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His chest made a rumbling sound. “Come in out of the cold. Cress has rum hot toddies ready.”
“Not whisky?” Max’s impressive collection of rare whiskies impressed the select few allowed to share the treasured elixirs.
“None of my single malt is going to be wasted like that.” He turned and ran up the stairs as if Jack Frost was nipping at his nose.
All this flashesthrough my mind as my new Italian beauty, an Aprilia RSV4 motorcycle, idles at a red light. I can see the drivers around me staring at its sexy shape. It is a heavy bike, and not as fast as some of its competitors, but the four-cylinder engine produces a sound that makes your neck hair stand on end. It’s compact, so it works well on city streets. My chest thrums with pleasure, seeing the desire and envy of the surrounding drivers.
The vibrations keep me in a constant state of physical awareness at this very long red light. So long I count with the longest swear I know under my breath, “Osti de tabarnak de sacrament, de câlice de ciboire de crisse de marde!” Finally, after what seems like infinity but is only five times through the litany, the light changes. I rev the engine, producing an operatic peal, bob and weave past the slow-moving buses clogging Inner Lakeshore Drive, crawl through several intersections, and head toward the Gold Coast.
The Drive has more traffic than I expect and I’m running late. When I turn onto her street, I can see the impressive Parisian-inspired condo building just down at the corner. Micki rents a condo with an option to buy.
As I reach the intersection of Goethe and Stone, a fracas erupts just outside the building entrance. The concierge tries to tackle someone throwing stones at the façade. I roar up, tires squealing, tear off my helmet, and run toward the combatants. Behind me, the bike is on the ground, writhing from the throbbing engine. In the distance, sirens wail as I pull the two men apart.
The concierge steps back, uniform looking the worse for wear. The other man is Micki’s cheater ex-boyfriend, Sam Beaton, in his usual country hayseed outfit of sloppy, tattered overalls and a red-checked shirt with frayed collar and cuffs. Both are paint splattered. He’s a “naïve” painter, although I think he’s just bad. The fake good ‘ole boy persona is part and parcel of the presentation.
Sam looks me over and drawls, “Weel, if it ain’t the Frenchy.”
“French Canadian, tonton.” It means boob, which amuses me.
He glares and takes a swing. Unprepared, I end up on the pavement at the wrong end of a punch on the nose. Sam cackles. “Serves ya right, ya filthy Canuck.”
I ignore the pain, push myself up, and slug him in the jaw. He tumbles to his knees like garbage down a chute. I push him onto his back with my foot. Only then, with my foot resting on his chest, do I pull out some tissues to sop up the blood I can feel dribbling out of my nose and trickling down from my lip to my chin.
The police surround us. One latches on to my arm and moves me away. The other pulls Sam to his feet. One officer, hands on his hips, says, “We got a 911 call from this location. What’s going on?”
Sam opens his mouth. I know he is going to blame me. But before he gets a word out, the concierge takes charge. “Officer, this man.” He points a shaky finger toward the slob, who adjusts the bib straps on the overalls. The concierge quivers with rage, his voice rising to falsetto. “This man came into the building asking about one of our residents. When I refused to give him any information, he ran out and threw rocks at the windows. Screaming obscenities. I was trying to stop him when this gentleman arrived and subdued him.”
“You made the call?”
“No. I don’t know who called. Probably a resident.”
Just then, Micki, feet bare, runs out the door. Her hair is half up, face bare of makeup, allowing a stunning flush to show through.
“Thank God you’re here,” she shouts at the officers. She points at Sam. “This jerk has been stalking and harassing me. I even have an order of protection out against him, but he just ignores it. Mostly he yells at me from a distance, but attacking the building, well…” We all look where Sam had been throwing rocks. A pile, like a miniature cairn, sits on the edge of the lawn. The concierge winces at the sight of the pockmarks in the lintel over the door and fine cracks in the ornate fanlight.
Micki turns toward me, recoiling at the sight of my damaged nose. “Sam, you dirtbag. I hope you go to jail for assault and vandalism. Maybe you’ll learn a lesson.” She moves closer and dabs my nose with her right forefinger.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers to me, standing on tiptoe to kiss the side of my cheek.
“All better.” I grin.
“Yh, ri-” Sam jeers, his words blurry from his broken jaw. “I knkd oo dn, sshoe.”
Micki looks down at her bare feet and frowns. “If I had my stilettos on, I’d make you sorry, Sam.”
He tries to snicker, but a groan of pain is all that comes out. Mighty struggles don’t make any difference since he can’t squirm out of the grip of the cop holding his left arm. Now cuffed, the cop hangs on to him.
“That was a tap. No harm done.” I see worry clouding her eyes. “Don’t worry. His jaw is worse off than my nose.”
“Jus’ way. Oo’l paaa.” Can’t tell whether Sam’s unintelligible mumble is a threat or a complaint.
I hold my body still and bite my inner cheek. Micki takes no prisoners. She walks up to the balding man with the beer belly hanging over his belt and pokes him in the gut. “Shut up, jerk.”
“Ore,” Sam spits out. Then groans.
“Pot, kettle.” Micki sends back a sizzler.
Wailing sirens distract all of us as two ambulances skid to a stop, tires squealing in counterpoint.
