Three Scoops is a Blast! Page 11

  RUSS: I think she can delve into your sub-conscious better than I can.

  BRAD: That might make sense when it comes to my job or my relationships. But it doesn’t explain how she got the bet right.

  RUSS: Don’t you have a theory that explains it? You’re always saying you cause what happens to your favorite teams. If you don’t do things in exactly a certain way, you’ll put a curse on them. For example, you know sometimes they play better when you’re not watching.

  BRAD: That can’t really be possible. There are billions of people in the world. I can’t have a direct personal influence on the way a game turns out. Although I have to admit it does seem that way sometimes, doesn’t it. If I don’t put on my game-day jersey with the salsa stain on the front, comb what’s left of my hair in the wrong direction and eat nachos, they usually lose.

  RUSS: It’s the deep sub-conscious at work. It’s where Sheila lives and thrives.

  BRAD: That’s amazing. She can really go in there and make those things happen?

  RUSS: Naw, I’m putting you on. I saw how she got the bet right. She flipped a coin.

  BRAD: That can’t be true. Are you telling me I risked $1,000 on a coin toss?

  RUSS: Yep. And you won $3,000. Pretty sweet, don’t you think?

  BRAD: Okay, I still need some insight anyway. You know I’ve been seeing this new girl, Karen. I really like her.

  RUSS: I am aware of that. I told you she was right for you. But only after Sheila gave her nod of approval.

  BRAD: Right, well now I’ve bought her a ring and I’m thinking of asking her to marry me tonight. But I don’t know, I’m starting to have second thoughts.

  RUSS: Why, what’s the matter?

  BRAD: For one thing, if I tell her about you two, she’ll think I’m crazy.

  RUSS: Go ahead and ask her to marry you. Sheila is convinced she’s right for you. And her intuition in these matters is dead on.

  BRAD (not entirely convinced): We’ll see.

  Later that evening, Brad and Karen enjoyed a spectacular meal at their favourite Bistro. They were seated at a table with two extra spaces. At first, Karen was mildly disappointed since she noticed there were several intimate and romantic one-on-one table settings in remote candle-lit corners of the room. But the food and ambience were so good, she quickly recovered.

  Finally, Brad broached the subject that had been dominating his thoughts for days. He asked Karen to marry him. But before she could answer, he explained there was something he had to tell her. Something that she might find alarming and which could cause their break-up.

  Out of fairness, he wanted to make her aware of his one idiosyncrasy. He didn’t want Karen committing to something she might regret later. He told her about Russell to begin with and then he went on to outline the newest revelations about someone named Sheila.

  Karen was less shocked than Fred thought she would be, although her first question wasn’t much of a surprise.

  KAREN: Is that why we’re sitting at a table in the middle of the room with two extra chairs?

  BRAD: Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit one of the side-effects of my condition is rampant superstition. I thought it appropriate that Russell and Sheila be here tonight for this big event.

  KAREN: Then let me say you’ve made a big mistake.

  BRAD: I was afraid of that. I’m so sorry. I’ll go far away and leave you in peace.

  KAREN: That’s not what I meant. What I’m saying is when you made the reservation for four, you should have made it for six. (Pause and deep breath.) I have some friends I would like you to meet as well.

  The Personal Injury Attorneys to the Stars

  February 19, 2010

  Tracy Tinsdale was at her wits’ end. This was the Olympics in which she was supposed to shine. Instead, she was struggling again. While the problem was mainly mental, it wasn’t all her fault. In fact, her condition had recently been given a name. It was going down in the medical books as a modern ailment. Often, despite all efforts to resist, she would find her head spinning like a figure skating diva.

  Her Olympic career had started at the Vancouver-Whistler Games. Tracy was a star in the firmament of ladies’ downhill, super G and giant slalom ski racing. At the age of 18 in 2010, she made a respectable showing but didn’t make it to the podium. That had never really been in anyone’s expectations, including her own.

  The media spokespeople used the usual phrases to describe her first appearances on the Olympic stage. She was coming back nicely from injury, a bad bruise from a nasty fall in a world cup event at Val d’isére France. She was well-positioned for the next Olympics scheduled for 2014 in Sochi Russia. And she recorded several personal bests. No wins, but personal bests. That was the consolation prize that had seen many other top athletes through tough times.

  When the 2014 Games arrived and Tracy again failed to medal, there was more disappointment expressed at her performances. But she stepped up in the rankings. Also, in events immediately prior to and after the Olympics, she did very well. In fact, her career took off. The product endorsements flowed in and life in general became much easier. Still, there was the nagging dissatisfaction with failing to achieve success under the biggest microscope of all, the Winter Games.

