by L.H. Thomson
He hung up his jacket in the small built-in closet by the front door, retrieving his phone in the process. He checked his email, finding nothing. When it came to explaining the support payment, he’d been too proud to tell Sarah that he’d already grown tired of Buddy, already started looking for the next job. It would have satisfied her but she would have condescended to him about it, Cobi knew. That was always the way when you were the former star; when you’d been famous, no one was quite as happy to see you climb the mountain as they were to see you tumble back down to the base, bruised or broken.
Or that was how it felt, anyway. He tried to shake the sensation off; his father had told him to never feel sorry for himself, to bottle that nonsense inwardly, turn it into productive stress, deal with obstacles and don’t get personal.
His phone rang.
“Yo.”
“Yo, dawg…” It was Chris White, the only former teammate who still talked to him, and the man who’d set him up with Buddy. Chris came from Detroit, too, around Eight Mile. “I hear you made some bank this week. You must be feeling good about that.”
“Yeah… hey, thank you, man, for putting in the good word, you know? I couldn’t do that desk job for, like, five more minutes…”
“Yeah, we good, we good. You coming out to the clubs this weekend? Do a little dancing, a little romancing the ladies?”
“Nah. Had to give Sarah all my money save what little I got for groceries.”
“Shit, man. You ever think back in college we’d be worrying about groceries and rent and shit?” Chris sold cars for an outfit in West Edmonton, but business had been slow. At one time, he’d been a promising cornerback.
“I’m learning to accept it, you know? Life is just tougher than we figured it would be, what with football and all. But you know what it’s like back home; still better than that.”
“Maybe,” Chris said. “Maybe not. I ain’t got much choice in the matter, as you know.”
Chris had a robbery conviction from a year after he was cut from the team, a minor shoplifting beef that escalated when he hit the store owner, resulting in community service. He’d told everyone it was an accident and he wouldn’t have hit the guy if he hadn’t been accused of being a thief, but Cobi wasn’t so sure. His friend was the kind of mixed-up guy that Cobi knew his old man would’ve hated. Even getting the car sales job had been tough, and Chris spent some time under Buddy’s wing.
But he also had dual citizenship from his wife, Alexa, and that meant he could get hung up at the border over the conviction, at least as he figured it.
“Man, they won’t stop an American citizen from going back home.”
Chris scoffed at that. “They bust my ass back in Motown for crossing the street to the wrong sidewalk. You think they let me back in if they get a chance not to?”
It didn’t pay much to argue with him; he was set in his opinions. “Yeah, maybe. Anyhow, thank you, man, again… I don’t know how long I’m going to stay with him, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“Too unstable,” Cobi explained. “You know? He ain’t bad like the ballers back home, but Buddy is still straight-up trouble.”
“So?” Chris sounded defensive. “Man, at least he accepts you for you. When you going to accept people can always tell where you come from? You either fit with them or you don’t.”
“I can’t do like that.” Cobi shook his head. “You know how my old man was after Allan…”
Chris scoffed. “That shit was on him more than anyone and you know it, way he pushed. And if it were up to his black ass you’d be patrolling south of Six Mile right now. Never you mind your father. Not listening to him was the smartest thing you ever did.”
Cobi felt tension rise; the call wasn’t helping. And he knew his father had worked hard to keep him away from his friends in Detroit, away from trouble.
“It ain’t about rejecting where I’m from, Chris. I got to do what I can to try and play things straight for my boy. You get that, right? I got to man up, do the right thing.”
“Yeah… I mean… Yeah, I guess,” Chris said, maybe a little dejected. Cobi wasn’t sure.
“Don’t fret though, you did right by me,” Cobi reassured.
“Yeah, dawg. Maybe we catch up next week.”
“All right, peace.”
Cobi hung up and took a deep breath, trying to figure out where things were headed.
The next job. That was it, wasn’t it? That was the real problem. Whatever it was, it would be just a job. If he’d finished college instead of declaring for the draft, or maybe gone back instead of taking the offer to go north and play, he’d have a degree; and that degree would open doors. As it was, he’d relied on fading fame and the help of ex-teammates to stay working, and that meant owing people. Occasionally, something with more of a career track would pop up, and within a few months, it would become clear to Cobi that he wasn’t an office guy. It would be clear to the people he worked with, too, and as with any community, the one who stands out becomes a source of fascination, to be studied, not engaged. He’d thought about going back to school, but the sensation was the same, the knowledge that a black man from the wrong part of Detroit would stick out, draw attention, maybe even derision. That’s what it had been like in school before his growth spurt, before football.
He went to the kitchen for a glass of ice water before slumping on the cheap grey cloth couch, reaching for the remote and turning on the television. It was almost one o’clock in the morning, and he felt bone-tired from a long day; but Cobi’s mind was still active, stewing over his ex, and Michael, and Allan, and Buddy, and the future. He was still trying to make some sense of it all when he drifted off to sleep, the television audience laughing in tele-prompted unison.
The alley behind the bar off of One Hundred Eighteenth Avenue appeared pitch black in places, long stretches of darkness followed by areas where light poked through back windows, giving shape to dumpsters, boxes and cans in patches of deceptive, luminous security.
