Cold City Streets (5 page)

The kid looked around furtively, then whispered, “I don’t really have a seat, mister…”

“Tate. Cobi Tate. You shouldn’t have snuck in.”

“Okay. Look… that guard’s not paying attention anymore. Can I go?”

“Sure. Look, kid…” Cobi said.

“I’m not a kid,” he said. “I’m nineteen.”

“Okay, Thomas…”

“It’s Tommy, or Tom. My parents called me Tommy. But that’s okay… just…thank you, okay?” Tommy was genuinely touched. No one had ever stood up for him like that before. He frowned slightly, wondering what the man’s angle had been. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“It’s cool,” Cobi said. “You know… learn from it, right? Where I come from, a man in uniform stopping you is an everyday kind of thing.”

“Really?” The kid looked surprised, impressed even.

“For true,” Cobi confirmed. If the kid had asked for details, he wouldn’t have lied; sometimes it felt good standing up to the man.

“Yeah… It’s tough, you know,” Tommy said. “Dudes like that are always up in my shit. I guess I must come off as trouble, eh?”

“Sure,” Cobi agreed. “I bet that’s what it is.”

“I could have handled it, if you hadn’t come along. I can deal with guys like that.”

“No doubt.”

“But… you know… it’s cool that you helped out. Really. Thank you.”

“It’s all good, man.”

Tommy nodded and smirked a little as he backed away. “Sure.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd. “You take care now, Mr. Tate.”

Jessie lay on her living room couch and flipped through a copy of
Elle
, waiting for the day’s tension to subside, the mantle clock above her gas fireplace ticking over to nine in the evening. She wasn’t really bothering to read anything in the magazine, instead just window-shopping the outfits in the articles and occasionally drifting back mentally to an online argument about politics she’d had earlier in the day.

Her phone buzzed, a text from Lisa.

“u up?”

She tapped her answer back. “4 a couple hrs”

“c u soon ok?”

Lisa didn’t usually text her after work; she usually called, and it was usually on Thursday or Friday night. She only lived three blocks away, so it wasn’t unheard of for her to just drop by, either, which only made Jessie wonder that much more about the message. Something was bugging her friend.

She knocked on the townhouse door ten minutes later.

Jessie yanked it open with a sense of gleeful drama. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

Lisa graced the stoop in her bright red wool parka, its furry hood down, her long brown hair cascading into it. The night sky outside was clear and cold, sharp like a slap to the cheek. “Get right to the point much? Can I come in first?”

“Sure. But I know something’s wrong, or we wouldn’t be doing this at this time of night.”

Jessie took her coat once they were inside, and Lisa went through the kitchen to the living room before jumping onto the couch. “Bring me tea!” she demanded, her British accent clipped, imperious and entirely artificial.

“Tea? And ‘Her Majesty’? It must be something serious.”

Lisa looked momentarily disgusted. “You know how much it bugs me when you read me. I’m trying to look cool and calm here! Can’t you let me get to it in my own procrastinating sort of way?”

Jessie plugged in her electric kettle. “Oh, I suppose so. What kind of tea, sweetie? I’ve got regular breakfast, Earl Grey, and Chamomile if you want to go herbal.”

“Breakfast is good. I ran into your mom a few days ago.”

“Ah,” Jessie said. “So we’re getting to it.”

“She’s concerned about your drinking.”

“She’s wrong. I don’t have a problem.”

“She’s worried because she had a problem, and your father has a problem, and there’s science suggesting genetic predisposition…” Lisa got up off the couch and pranced her way over dramatically.

“Hmmm. Predisposition, eh? Is that why I’m predisposed to ignore all of this? Look… sweetie, I know your heart’s in the right place, but even if I drink a little too often, I don’t binge drink, I don’t get hammered – well not usually. I don’t start and then am unable to stop. I’m not my mother. You of all people know that.”

Lisa accepted the cup of tea. “Milk?”

“Fridge,” Jessie instructed. “Did you ever think maybe she’s just trying to find a reason to smother me, to try to do some of the child rearing she should have been doing when she was in her late teens? It’s not always as simple with her as ‘my daughter has a problem.’ Mom is a survivor, but as a result she’s always got some angle she’s working.”

