Cold City Streets

by L.H. Thomson

  “I thought you said he shot at you.”

  “Yeah… but he didn’t hit me. I was only a few yards away. I don’t think he intended to.”

  “That’s really charitable of you,” Jessie said. “Come on. We don’t know how much longer they’re going to be, and we know they’re not charging us.”

  Cobi got up, and they headed to the door.

  David had been silent to that point. “Hey: what the two of you need to do is march next door and tell them what’s actually going on, so that they can do their jobs.”

  Cobi shook his head.

  “Stay here and explain it to them if you want, David,” she told him. “Come on, Mr. Tate. Let’s go find your source.”

  After they’d left the room, they walked the corridor to the front gate, where Jessie smiled winningly at the desk sergeant as he buzzed them through before taking their guest passes. “So explain to me why you didn’t want to go next door with this to the detectives, Mr. Tate,” she said quietly as they walked through the front doors.

  “First, they messed this all up from the start; then there’s the fact that they’ll start a manhunt for him and I can find him more quickly, before the kid ends up in the wrong set of sights. If we tell them, the last thing they’ll do is let us become involved, and Tommy had to have had a reason for throwing me off the scent. Maybe someone hired Grant; maybe he knows who that is.”

  They crossed the street to the parking lot and retrieved his car.

  “Where are we headed?” Jessie asked.

  “We need to meet someone who can give us an address on his girlfriend. We’re going to talk to Buddy Gaines.”

  Buddy Gaines held court from the back of an old barbershop along One Hundred Seven Avenue, just a few minutes from police headquarters and a few blocks from his strip club. The only neighbors on the short block were an African grocer with a green-and-yellow sign and bottles of imported soft drinks in the windows, as well as a tanning studio that only seemed to open a few days a week.

  The avenue was a melting pot for people from Africa, South America and Asia, home to restaurants, money transfer joints, and a decent music store. Most people figured he worked out of the office at the club. But to Buddy, it was strictly a bottom-line proposition: he owned the small, decrepit building, and by using its back shop and leaving the storefront empty and closed, he attracted zero police attention.

  “We can park behind,” Cobi said as they pulled past it.

  Jessie found a spot in the small lot between two other cars, a newer white Mercedes and a Chevy Volt.

  Cobi got out and looked around, spotting Buddy’s limo parked on the street curb, a half-block away. “He’s here,” Cobi said. “When we go inside, let me talk to him. Buddy wasn’t happy about me leaving, but he owes me for that shot I took.”

  At the door, Cobi knocked out a pattern. They waited a few seconds before a spy hole slid open, speakeasy-style, a pair of brown eyes scanning them both.

  “What do you want?” Gordon asked. “Buddy’s not going to be happy to see you.”

  “Yeah, well… he’s going to want to hear this anyway.”

  “So tell me, and I’ll pass it on.”

  “It’s more than one sentence. I need someone with a brain.”

  The slide snapped shut and the door opened, Gordon filling its frame in his dark suit and open-collar black shirt. “You better be careful, Cobi, or you won’t be in any condition to talk to nobody.”

  “Anybody.”

  “Eh?”

  “I won’t be in a condition to talk to ‘anybody.’ ‘Nobody’ would mean I could talk to someone.”

  “Eh?”

  “Just… tell Buddy I’m here, Gordon. Tell him it’s about the money Tommy owed him.”

  Gordon shot him a venomous look but disappeared into the building. A few seconds later, Buddy appeared at the door, a paper napkin in one hand as he daubed at some food around his mouth. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” he said to Cobi. “You walk out on me; then you attract heat to Leon Gross’s operation. Then I hear you’re talking to the cops.”

  “I’m not here to cause you problems, Buddy,” Cobi said. “I just need to know whether Tommy Orton paid you the two Gs he owed.”

  Buddy’s lack of trust was obvious, and he weighed his options carefully. Finally, he said, “Yeah, he paid it, and the nut, and the vig. He’s all square with me, Cobi. You’re not.”

  “I don’t owe you a thing, Buddy. I worked for you, you paid me, I quit.”