Tommy furtively checked over his shoulder and turned in slow circles as he walked. He’d owed Ritchie the money for months and Ritchie wasn’t known to take debts lightly. A second-generation Trinidadian, Ritchie’s father was a noted gangster serving life in prison back home in Port of Spain for multiple homicides.
The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
“You got my money, motherfucker?”
Ritchie’s voice always gave Tommy a little chill, raw aggression without effort, the perfect accompaniment to a hundred and ninety pounds of muscle and tattoos. His black ski jacket blended into the darkness until he stepped forward, and he seemed to emerge directly from a shadow, like a demon.
If you wanted to sell in Ritchie’s neighborhood, you sold for Ritchie. He was like any boss; he’d have no trouble finding you product — but he might kill you if you weren’t productive enough.
“Ritchie! Hi! Just like I said, two Gs.” Tommy fished inside the inside pocket of his jacket, and Ritchie’s hand instinctively went to the gun in his own waistband, a chrome nine-millimeter Colt with white-pearl grips. Tommy took the wrapped package of bills out slowly. “It’s cool, it’s cool.”
He handed it over nervously, reaching slightly farther than normal, keeping his distance, as if an extra half-foot of space might make a difference. Grant thumbed through it, counting each of the hundred-dollar notes cautiously. “How you come by this?”
“I got a loan. I got it last week; I just couldn’t find you, is all. I got a couple warrants on me, so I’m keeping my head down.”
Ritchie’s peered contemptuously at him “Yeah, you would do something stupid like that, wouldn’t you? Get in trouble with one person, you go out and borrow from someone else. You probably owe half the fools in town money. You know what your problem is, Tommy? You don’t think ahead.”
He took the gun out of his belt and pointed it at the smaller man. “Now, tell me why I shouldn’t smoke your ass just to make the point? Eh, you u
ngrateful little motherfucker?”
Tommy raised both his hands halfway above his head. “Ritchie, please, man… I swear I’ll never…”
“Shit, put your hands down, fool! You’re embarrassing yourself. Act like a man!”
Tommy lowered his hands. “I know it took a long time…”
“Long time! Bitch, it’s been three months. I knew you’d be stupid enough to show your face here eventually.”
“I came around to see you. That’s why I have the money on me, Ritchie, for real! I tried to make it up, that’s why it took so long. When I couldn’t, I got the loan.”
“Shit, who’d be dumb enough to trust you?”
Tommy muttered the answer. “Buddy.”
“Who?”
“Buddy! Buddy Gaines.”
Ritchie looked almost disappointed. “That greasy motherfucker? Sheee-it… you didn’t bring him down here, did you? I don’t want him or none of his eastern European friends coming around my territory. Shit bound to blow up, you do something stupid like that.”
“No way, Ritchie, I swear! I would never…!”
“Shut the fuck up. I swear, Tommy, long as I’ve known you, you’re always fucking something up…”
“Please, Ritchie, I promise….”
The gangster scoffed. “Don’t try to shit a shitter. ‘I promise…’ Shit, as if anything you ever said ever meant shit to anyone…”
He studied the younger man for a few moments, and Tommy’s instinct kicked in, his mouth remaining shut while the dealer weighed his fate.
“If I decide not to kill your ass, you get back to work slinging for me. I take an extra ten points on every package, so that’s ninety-ten. You tell everyone you begged me to come back.”
Tommy nodded vigorously. Selling weed kept him fed and alive since leaving foster care three years earlier; it was the only reason Chantelle could afford the condo in Mill Woods, and it was the only way he could afford Chantelle. He saw a future with her, the first time he’d ever really been able to say that. He saw a chance at a normal person’s life. If getting back to work would square him with Ritchie, he wasn’t going to argue.
“You do that, and we can maybe put all this business behind us. You’re a good salesman, Tommy. You stick to what you know, maybe I don’t change my mind and kill you. But you ever fuck me over again on a deal like this, and so help me God, I’ll beat you until you wish you were dead, then grant you your wish.” He lowered the gun then used it to gesture back down the alley. “Go on, get out of here! Next time I see you it better be moving product, not whining like some little bitch.”
“Okay, Ritchie, I promise.”
“Don’t promise, motherfucker! Do it! Do it, or be dead.”
Cobi woke early, daylight streaming through the ground-level transom windows into the basement unit’s living room, the rising sun stirring him from the couch and dreams about his lousy job, and Detroit, and his father lecturing him about becoming a police officer; speeches and demands about keeping up a legacy, protecting his beloved city’s streets and giving back to the community; giving him a box in the ears for not listening hard enough… or on the wrong night, just for talking back; “Don’t make the mistakes your brother made…”
He shook the dream off, instantly glad to be back to reality. It was a heavy sensation, and he was thankful to quickly forget most of it as he threw off the feeling of slumber. Thinking about his father almost never made him happy; those memories surfaced few and far between. At the same time, he missed him deeply, and felt guilt at the conflict; so many of his friends growing up hadn’t had a man at home, families torn apart by poverty, pressures, addictions and the anxiety of waking up in a second-class world.
