hatches. Marcotte's knee would have taken a break however -- pain notwithstanding -- for one swift, solid, soccer-style kick in Erskine's pants. Derek would have to unclench his teeth to speak, lest the Herculean hothead see how his latest dig had set off an avalanche of angry, red, raw nerves.
"When do we meet with Muldowney?"
"Tomorrow at noon ... at Grizzlies."
Derek hung up the phone. He threw the dartgun at the bull's eye, shattering it against Erskine's glib and glossy paper face.
... 9 ...
Grizzlies was a dream come true for hibernating hackers. The owner of the Grizzly Bear's Indoor Golf Course was a Jack Nicklaus fanatic. He'd stopped just short however, of infringing on Nicklaus' more popular trademarked moniker, Golden Bear. He did have a shooter bearing that name however, in the bar above the basement-bound golf course.
Marcotte stood off to the side, his back to the protective curtain separating the ever-changing, photographic fairway from the rest of the layout at Grizzlies. A video projector overhead flashed the sand traps and water hazards of a remote Waikiki 18-hole course on the screen facing Bradley Muldowney. The Quick Pucks boss squinted at the lava- scourged mountain slope to the right of the fairway.