Cold City Streets

by L.H. Thomson

  “Vespy, you want a coffee, baby?” Buddy asked the plastic bleached-blonde with the pony tail and the fake breasts sitting to his left, wedged between Buddy and his giant “assistant,” Gordon.

  Cobi snapped out of it and back to the less-than-appealing immediacy of the hall. Vespy was twenty years younger and at least four inches taller than Buddy, maybe eight in her stilettos, her body honed by hours in the gym and the dress a few thousand dollars of Buddy’s walking around money. He doted on her in a weirdly paternalistic way, Cobi noted. He couldn’t tell much else about Vespy, because she left the impression that no discernible thought process went on at all.

  “I want a cocoa,” she squeaked. “With extra cream.”

  “You hear that?” Buddy asked Cobi. “Go get Vespy a cocoa.”

  “With extra cream,” she squeaked.

  “With extra cream,” he parroted. “Get yourself something, too.” He peeled a hundred dollar bill off of his money roll and handed it over.

  “They won’t break this,” Cobi said. Man, am I really going to get this fool his drinks now?

  “I don’t got nothing smaller. You got some money on you? Keep the hundred and you pick it up, okay?”

  Cobi needed the money; Sarah would be expecting her child support on Monday, and the extra eighty bucks would help that happen. “Okay, Mr. Gaines.”

  “I keep telling you, kid, don’t call me Mr. Gaines. That was my old man.”

  “Okay, Buddy.”

  “Now get lost for a few minutes, get yourself something to warm your Yankee bones.”

  Cobi smiled politely at the suggestion. Yeah, like Detroit is Florida at this time of year.

  He headed up the aisle and towards the vendors’ concourse at the back and sides of the football field-sized room, money in hand and a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach, an ache to be just about anywhere else. He kept reminding himself that he needed the money, that his son had junior kindergarten coming up in another year.

  People milled around the booths, some just waiting for others, some socializing, more cramming behind one another in no particular line in an attempt to get to the concession counter. Just past the throng, Cobi noticed a security guard talking to a young man in his late teens or early twenties. The youth was small and frail, wearing an old denim jacket and jeans, the only giveaway to his age a thin line of wispy hair on his cheeks. The guard pushed the man in the shoulder, and he almost fell over, stumbling backwards slightly, in the direction of the main doors. Before the young man could regain balance, the guard pushed him again, and he fell onto his backside.

  “Hey!” Cobi said loudly. He covered the brief distance between them. “You don’t have to do that, man.” He didn’t think twice about it; it didn’t seem like a fair fight.

  The guard was a big man, older, with creased pale skin and sandy brown hair under his cap. He squinted slightly before showing surprise. A few people paid attention in the surrounding crowd, but most seemed oblivious. “Mr. Tate?”

  Cobi stopped. “We know each other?”

  “I used to work security at Commonwealth, back in the day, when you were holding the clip… when you were a backup. Remember?”

  Cobi didn’t, but he also didn’t want to disappoint the guy, who had a name tag that spelled out “Jerry Nichols.”

  “Sure – Jerry, right?”

  He held out a hand and the security guard shook it enthusiastically, looking about to see if people were paying attention. “I always thought you got a raw deal, not getting a chance to start and all. Especially after how well you did in pre-season that one year…”

  “Thank you, that’s real nice,” Cobi said. “Look, as to the situation… do you really got to shove my man here around?”

  The young man scrambled to his feet and wore a frightened expression. He was Buddy’s height, wearing brown ankle-length boots under his jeans. “I wasn’t doing anything! I swear! This fucking guy just started hassling me.” A few young women from the nearby crowd watched the performance.

  “This young man is barred, Mr. Tate. It’s good that you’d stand up for someone you don’t know, but…”

  “Sure,” Cobi said. “But he ain’t exactly a big guy, Jerry. You could maybe cut him a break instead of shoving him around?” Cobi once felt like the little guy himself; it had been a long time ago, but the memory stuck around. Feeling powerless wasn’t an easy thing to get past, and mounting incidents could weigh on a man like stones in his pockets.

  “I can’t do that, Mr. Tate. He sneaks in, and he’s been hanging out on the concourse causing trouble, approaching customers as they come downstairs to the venue...”

  “He’s got the wrong guy, I’m telling you!” the young man declared.

  “Your name Thomas Joseph Orton?”

  “Yeah, that’s me. But I’m telling you, I haven’t done shit to these people. I’ve got a ticket stub here somewhere to prove I’m a paying customer, same as anyone else.” He started feeling around in his jean jacket.

  “This kid is a weed dealer,” the guard said. “I saw him sell a teenager loose joints last week not thirty yards from here, and my colleague tossed him not two days after that.”

  “Yeah?” the young man challenged. “Were you thirty yards away? Because whoever you saw, it wasn’t me. Seriously, I’m a decent, hardworking guy. This is total bullshit. He has the wrong guy.”

  “I’ve got to throw him out, Mr. Tate,” the guard said.

  “Can you cut him a break just this once, Jerry? As a favor to me, for old times’ sake?”

  The guard looked unconvinced, but relented. “Okay, Mr. Tate, for you. But if he causes any problem, he’s out, immediately.”

  “That’s fine.” The rest of the concourse had stopped looking their way and turned their attentions back to beer and hot dogs.

  “It sure is great to see you again. I was telling the wife the other day that sometimes working here was like working at the stadium, where everyone knew each other and you could get outside in the summer, where you kind of felt like everyone was a big family. You get a chance to see any…?”

  Cobi cut him off. “Jerry, I should get to the concessions stand, for my friends back at our seats. I’ll keep an eye on this guy until he gets back to his, okay?”

  “Okay, Mr. Tate.” Jerry nodded too much, nervous all these years later, just like he’d been back in the day. “Sure, absolutely, Mr. Tate. Uh huh. It was good talking to you again.” Jerry turned and headed down the concourse, looking back over his shoulder with a small smile and wave before moving on.

  Cobi turned back towards the thinning crowd of people at the concession, others having gone back to their seats for the next round. In the background, he heard the bell ring for it to start. He nodded for the young man to follow then moved towards the side of the room. When they were out of anyone’s earshot, he said, “Look man, I don’t really care about your issues, or whether you’re selling weed or whatever, just don’t mess round with guys in uniform twice your size, okay? Where are you sitting?”

  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, h
e 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.”

  9

  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 ros
e 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.