He headed for his bedroom and stripped away the prior day’s clothes; then he ambled sleepily to the bathroom and took a hot shower for the five minutes of time that the building’s tiny tank afforded. He felt his scalp to make sure he didn’t need to shave his head again yet.
He got dressed in jeans and a dress shirt. He went out into the hallway and collected the newspaper from the top of the short stair flight that led to the front door, then took the paper inside and sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand, to go through the job ads and the classifieds.
Not much here, same stuff as online. The same technical stuff, trades I don’t have. The incident with the kid, Tommy, took a step too far towards being someone’s muscle, basically the same as being a gangster, Cobi decided. Weed dealers and loan sharks were not the people to be hanging with. Besides, everyone in Edmonton’s underworld seemed to know everyone else, and he was the odd man out.
He may not have wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps – that damn dream again – but he still had his sense of right and wrong, and his job just felt wrong.
He paused halfway down the first column. There were times when he wondered if he should have taken his father’s advice, maybe gone home right after his playing days were done. But then he wouldn’t have met Sarah, and they wouldn’t have had Michael. Now Edmonton was home, for better or worse. Mostly better, he liked to think.
But he needed a better job, too. Cobi’s eye followed the classifieds column south, then the next, then the following. He’d already gone through the display ads, and internet sites would be updated again, worth another look. But so far, there was nothing. A salesman job with no base pay, offers to train him for practically nothing, fast food restaurant gigs, day labor…
His eye stopped on the next ad. It was different, for sure. Something that might have some meaning, and that might pay okay.
He circled the ad then pulled out his phone. He wasn’t really qualified, but it was worth a shot. It surely beat working for Buddy Gaines.
12
Rhonda gazed slack-jawed as the images scrolled by on her monitor; she’d always been a little easily star struck, addicted to the supermarket tabs. A fashion show the previous night in New York brought out the cream of the celebrity crop, and she marveled at the costumes some of them wore, astonished that anyone could be so brazen. She looked at her own patterned white sweater and practical black skirt and sighed.
She took a bite out of the muffin perched in her left hand, a morning ritual that usually included strawberry jelly filling; but they’d been out, and she’d settled for poppy seed. One of the celebs had “slipped up” and shown way too much skin. “Holy nips, it’s freakin’ February,” she muttered through crumbs… just as the front door to the office swung open, the little bell chiming.
The man had skin like dark caramel, tall, broad shouldered; he reminded her of her favorite T.V. cop, piercing dark eyes, head shaven to fine stubble, a strong jaw line. Did he hear me say nips? Lord, please tell me no. And please tell me he likes middle-aged First Nations gals…
Rhonda swallowed quickly. She leaned forward slightly on her desk and flashed her brightest smile. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yeah, hi… I’m here about the ad. For the in-house investigator?”
Rhonda nodded slightly before realizing she stared a little too hard. She told herself to play it cool. “You most certainly are, sir. I mean, in the right place.” She gestured to the small waiting area. “Would you like to grab a seat right there, and I’ll get my daugh… I’ll get Ms. Harper.”
She got up, smiling too much, and hurried to the back office where she didn’t bother knocking, which she knew drove Jessie crazy but which, in the circumstances, seemed appropriately dramatic. “You have an applicant for the job; and he’s perfect, Jess. I’m telling you, this is the guy. You need to listen to me on this.”
Jess stopped typing on her laptop. “Given that he’s only the first applicant among hopefully several, we could start with ‘Who is he?’ ” She’d been blocked in by the snowplow again that morning. It was becoming tiresome. She had that paranoid momentary idea that perhaps the driver did it on purpose. Perhaps he sat in that cab laughing as she jumped up and down on the front stoop, waving her arms frantically to get his attention.
&
nbsp; Her mother gazed back, puzzled. “I haven’t asked him yet; but believe me, this guy is the real deal.”
“He’s an experienced investigator?”
“Don’t know. We didn’t actually get much past saying hello.”
“Then how…” Jessie had a hunch. She got up from her office chair and took the few steps to the door, then leaned out for a brief moment to scan the waiting room.
“Uh huh. Did you want me to hire the guy out there, Mom, or his pecs?”
“Either/or. It’s all good. You saw him. I don’t care if you hire him because he speaks Klingon and can ride a unicycle.”
“As usual, Mom, your instincts are almost perfectly inappropriate. Did it occur to you that maybe I just want the best person for the job, not a male model?”
“Oh… shush. Just go talk to him.”
“That’s not how this works. You’re supposed to act like the office manager, and not my mother, and you go out and tell him I’ll see him now. Does he have a resume?”
“Well, I don’t know anything about his work history, but speaking purely genetics, he’s a darn sight finer that that alley cat who slunk out of your place last Saturday morning.”
“Mom…”
Rhonda gave her an agonized wave, but complied nonetheless. A few moments later, the man knocked uneasily at her door.
“Come in.”
“Uh… Hi. Mrs. Harper?”
She rose to greet him with a handshake. “It’s ‘Ms.’ Harper, but… yes, I’m Jessica. Please to meet you, Mister…?”