Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [62]
“Barney, please.”
“They ought to trade Koivu for another Finnish midget,” I said, joining in the chorus of boos.
A no-name Senator hopped out of the penalty box, gathered in the puck, skated in all alone on our petrified goalie, who naturally went down too soon, and lifted one over his blocker arm. Five–one Ottawa. Disgusted fans began to cheer the visitors. Programs were thrown on the ice. I yanked off my rubbers and aimed them at Turgeon.
“Barney, control yourself.”
“Shettup.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How am I supposed to concentrate on the game with your nonstop chattering?”
The game was almost over before I noticed that a touchy Solange had quit her seat. Ottawa won, seven–three. I retreated to Dink’s, grieving over a couple of Macallans before I called Solange. But it was Chantal who answered the phone. “I want to speak to your mother,” I said.
“She doesn’t want to speak to you.”
“She behaved childishly tonight. Walking out on me. I lost my rubbers, and tripped on the ice outside, and almost broke a leg before I found a taxi. Did you watch the game on TV?”
“Yes.”
“That prick Savard never should have traded Chelios. If your mother won’t come to the phone, I’m getting into a taxi and I’ll be at your place in five minutes. She owes me an apology.”
“We won’t answer the door.”
“You make me sick, both of you.”
Guilt-ridden, and late as it was, there was nothing for it but to phone Kate to tell her how badly I had behaved. “What do I do now?” I asked.
“Send flowers first thing tomorrow morning.”
But flowers were for Miriam, and to send them to anybody else, Solange included, would amount to a betrayal. “I think not,” I said.
“Chocolates?”
“Kate, are you busy tomorrow?”
“Not especially. Why?”
“What if I flew in for the day and the two of us went out for a bang-up lunch.”
“In the Prince Arthur Room?”
Even after all these years, I choked up.
“Daddy, are you there?”
“Book us a table at Prego’s.”
“May I bring Gavin?”
Damn damn damn. “Sure,” I said, but early Sunday morning I cancelled out. “I’m not up to it today, darling. Maybe next week.”
Monday morning, if only to demonstrate to my employees that I’m not yet totally dispensable, and can still do more than sign cheques, I went into the office, where Chantal immediately greeted me with bad news. Our latest, godawful expensive pilot was rich in meaningful, life-enhancing action: gay smooching, visible-minority nice guys, car chases ending in mayhem, rape, murder, a soupçon of S&M, and a dab of New Age idiocies. I had hoped it would fill CBC-TV’s nine p.m. Thursday slot. But we had lost out to an even more appalling series to be produced by The Amigos Three bunch in Toronto. It was the second time this year that goniff Bobby Tarlis, chief honcho of Amigos Three, had done us in. Worse news. Suddenly the once puissant McIver of the RCMP series was slipping in the ratings, and CBC was threatening to drop it. This prompted a visit to my office by my Trinity of Twits: Gabe Orlansky, story editor, accompanied by executive producer Marty Klein, and director Serge Lacroix. An apprehensive Chantal trailed after them, notebook in hand. The Trinity agreed we had to goose up the cast for openers. Case in point: Solange Renault, who had played the settlement nurse since the beginning of the series eight years earlier, was now far too old. “She could be killed off,” said Gabe.
“Then what?” I asked, coming to the boil.
“Do you ever take in Baywatch?”
“You mean we’re going to have bimbos in handkerchief-size bikinis frolicking in the snow North of Sixty?”
“I think we’ve got a consensus here, among your creative people, that we need a new nurse,” said Gabe. “So I want you to look at these.”
“I hope you’re not screwing her, Gabe. Three months after a triple bypass. Shame on you.”
“We’ve got to shake things up, Barney. Get rid of the deadwood. I had a focus group look at two new episodes and the character they found least simpatico was played by Solange.”
“Speaking of deadwood, before Solange goes, all of