Lisa put the milk away, and they went into the living room to sit down. “Okay, so maybe she’s overreacting. But you said it yourself: you drink too often. The last three times we’ve been out, you’ve gone home with some random dude…”

“Hey! It’s not like we go out that often, sweetie. I’m a woman, I have needs like anyone. Geez…”

Lisa held up both hands. “I’m just saying. And you admitted when we were in law school that you had trouble relaxing, letting work go. You haven’t been at the gym in I can’t remember how long. And with the job you’ve got now…?” She played it carefully; Jessie could be volatile about the drinking issue, but her friends all agreed she lacked awareness of her own limitations, too. That wasn’t the most optimistic sign.

Jess knew it came from the right place, annoying as the attention could be. “Okay, I get it. Damn! You’re acting like I slip a flask into my inside pocket every morning after I kick my latest conquest to the curb…”

“Maybe the problem is you’re behaving like you did in college, where the work was everything, and you didn’t know how to relax and find other things to do.”

She hated to admit it, but Lisa was probably right. When was the last time she’d gone out and done something new, on her own or just with a girlfriend or two? She couldn’t remember. She worked late, and evening stuff added fatigue to an already tiring typical day. It was easier just to have a couple of quick ones. There were so many cases, so many people who wanted her help. Weekends were burnout zones, sleeping in late, wandering over to Ninety-seventh Street for brunch or dim sum, hanging out and watching crime shows…

“Holy crap,” Jessie said. “I think you might have something there. I really need a hobby that doesn’t involve wine, or the law, or random bad boys.”

“I hate to bear the bad news.”

“I know.” She knew one other thing: Lisa was always there to help her through it. She had been since high school.

“So what are you going to do? You could always try counselling or…”

“Like I said, it’s not that bad. It’s… okay, maybe it’s something to consider. But I’m not so far gone that…”

“It’s not a weakness to ask for help. It’s just smart.”

Jessie didn’t really want to hear that. “I can deal with my own issues, thank you.” She’d made an art of it, if she was being totally honest, and liked to think it came from having family who couldn’t handle their own baggage, let alone introspection.

“Fine.” Lisa gave it some thought. “So you’re sure you recognize there’s actually an issue.”

“You’re being stubborn.”

“You’re being obtuse,” Lisa said. “Tell me: why do you think you drink so much?”

“I drink…” She pondered the possibilities for a moment. “I drink because I feel like what I do for a living is ultimately pointless. That no matter how many people I help, tomorrow I’ll go to the clinic and there will be just another person with another problem, someone whose life has gone all wrong and who needs me. And it never gets fixed. The lineup never ends.”

“Okay.” If Jessie wanted a suggestion, she would ask for one, Lisa knew.

“I don’t like admitting it, but… when I even try to think about relaxing, it actually feels like I’m taking on something else, you know? Having a few drinks is just a way to do nothing instead, to relax without being active.”

“And you’d rather be doing something?”

“Well… yeah. Yeah, sure.”

“Maybe it would help if you think about the other things you always wanted to do or to accomplish, the big dreams you had when you were a kid, things that could occupy your time, or become a hobby.”

“I always wanted to go to France. And I always wanted to be a public defender, like on TV, someone who stands up for people having a tough time. We don’t have them, but legal aid is close enough. Other than that? I don’t know, really…”

Lisa stared at her for a moment, perplexed. “That makes no sense. I mean, you’re interested in just about any topic I bring up. Travel, cooking, photography. Parenting?”

Jessie’s eyebrows rose in tandem. “Parenting? Again, you’ve met my parents, right? You know what? I take it back: I don’t drink because of stress. I drink because I have emotional insecurities due to lousy parents who were never there when I needed them. And I have daddy issues due to a lack of male nurturing, so I sleep with guys for a quick dose of affection. Feel better? My ‘predisposition’ has nothing to do with it.”

“Okay, stupid on my part,” Lisa said. “I apologize. But you do need outside interests, things to take your mind off the crap in life.”

“Is that how you stay sane?” Jessie said. “Outside interests?” She realized Lisa had made her smile again.

“Yeah… well, that, yoga and HBO. I throw some chocolate in, too, in occasionally unhealthy doses, and, when necessary, if dates have been few and far between, masturbate furiously. I jog in the river valley. I go to the farmer’s markets and get fresh stuff to cook. I hang out with you, which is one of the best hobbies I have. But the point is this: don’t limit yourself to wine and roses. Hangovers and pricks never go well together.”

