by Dave Belisle
"That will be all, Mr. Marcotte. Good day, sir."
Derek left. He wasn't going to say please.
Dolby paused to take off his glasses and wipe them with his handkerchief.
"Beating Herculean. Hmmph. Imagine that."
Derek tried other banks but the outcome was the same. Nobody was going to help finance his hockey team. They wanted solid collateral when he didn't even have a good colander. He tried several scams but none survived long enough to see any names scrawled on dotted lines. He came close to floating a loan on a two-week waiver through the Bank of Newfoundland ... until the bank manager asked for proof that he was the long lost son of Stompin' Tom Connors. Mangled versions of "The Hockey Song" and an encore of "Bud the Spud" brought a few grins, but no greenbacks.
... 6 ...
Dennis Tortellini tucked one of Marcotte's flyers promoting the hockey game under the German-made Raudi 300's windshield wiper. The bold print leapt off the leaflet: "WORLD CLASS TALENT", "EXCITING EXHIBITION", "TICKETS STILL AVAILABLE". All of them were.
The car's owner, a yuppy stock broker in a Steve St. Laurent polo shirt, was facing the other way. He was engaged on his cellular phone with another young urban putz. The line of conversation was futures investments.
"The price is right. We've got to jump in with both feet," said the broker.
"I'm not sure," the investor said. "My portfolio is spread all over hell's half acre right now." One of those portfolio moves had been another tip from the Raudi 300 broker, which saw him move $200 a week from the Jaymes Bond Fund into the Benign Growth Fund. It was down a cancerous 23 percent on the year.
"So get something that will stay in one place ... pork bellies."
"Pork bellies? Please ... I just ate."
Tortellini reached inside the tow truck's cab and pressed a button. The German import slowly lifted into the air.
"Look, I gave you Grandalf when it was eighty cents," the broker said. "You made a killing at eight bucks. Well this month, we're wallowin' in pork bellies. Are you in or not?"
"I don't know. You've seen one pork belly, you've seen'em all. Can't you find something fashionable? Something I can brag about at the golf club?"
A white stretch limo pulled out of the parking lot. Dennis turned to watch. Admiring the lines of the pseudo-ocean liner, his gaze finished upon the vanity plate "ERSKINE." Tortellini quickly reached inside the cab and hit a switch. The Raudi dropped unceremoniously to the ground
"All right, all right," the broker said. He turned around to see his car bouncing without a trampoline. "Let me get back ... Hey!" Car insurance rates instantly replaced Omaha futures.
"Jesus H. Christ! What the hell are you doing?" he yelled. The Raudi finished its pogo stick impression.
. "If you're still here when I get back," Tortellini said, " ... I'll tow you in."
Dennis unhooked the chains from the Raudi and threw them in the back of the tow truck. He yanked himself into the truck's cab and started the engine. The broker ran over to the driver's side of the truck and looked up at Tortellini.
Human emotion is tougher to read than the board at the stock exchange. There, the three-letter symbols run right to left, non-stop ... painlessly bleeding into one another. The corresponding plus or minus sign triggers joy or sorrow. The tow truck driver's smile simply didn't compute.
"But I'm going to miss my meeting!"
"Well then, I guess you'll have plenty to say at the next one."
Dennis Tortellini pulled out into traffic and followed the white limo. It was a block ahead, stopped at a light. He reached for the mike on the CB radio.
"Breaker, breaker, one-nine. This is the Chain Man. Come in, Missing Links."
Donnie drove the other Tortellini tow truck through early afternoon traffic on the #401. Dino rode shotgun, his head stuck in the Toronto Sun. The message from Dennis had just crackled through.
"Why does he say that?" asked Donnie.
"Dunno. I checked the chains last week. Everything's hunky-dory."
Donnie reached for the CB mike.
"What's up?
"Our friend, Erskine, is heading onto the #401 on the Anderson ramp, goin' west in a white limo. What donut shop are you guys at anyway?"
"Donuts? We're just leaving the titty bar," Donnie said, winking to Dino. Dino leaned over to the mike. "Venus de Dildo was asking for you."
