Free The Uninvited Guest by John Degen

tonight,” Fred advised. “I know at least five places within three blocks of each other. They’ll all take your head off. Too bad they didn’t send us here next week ’cause then there’d be the festival and you wouldn’t be able to turn a corner without hearing jazz. If it’s women you’re looking for, just walk into any bar and open your eyes. There’s strip clubs like crazy on Sainte-Catherine’s, but they’re all pros, you know. It’s simple and hassle free, but not very warm, you know what I mean? You want to meet someone, Saint-Laurent is where the French girls hang out—and trust me, when you’re in Montreal, you want to meet a French girl. Break my fucking heart.”
    â€œI’m not leaving the hotel tonight, Fred,” Tony replied. “I’ve got to watch the Cup.”
    â€œWhat’s the Cup going to do?”
    â€œWithout me, I don’t know, that’s the problem. It’s my job to watch that Cup.”
    â€œThat’s some important cup then?”
    Tony turned in his seat and looked at Fred. He’d already mentioned the Cup several times on the 401. They had carried it together in its black case from the security lock-up at Dorval and slid it in beside Stan’s casket. Now they were driving with it into downtown Montreal, the city that had won the Cup more than any other city, the city that by rights owned the Cup. If they were to stop on the side of the freeway and pull the Cup out of its case, they would cause a huge traffic jam with people pulling over to get a look at it. If the citizens of this city knew that tomorrow Tony would be taking the Cup out of Montreal and driving it to Toronto, they would blockade Highway 401.
    The Cup meant more to more people in Montreal than any jazz club or beautiful bartender ever would, and yet here was a young man, of hockey-playing, hockey-watching age who had seemingly never even heard of it. It was absurd. Tony had played with a miniature replica of the Cup in his crib. He had won and lost that little plastic Cup over and over playing table hockey with his friends. Each year he had begun the playoffs with the plastic Cup in his hand, waiting for Toronto to win so he and his father could drink champagne from it like he’d been promised. And each year, he didn’t drink champagne from it. He had seen the real Cup at the Hall of Fame when he was ten, and again every year since then until the League hired him. Since that day, he knew exactly how many times, the actual number of times he had been allowed to touch the Cup. Helping Stan with his travel schedule, and getting him ready for almost every trip for the past three years, Tony had been asked to pick up the Cup seventy-four times.
    Tonight had been seventy-five, and number one for Fred, though Fred wasn’t aware anything significant had occurred. Tony looked at Fred and wondered what it must be like to be unaware of this cup.
    â€œYes, it is an important cup. Valuable anyway.”
    â€œValuable? A trophy? How much could a trophy cost?”
    â€œWell, Fred, think of it this way. You think we’ve been sent here to pick up poor old Stan, the guy in the back there, but if it weren’t for that cup beside him, old Stan would have ridden home in the belly of an airplane beside people’s pets and luggage. That cup is the only reason Stan is getting this great chauffeured ride back to Toronto. So, once something like this cup is more important than a person’s dignity, how much would you say that thing is worth?”
    â€œThat’s one fucking important cup, then.”
    In his hotel room on the twenty-third floor of the Sheraton, Tony removed the Cup from its case and set it on the floor near the window. He liked jazz and he liked women. Before leaving for the evening, Fred had stopped by Tony’s room and marked out some likely hotspots on a tourist map.
    From his window, looking north