  “I gave you a shot at something better than… what? Keeping a lawyer company? Your old friends are more honest.”

  “We’re not here to argue with you, Buddy,” Cobi said. “Tommy might have killed that oilman.”

  “No shit.”

  “Seriously. Where do you think he came up with the money? If he wasn’t worried about you coming after him, he’d have just taken off with it. That’s why I knew he’d come to pay you out first. But he didn’t show up until just this week, three months after the case.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “He say why?”

  “Man, I don’t owe you a fucking thing either…”

  “I need this. I need help.”

  Buddy sighed wearily. “Yeah… what do I give a shit anyway… He said he owed Ritchie Grant two Gs as well, and he had to pay him out.”

  “For product?”

  “That’s why I asked, figuring he couldn’t be that stupid. He said it was complicated, but that Ritchie had done him a favor.”

  “A favor? For what?”

  “He didn’t say. Look, is that it, superstar? ‘Cause if you think I’m talking to the cops or…”

  “No, nothing like that. Just help me track him down, before this all goes real bad for him.”

  “Then what? What’s in this for me? You expecting me to do your job for you?”

  “I don’t expect anything, Buddy. But you need to realize how important this is; if the cops think Tommy did it, they’re going to start sniffing around the same places I did, meeting the same people. Is that good for your business?”

  “Huh. So you’re doing me a real solid? That it?”

  Jessie could see the conversation going nowhere. “Mr. Gaines…”

  “You the lawyer?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Huh. Thought you’d be older.”

  “Mr. Gaines, there’s an innocent man in prison…”

  “You ever been to the Max, Ms. Harper? They’re all innocent, in case you haven’t heard. Besides, what do I care?”

  “I’m appealing to you to do the right thing.”

  “Then you’re in for a disappointment, sweetpants,” he said. “I ain’t no snitch.”

  “There will probably be a substantial reward for the tipster who helps capture him. I’m guessing thousands of dollars. Isn’t that right, Mr. Tate?”

  Cobi had no idea what she was talking about. “Yeah. Completely.”

  Buddy’s expression shifted as the idea of the money floated around in front of him for a few moments. “For sure?”

  “The police do usually reward the tip that leads to an arrest,” Jessie sounded reassuring but technically promised nothing. “On the other hand, if they hear on the street that Tommy owed you money, they’re going to be all over you looking for him.”

  Cobi doubted the police had even figured out Tommy’s story didn’t jibe. Even if they had, there was no guarantee they’d go looking for him; she was throwing out every piece of coercion she could think of.

  “So…” Buddy began to say.

  “So your life gets immeasurably easier if we turn him in before that happens. Whether the reward money is enough to tempt you or not, Mr. Gaines, I’m sure police attention is not good for your… well…whatever it is that you do, exactly.”

  Buddy stared at her with dead eyes for a moment before smiling like a hyena. “Where’d you find her, superstar? She seems like trouble. What do you say, darlin’? You ought to spend some time with a
real man.”

  Jessie gave Cobi a puzzled stare. “Is he for real? No wonder he needs protection.”

  “Hey! I do what I want, when I want,” Buddy exclaimed. “I’m my own man, and that’s more than you can say for most guys, okay?” He looked away for a moment, irritated by her dismissal. Then he said more quietly, “He’s staying with his girlfriend. She’s got an apartment down by South Edmonton Common.”

  “You got an address?” Cobi asked. “You know, maybe by way of payback for you delivering me to Leon?”

  Buddy sighed a little, feeling genuinely put out to be helping Cobi. “You just be sure when that reward money is released, it floats this way. And then we’re square, Cobi. The next time we talk, maybe I let Gordon do his thing.”

  44

  South Edmonton Common sat near the foot of the city, to the south along the highway to Calgary. A giant sprawling street mall that incorporated city roads, it was to local shoppers what West Edmonton Mall once was—before people commonly accepted that having a half-sized Spanish galleon, a rollercoaster and a dolphin tank in between chain stores was kind of ridiculous.