Dennis had dragged them out of a strip club on more than one occasion. A week before, Dennis found Donnie outside Le Boot, one of the city's sleazier joints, fixing a flat tire. Meanwhile, Dino was inside, fixing to go home with one of the flat-chested peelers.
"We're heading west on Granville," Donnie said. "We just passed Tremont."
"Okay. You guys go over to the Fairmont overpass and show him a little Scarborough hospitality."
Donnie hung up the CB and hung a quick left on Steward. They were half a mile from the Fairmont Street bridge.
Minutes later, they parked their truck in the break-down lane atop the Fairmont overpass, overlooking the #401. A middle-aged man in a windbreaker walked his Rottweiler a short distance away. A slight easterly breeze set sail a discarded Globe and Pail third page story on drunk driving and promptly wrapped it around a telephone pole. Donnie and Dino were standing in front of the tow truck. They were fighting over a 15" steel-belted radial tire as if it were some stripper who had fallen off the stage at Le Boot.
"Leggo, it's my turn," said Donnie.
"No way, man. It's mine," shot back Dino.
"Whaddaya talkin' about? You had that Japanese job last week on Dunnigan."
"Yeah." Dino said. "But I missed it."
"Shit. I'm not waitin' until you get lucky and hit one," Donnie said.
The two continued struggling over the tire. It was Donnie who saw the approaching limo first.
Most people remember their first car. Fewer remember what size engine was under the hood. Donnie however, prided himself on having intimate knowledge of the illuminating 91-year history of automotive headlights. Spotting a limo from 1200 yards was child's play.
Donnie nodded toward the oncoming traffic below. At the same time half a block away, George Ackerman cycled toward them.
Ackerman was concentrating on his pacing and rhythm. He sneaked a peek down to admire his pumping thighs. He was in the cyclist's zone ... a zone with a current speed limit of 45 kilometres per hour. The wind whipped through his purple turtle shell helmet. He had a bad habit of glancing sideways at large store windows to admire the reflection of the helmet's flashy fluorescent racing stripes.
The muffled roar of the #401 below spilled upward over the railing. George's concentration wavered on a fine line between nervous and exhilarant energy. His legs told his heart that a decrease in speed would be welcomed. But his head reminded his heart that the brunette watering her flowers, eighty yards distant at 3 o'clock, might look up in an instant to admire his rock hard biker calves. With that inspiration, Ackerman imagined himself on the final leg of the Tour de France.
The man walking his Rottweiler was shouting Ackerman’s name out, urging him on. A sports car driven by a little old lady with bifocals passed him, assuming the pace car position. The parked tow truck turned into a table with dozens of cups of gator-ale. He'd better swerve to miss it. Not by too much though. He was thirsty. He reached out to grab one of the many imaginary cups.
"Leggo. There it is," said Donnie.
Dino saw Ackerman and released the tire. Donnie tumbled backwards into the street, off balance. Clutching the tire, he fell into the path of the hard charging Ackerman.
George's dreams of the yellow shirt were dashed. He would later tell the orderly at Our Lady of Gusto Hospital that he was sideswiped by a member of Lazy Bart's Rust-Proofing team. The nurse bandaged up the six-inch wide snow tire smudge on the side of his face.
"How long have you been racing dirt bikes?" she asked.
Dino jumped forward, grabbed the tire that loosely framed Ackerman's noggin and rushed over to the rai
ling with the rubber. He stared down at the traffic disappearing underneath the overpass. He nodded his head up and down, getting the timing down as Erskine's car approached. He and Donnie had only been kidding before when they'd spoke about throwing tires at cars. The intent was to have the tire land in front of the car and cause a blow-out. Unfortunately they didn't have the cover of darkness. But there were plenty of cars zipping by at 90 kilometres an hour or better. For serious tow truck tire tossers, this was a catch-22 situation. More targets were available ... but there was a greater chance of landing in the hoose-gow.
The stretch limo was two hundred yards distant and approaching fast. A gap of sixty yards had opened up between it and a station wagon ahead of it. Piece of cake, thought Donnie. He hurled the tire over the side. He leaned over to watch the radial drop like a rock. The limo ran into the tire the same time as Ackerman's bicycle crash-landed on the hood of the car.