  Now it was 2018 and this was supposed to be Tracy’s year. In fact, the whole nation was counting on her. What everyone else did not know, however, was that Tracy had developed a severe case of nervous distraction. The offending party was advertising. She consulted, in secret, several sports psychologists and was surprised and relieved to hear she was not alone in her distress.

  In fact, the medical fraternity had only recently given her condition a name – Games Advertising Philia or GAP for short, not to be confused with the clothing store chain that had its own love of advertising. Rather than putting her mental energies to work attempting to analyze her moves on the hill, Tracy was spending all of her time trying to figure out how various products might be of benefit to her.

  The Olympics were a special case when it came to promotional efforts. Every firm wanted to tie its products or services to the Games in some way. This resulted in some strange alignments. Tracy could imagine the connection between an athlete’s training regimen and healthy food products, energy drinks and vitamins. This might also extend to coffee. Many people need a jolt to wake up in the morning. And beer. Lots of people need a relaxant to take the edge off after a stressful day.

  The connection was more tenuous when it came to motor oil, rust-proofing and auto body shops. Of course, there was always the issue of transporting oneself to various venues. The relevance of other ads was more remote. Computers? Come to think of it, Tracy was able to study her digitally recorded moves on her laptop while resting. How about cell phones? She laughed to herself when she imagined phoning for the latest weather conditions as she was hurtling down the slopes.

  Financial services? Tracy struggled to come up with much of a connection. Except she would be more likely to put this product to good use if she came first or second in one of her events. The lost opportunity cost of failure was steep.

  Nevertheless, Tracy’s obsession with advertising was jeopardizing her chances of success. What she would have dearly liked was the insertion of video messages in the lens’ corners of her goggles. That way she could monitor products and services while both training and racing. Alas, that day was still some distance away.

  To give the appearance of de-commercializing the Games, actual signage was banned from ice stadium boards and the fencing along mountain ski runs. It was a smart public relations move by Games organizers. Tracy was grateful for that much. She had no resistance to temptation. Had the signs been up, she knew she would be pausing to check them out while shushing down the slopes.

  Tracy had it bad. Her addiction to advertising was debilitating. Thankfully, she’d learned one valuable lesson in life. Be careful who you jettison on your trail to the top. The people you encounter along the way can be really important to you. You never kn
ow who is going to become your friend over the longer course of life.

  Tracy had met Inga way back in Vancouver. Inga was from Estonia and they’d been bitter rivals on the skiing circuit. Tracy had found Inga’s aggressive approach to competition off-putting. But over the years, they had developed a grudging respect for each other, at first, and then a deeper appreciation and affection.

  Ultimately, Inga was the one Tracy chose to confide in. Missing gold, silver or bronze was costing Tracy millions of dollars in extra endorsements. Somebody should be made to pay. Inga had contacts who would know what to do.

  While Inga represented an Eastern European nation in sporting events, she did her training in the United States. She became part of an active expatriate community. Inga was the one who introduced Tracy to certain people who were able to help her, along with several others, when her latest Olympic dreams collapsed.

  Sven Lindquist and Vladimir Kolnitzen were a pair of North American-trained lawyers who respectively left their homelands in Sweden and Russia in their early teens. Standing somewhat apart from their other classmates, they became close friends in law school and set up practice together as personal injury attorneys. Initially, they represented asbestos workers and motorcycle accident victims.

  Lately, they had branched out into a new lucrative arena of legalistic legerdemain. They started taking on the grievance cases of champions whose mental faculties, senses of well-being and, not insignificantly, financial fortunes had been adversely impaired by corporate advertising. Due recompense was their stock in trade.

  Inga took Tracy to meet the attorneys, who both had shiny tiny eyes. The quartet sat down at the law firm’s opulent board-room table to discuss strategy and set long-term goals. Tracy was doubly pleased with the meeting for another reason.

  Lindquist and Kolnitzen had written a catchy jingo that was ubiquitous over the airwaves. As a result, they became minor celebrities in their own right.

  “When an ad goes bad, call Sven and Vlad,” was the opening to their pitch. It was highly effective at pulling in an elite clientele for class-action GAP cases. The beauty of the proposal lay in the infinite number of enterprises that could be sued.

  The irony of going after companies for lost advertising revenue caused by a surfeit of advertising was lost on Tracy. Not so, the law firm of Lindquist and Kolnitzen.

  Chasing a Murderer into Polar Bear Country

  March 2, 2010

  Chief Inspector Beige was glad to be home. He’d spent three days entangled in the lives of the rich and famous and, never before, had he been so off-balance in all his 45 years. It had been a roller-coaster ride that lost its amusement appeal long before the final plummet.

  Beige’s detective career spanned a decade. He was recognized as Toronto’s finest when it came to solving crime. That’s why he’d been assigned to investigate the mysterious disappearance of paparazzi-favourite, Shirley Soame, girlfriend of hockey legend Robert St. Pierre. Possible victim and villain were too high-profile to risk ham-handed treatment by anyone else in the force.