  Edmonton sprawled some twenty-five miles in each direction from the core, and it took them a half-hour to get south. They’d been on the road for twenty minutes when Jessie realized Cobi hadn’t spoken since Buddy’s.

  “You’re quiet,” she said.

  “Thinking about Tommy, whether he could actually shoot someone, whether he’d have the stones to try and set up Ritchie Grant.”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “Yeah… well, all the pieces fit. But I’ve talked to this dude twice, and I’m telling you, he’s a nervous individual. Featherstone’s killing was ruthless, professional. It was like it was someone who’d done it before.”

  “You don’t think maybe you’re seeing what you want to see? You think we’re chasing another dead end? Or that somehow Peter Kennedy -- or Featherstone’s wife, Deidre -- is mixed up in this?”

  He shook his head. “That’s not what the chain of events suggests. Chain of events suggests Tommy did it. Or maybe… maybe the favor he owed Grant for was shooting Featherstone.”

  “You think maybe you’re seeing something soft in the guy that isn’t there?” Jessie asked.

  “I didn’t see anything hard about him, that’s for damn sure. Maybe once we find him you can let me know what you think.”

  Twenty-third Avenue ran right through the Common, and Tommy’s girlfriend, Jolie French, lived in a condo in a high-rise building just on the other side of the main highway, across from the outlets. Cobi pulled the car up outside the glass main doors.

  Across the road, a brown sedan pulled up to the curb. Det. Jon Mariner watched them through the tinted windows; he’d put out an all-cars on Tate’s plate, and it hadn’t taken long for a patrolman to tip him that they’d left Buddy Gaines’ place. The loan shark had been more than happy to get rid of him quickly by sharing their destination. If they found Tommy Orton, Mariner decided, he’d be there to snag him first.

  Jessie and Cobi got out of the car. He handed her the keys. “Stay here in case we need to move quickly.”

  “Oh no, you’re not pulling the protective white knight routine on me, not now,” she said. “I want to meet this guy. Besides, you said he’s not threat.”

  “Fine. Just do me a favor: if he pulls a gun again, you get behind me.”

  Just inside the building’s glass front doors was a call station with a series of white buttons next to each apartment number.

  “Do we just call up?” Jessica asked. “What if she just refuses to buzz us in?”

  “One thing I learned as a kid is that there are always a few people who don’t pay attention.” He ran his finger down the rows of buttons, depressing all except the sixth floor as he did so. Sure enough, before the chorus of voices querying “hello” started to ring through the tinny speaker, the door buzzed open, a gift from someone not bothering to check who was visiting.

  They took the elevator to the sixth floor, where a long, narrow corridor fronted apartments on both sides. As the elevator doors slid open, Jessie asked, “So… we just knock on her door?”

  “It’s not like he can escape over her balco…” Cobi didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence.

  A door flew open halfway up the hall ahead, Tommy sprinting out into the corridor and towards the emergency exit at the other end. Cobi didn’t waste time, his feet pounding the carpet as he took off in pursuit. Tommy was already at the other end of the hallway, the emergency door swinging open as he took off down the stairs.

  It happened so quickly, Jessie was left standing in the elevator. She hit the button for the lobby. Maybe I’ll beat them there, she thought as it began to descend. And then what? You’ll debate him into submission?

  Lit dimly by emergency lights, light-grey concrete-and-rebar steps coiled downwards. Cobi peered down the gap between flights as he descended, seeing Tommy’s hand on the rail two flights ahead.

  “Tommy!” he yelled. “We just want to talk to you!”

  There was no answer save for the clatter of their footsteps. From the second floor, Cobi heard the building’s back door swing open, then clang shut again. He leaped down the last two flights in a couple of large bounds and shoved the door open violently in time to see Tommy finish backing up his sky blue, ancient Chevy Nova, then gun the engine, the tires squealing and kicking up gravel as he peeled out.

  I’ve lost him, Cobi thought.

  A car roared around the corner to the street behind him and screeched to a halt beside him. It was Jessie. “Get in!” she yelled. He was hardly into the front passenger seat, with the door still open, when she stood on the gas.