Dino turned to see his brother, twenty feet to his left, further down the railing.
"It's my turn," said Donnie with a smirk.
A disgusted Erskine stood beside the smoking, banged-up vehicle. Dennis pulled his tow truck in behind the car. He hopped out of the cab, saw the bike and stopped short.
"Holy shit. Where's the guy on the bike?"
"There is none."
"Wow. That bad, eh?"
Dennis respectfully took off his baseball cap.
"No, no," said Erskine. "I meant to say there was no one riding it. It was just the bicycle and ... that."
Erskine pointed to the tire.
"Someone must have dumped them over the railing," he said, pointing overhead.
Dennis cocked one eye.
"Kids probably. This neighborhood is bad for gangs. Maybe they mistook you for a rival member."
"In a stretch limousine?" Erskine was incredulous.
"Long, short ... old, new -- these kids will steal anything. They sure as hell aren't riding ten speeds anymore," Dennis said. They both looked at the mangled ten speed imbedded in the grill of the caddy.
"They make sure of that," Dennis said as he began to hitch up the chains.
Dennis unhitched Erskine's mangled car from the tow truck. Nearby, Victor was in the middle of a cellular phone call. The phone's state-of-the-art technology had difficulty withstanding the heated conversation Erskine was having with a local taxi dispatch.
"I want a fucking cab now! What word don't you understand?"
Erskine slapped the flip phone shut and stuffed it back in his sport jacket.
Dennis motioned to the garage.
"This guy's great. Good prices for good work. He'll have you back on the road in no time ... no matter what you hit."
Erskine started for the garage, head down ... and almost bumped into Ray Marcotte. Neither man recognized the other. Dennis climbed back into the truck and started the motor. Ray nodded toward the damaged car and smirked.
"What's the other guy look like?"
Erskine looked around, weighing the tire and bicycle story. Dennis pulled his tow truck up alongside the two men. He waved to Ray and pulled out into traffic. Erskine turned and started walking toward the garage. Ray walked with him.
"It was a single-car accident. I ran into some ... uh, debris on the #401."
"City streets are filled with more crap than the damn government," Ray said.
Ray lifted the mangled hood and inspected the damage.
"When will it be ready?"
Ray squinted at Erskine.
"Humpty Dumpty ran into the bleedin' wall here ... and only one of the king's horsemen is on duty."
"Look ... uh, Ray. Erskine finished the sentence like he was swallowing a burp.
"I'm a very busy man."
"Twenty-five hundred. Add 15% to that if you want a receipt."
Ray never lifted his head from under the hood. He'd have no problem hiking the figure another $500 if only to show this fruit-in-a-suit just how busy he was himself. The mental battle waged on for a few seconds as Erskine silently chewed on the estimate.
"Where's that damn cab? A pox on them all."
"Hell, they're my best customers," said the elder Marcotte.
"Perhaps we could cut short the small talk and you could concentrate on my car?"
Ray slowly lifted his head out from under the hood and wiped his dirty hands on a rag.
"Hard as it is to believe ... I'm working on somebody else's right now."
The shrill scream in Erskine's head went unnoticed as the meaty mechanic increased the thumbscrews another half-turn.
A nearby horn honked. It was Erskine's cab. He reached inside his pocket and produced a business card. He handed it to Ray. Ray stuffed it in his pocket without looking at it. He already had a severe hate on for the guy. He didn't want to have to put a name to it, making it that much easier to remember.
"Call me when it's ready," Erskine said. "There's an extra $300 in it for you ... if you have it ready by Friday."
Erskine walked over to the cab and disappeared inside. Ray watched the taxi drive off and walked over to the pop vending machine beside the door. He bashed out a can of Peppy-Cola.
Marcotte took a slug and turned around to admire a suddenly asshole-free afternoon. His stare followed the passing M42 bus and the long billboard ad along its side. The ad was a notice for relatives of soldiers who served in the War of 1812. They were organizing a class-action suit seeking financial compensation from the government. Marcotte's eyes hopped off the bus, settling on Erskine's car. His squint squared itself. The limo's vanity plate, "ERSKINE" sneered back at him. He pulled Erskine's card back out of his pocket for confirmation. Holding the card in his left hand, he wiped the grease around his forehead with the oily rag in his right.