  Shirley had been missing for four days when Beige was put on the case. The public relations firm she worked for contacted the police because she failed to show up for several key client meetings and there was no answer either at her home phone number or on her cell. She was a rising star with the firm and this kind of disregard for her responsibilities had never happened before.

  There had been considerable coverage by the media of the fiery public spats St. Pierre and Shirley engaged in. Their relationship was a volcano that often erupted and the emotional lava would ignite many a social gathering. What was it doing to the feelings the two principals had for each other? How long could such volatility be sustained without serious trouble?

  Shirley had gone missing first and then St. Pierre had taken a powder two days later. It was time to start questioning friends and neighbours. Beige started with a canvas of the other occupants of the waterfront condo where St. Pierre and Shirley sometimes passed their time in co-habitation.

  St. Pierre now played hockey for the Annaheim “Quacks”. Earlier in his career, he’d been a stalwart of the Leafs. Due to his Canadian heritage, he still maintained a residence in Toronto while commuting half the year to California. He’d most recently returned to the city to play against the Leafs but failed to show at the airport for the next leg of the team’s road trip.

  Beige learned nothing from the first two doors he knocked on down the corridor from St. Pierre’s unit, but he was rewarded on his third try. After noting his credentials, a charming young model-type by the name of Peg invited him in and offered to serve coffee. Then she spilled the beans on what she knew about the stormy relationship of her “almost” best friends.

  Peg was visiting Shirley on Sunday afternoon when St. Pierre arrived home after a team meeting. From the rear of the apartment, he charged back into the kitchen area clearly upset. He wanted to know why his jock strap was lying on the floor in the bedroom. He certainly hadn’t put it on to walk around the apartment and his suspicions about Shirley’s relationships with other athletes were well known. What kind of shenanigans had Shirley been up to during his brief absence?

  Shirley had a perfectly logical explanation. On a lark, according to her, she’d worn St. Pierre’s jock strap to her pole dancing class that morning. It was an amusing substitute for a G-string, she said. The instructor and other participants went into hysterics. They thought it was hilarious. The fact it belonged to one of the best hockey players in the world added extra spice to the gambit.

  St. Pierre was not amused. One-half skeptical about the veracity of this tale and one-half annoyed about his private and personal property being trotted out in such a public way, he wouldn’t let go of his anger. Peg quietly backed out of the apartment. She could hear the two of them shouting even after she closed the front door and scurried down the hall to her own abode.

  Beige appreciated the insight into the private lives of the two high-profile individuals. But was he really supposed to consider that harm came to Shirley over an argument about a jock strap? There are things one can develop a sentimental attachment to, but a jock strap? On the other hand, who knew what went on in the mind of a star hockey player? A number of them were said to have mighty strange superstitions. “Don’t touch my jock strap” might be St. Pierre’s.

  The jock strap argument had occurred on Sunday afternoon. It was Wednesday by the time Beige got around to his interview with Peg. The rest of the morning led nowhere and Beige returned to his precinct office. Web traffic and the airwaves were abuzz with speculation about what had happened to Shirley. St. Pierre’s whereabouts were also a matter of intense conjecture.

  That’s when the phone call came that would soon take Beige on a northern adventure and alter his notion of normalcy. The caller was an informant, a former Leaf’s fan upset with St. Pierre’s defection to a team in the United States, who reported the left winger had recently returned to his home town of Frostbite on the shores of James Bay, where Ontario meets Nunavut. This chromite mining community, replete with generations of hard-scrabble men, has a praise-worthy history of producing some of the NHL’s toughest and longest-lasting hockey players.

  After some prodding by his commander, Beige hopped a plane the next day for Sudbury, then drove a rented car as far north as geese can fly. Thursday evening around 8 p.m., Beige walked into the drinking lounge of the Palace Hotel in downtown Frostbite. The other patrons of the watering hole had rarely seen a sight quite like Beige.

  Beige was a brilliant detective, but he had his eccentricities. Some of them were physical. He was slightly balding, wore horn-rimmed glasses and barely met the height requirement that was in place when he joined the force. He dressed in vested suits that hid a bit of a bulge and in no way did he look the part of a crack homicide investigator. His bemused expression lent him an unfocused air that fooled many a bad guy into dropping his or her guard, leading to an arrest.

  But it was Beige’s secret
weapon that was his most effective tool. It was secret in the sense few could guess at its full purpose, but the actual object was always in plain sight. Beige’s frustration with keeping track of notes during his inquiries had led to a simple solution. Years ago, he started carrying around the most pertinent items pertaining to his cases in a white plastic recycling bin. That’s where he kept all his files, his notes and his character studies.