  “Left at the next street,” Cobi instructed. The turn took them back to Twenty-third Avenue and he saw Tommy’s car heading west, trying to cut between other vehicles. “Step on it, Ms. Harper, he’s losing us!”

  The afternoon rush brought heavy traffic to the avenue. “If I drive any faster, I’ll kill us both,” Jessie said. At One Hundred Tenth Street, Tommy ran a red light.

  “Run it,” Cobi ordered.

  Jessie gunned the engine, their speed kept to eighty kilometers per hour by the congestion. Cobi looked briefly at the speedometer and converted it mentally to about fifty miles per hour, then wished he hadn’t. The BMW slewed heavily to one side as she swerved to avoid another car entering the intersection.

  A half-block behind them, Mariner carefully pulled his unmarked sedan around the gridlocked vehicles in the intersection. He grabbed his radio. “Ten-seventeen, officer requesting assistance at eleven and twenty-third for a pursuit. Target vehicle is a blue Chevy Nova, early eighties model, heading northbound, heavy body damage, plate is Lima Charlie Charlie one six nine. Suspect driver is a white male, nineteen years old, believed armed, in a white t-shirt, jeans and a blue winter coat.”

  Tommy turned his car north on One-eleventh Street, the back end sliding out on the snow, fishtailing for a moment before he spun the wheel back into control. He got back up to speed and was cruising when he reached the parking lot for the commuter train line that ran down the middle of the avenue. Ahead, a traffic jam went for miles.

  Cobi saw Tommy grind to a halt up ahead. “We needed a break. I think this is it.” As their car reached the end of the backed-up twin lanes, he threw off his seat-belt and got out of the car to close the gap on foot.

  A few cars back, Mariner’s unmarked sedan tried to get closer to the BMW as he kept his eyes on Tate; the former athlete scrambled out of the car, frustrated that he couldn’t get around the log-jammed traffic.

  Tommy had already reached the same conclusion, abandoning his car to pick his way between the vehicles and run over to the glass-and-stone train station. Cobi kept up as best he could; he didn’t want to lose his prey in the crowds of commuters.

  The station featured a central hub staircase that let passengers cross the tracks to either side of the platform, the last stop on the city’s truncated
transit line. Tommy pushed his way roughly through the crowd, shoving people aside and sprinting up the steps. A train had just arrived and he was going to try to make it, Cobi realized. He stepped up his pace, apologizing as he wormed in and out of the throng, hitting the steps several seconds after Tommy.

  At the top of the staircase, Tommy ran past the ticket vending machines to take a second set down to the next platform. He made his way onto the car. Cobi knew he had to move quickly or he’d miss him. He took the steps down two at a time, catching the last door on the last car before it closed.

  Inside the train was standing-room only, the seats filled up by couples, youths, older folks graciously granted a spot to rest. Cobi looked over the heads of most of the passengers. At the very front of the same car, he could see Tommy trying to remain hidden behind a larger man. They had a clear view of each other for just a few seconds, Cobi’s gaze steely, Tommy looking like he had both other times they’d met: nervous, jumpy, looking for an exit.

  The train pulled up to a platform; there were about a dozen stops all told before they’d reach the end of the north line, and Cobi figured if enough people got off, he might get a chance to move to the other end of the car and grab his quarry. Tommy stayed on board but eyed the door furiously as people got off and on. If he was going to run for it, Cobi decided, he’d wait until the doors were just closing. He positioned himself by the other set just in case.

  Instead, the doors slid shut, the car crammed again, with few able to move from where they stood in the blocked central aisle between the benches. The cars started rolling again, swaying slightly on their axles as they took a corner, people tensing up as they held on to plastic loop handles and steel poles. After a few minutes, they reached another stop and the process repeated, Cobi tensely waiting for Tommy to make his move.

  Maybe at the hospital? Cobi knew the route well from using it with Michael on weekends, taking trips downtown and to Southgate mall. If he runs into the hospital, security will probably grab him, make life easier. It was the next stop.