"Oh, you'll pay extra, bastard ... you'll pay."
... 7 ...
Derek looked into the ice cubes of his Fountain Dew and Southern Contort whiskey. He'd heard how magazine photographers in the '60s and '70s had snuck in pictures of ghouls and ghosts in the ice cubes of squat and tall glasses of booze ads. He supposed it was the print medium's version of satanic messages played backwards on old LPs. Of course, if you looked at a banana peel long enough, you could see Bobby Orr flying through the air after scoring his overtime Stanley Cup-winning goal in 1970.
But Derek had looked into his drink long enough. He twirled the swizzle stick, much like Barclay Plager had done with his hockey stick, to upend Orr on the famous goal. When Derek looked up to see his lunch date, Sylvie, across the table from him, he blushed a goal-light red.
He'd scored alright. There was something special about Sylvie. She'd passed the initial tests of naming the junior teams for a half dozen NHLers ... and the team colors for the past three expansion teams. But there was more to it. From the til-death-do-us-part grip she held his hand with, in their headlong dash across the street to beat the light ... to laughing in all the right places while watching Slapshot ... her bubbly, contagious laughter left his heart fluttering like a Gretzky centering pass.
Sylvie hadn't taken her eyes off him since they'd sat down. It was a subtle stare ... the female's telescopic-vision surveillance. She watched the knife in his right hand, her attention zooming in on the knife's serrated edges as they pierced the surface of the roast beef. The unconscious switch of the silverware soon found the fork in his right hand, stabbing at the just-cut morsel. He dabbed the meat in the gravy and hoisted it skyward. A glop of gravy threatened to jump off. Sylvie bit her lip and became that glop, urging it to hang on. The fork closed in on Derek's mouth. It paused. Sylvie held her breath, her eyes widened. She was a glop waiting to drop. The utensil made a U-turn. And another. Sylvie felt nauseous. Derek's fork was drawing figure eights in the air with her riding a chunk of gravy-bathed meat loaf.
Caught in the act, her eyes met his. He stopped waving the meatloaf and held it in front of him. His eyebrows asked her if she wanted it. She shook her head and finally returned to her plate.
Toying with her own club sandwich,
she knew she was playing with fire. They'd been sitting at Chez Sam's for twenty minutes and hadn't spoken twenty words. Their minds however, were locked inside the cockpits of race cars entering the grandstand stretch. It mattered little that he was married. He was intelligent, charming, handsome ... and unhappy. He was hers. She took a sip from her Heaven-Up to slake the quake inside her.
... 8 ...
A matronly woman looked matter-of-factly at the wooden bench outside the offices of May-Ja-Look. The large ad on its backrest read: "THE SERPENTS CAN BEAT THESE LEAFS."
Derek sat at his desk, warily eyeing his father who sat before him in one of the fake-lizard leather lounge chairs. Derek could count the number of times on one hand his father had visited him at the office. Most had been colander conversations. Relationships going in ... had come out strained.
"Seems to me you're going to have a tough time scouting players in Brockville, let alone B.C."
"Boston College or British Columbia?" Derek smirked. He knew his dad meant the West Coast. What the hell was his old man doing in his office? His father's lunch breaks were usually spent spewing whole wheat crumbs from ham and cheese sandwiches into carburetors. Derek's engine had been running just nicely until twenty minutes ago. He was not in the mood for another dressing down.
"We'll manage," Derek said.
"How?"
Derek shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"We can probably get as far as Saskat--... I mean, Manitoba." Derek would just as soon lie to his father as he would play goal without a jockstrap.
"Is that before or after they take your credit card away from you?"
"Dammit, dad. What the hell do you care?" Derek bit his tongue. He hadn't spoken to his father like this since he'd defended opening "May-Ja-Look" in the first place. His father had wanted him to follow in his footsteps and eventually take over the garage. If playing in the NHL had been Ray's first wish for his son, then following in his steel-toed footsteps was a close second. It would make for a soft landing if the dream didn't come true.