After the fight, Buddy’s entourage took the long, steep escalators that led to the upper level of the conference center, Buddy in his wool greatcoat and bowler hat, the gigantic, bald-headed Gordon in his navy pea coat and wool scarf, and Vespy in a silver-black ski-jacket and pant ensemble that looked like it belonged in Aspen or Banff.

People were paying attention, and Cobi doubted any of it was good. There were always shady characters that seemed to show up for the fights, from gangsters to grifters, politicians to pickpockets. Half the criminals in town were probably there. Cobi hoped there weren’t too many fight fans that recognized him from his time in Canadian football; these days, it wasn’t too common. Hell, back in the day it hadn’t been, given how little playing time he’d seen.

Mostly, he just hoped nobody knew he worked for a gangster. Too much like the old days, like being a kid in Detroit, a wannabe hanging out with his brother Allan’s older friends, some of whom were the real deal.

“You see those people, kid?” Buddy said. “That’s a look of awe you’re seeing there, people who can sense a man’s importance, his power.” He really meant it, too. It might have been based in self-delusion, but Buddy never lacked confidence.

Cobi turned his head towards the opposite wall, conscious of the stares. At the top of the escalators, they took the swinging glass doors outside. It was warm for the first week of February, right around zero degrees, and the crowd of fight fans milled around in front of the center to chat, smoke cigarettes, and wait for rides and taxis. Gordon took out his phone and called Buddy’s limo driver to bring the car around from the hillside parking lot below the conference center and to meet them out front.

Buddy took out a cigar from the inside breast pocket of his coat, then snipped the end off with a small knife. He lit it with an elegant gold lighter, puffing away on the huge Cuban until a cloud of blue smoke enveloped them.

Then Buddy’s hackles went up; he was suddenly curious, trying to peer through the group of people crossing the street just up the block, towards the busier part of Jasper Avenue. “You see? Get the fuck out… Gordon, is that … It is! Tommy Orton! That little motherfu…Cobi!”

“Mr. Gaines?”

“See that guy in the denim jacket? You see him? Go grab that little fucker for me and get me the two Gs he owes me. But watch him, he’s fast and slippery, the little bastard.”

Ah….Shit. It’s the same kid, for sure
, Cobi thought.
Maybe Jerry the Guard was onto something
. “Mr. Gaines, I’m not a collection agent. I’m not…”

“You’re not getting fucking paid this week if you don’t, that’s what you’re not. Now get after him!”

Damn.
Child support called.

Cobi strode up the block towards the crossing, cutting in and out of the pedestrian traffic, heavier than normal for a Friday night. The street was bathed in light from the frequent lamp posts and the office towers that rose above each storefront, the glow reflecting off windows and wet concrete.

Tommy had no idea he was being followed; running would have just alerted him. Cobi picked up his pace to beat the flashing traffic control before the red hand turned solid. He turned quickly on the curb to cross the street. He skirted past a woman in a grey dress and handbag… just as she stepped in front of his path. He bumped her slightly and had to help her avoid falling.

“Hey! Watch it!” she complained loudly.

Tommy had already reached the other side, but the noise caught his attention and he turned. Cobi locked eyes with him for a moment. When Tommy saw the expression on the older man’s face, he scanned the street and saw Buddy. Then he looked back at Cobi again, realizing what was happening. His eyes widened, and he turned to flee.

Both men started to run, Tommy sprinting up Ninety-ninth Street, ignoring the ice on the sidewalk, flying past the back wall of a hotel, then avoiding a cab as it tried to pull out from the street to his left, past the boxy concrete of the public library, towards busy Churchill Square and the giant glass pyramid of City Hall, a block away.

The ex-ball player was faster, adrenaline kicking in; Cobi tracked the denim jacket down relentlessly, catching up before the next corner, the streetlights shining through the dark of night as he threw himself full force into the tackle.

Both men hit the sidewalk hard. Cobi rolled quickly to his feet, ignoring the pain in his arthritic left shoulder and slipping slightly, then regaining his balance. A few people on either side of the street were paying attention, and Cobi pulled Tommy to his feet before guiding him to the adjacent bus shelter. “Sit down.”

Tommy looked terrified. Seeing Cobi with Buddy changed things. “Please, I swear I’m still good for the money. Tell Buddy I’m…”

“Shhh!” Cobi hissed. “Shut up for a second! Damn! He says you owe him two grand; you think getting us arrested for disturbing the peace is going to make him go away somehow?”

He was still breathing hard, but Tommy nodded agreement. “Look, Mr. Tate, I told him I’d get him the money…”