[2013] Consequential Damages Page 8

  As Jake’s team closed the gap, Shooter turned up the physical intensity. Whether Jake had the ball or not, Shooter was pushing, shoving and banging him all over the court. Jake did his best to give it right back. They were roughly the same height, at just over six-foot-one, but Jake outweighed Shooter by a good twenty pounds and tried to use that to his advantage. The spectators gave Shooter a hard time whenever Jake got the better of him, and Jake could see the escalating intensity and frustration on Shooter’s face.

  With his team’s lead slipping away, Shooter drove hard toward the basket. Jake leaped, and blocked the shot squarely, hitting Shooter hard as he did so. “I’ve had enough of this shit!” Shooter shouted, shoving Jake roughly in the chest. “You’re hacking me every time down the court, man. You want a piece of me? Come on, let’s go!”

  Jake’s mind raced. The last thing in the world he wanted was to get into a fight with this thug, who could probably beat him to a pulp. Even if by some miracle he managed to hold his own, reinforcements almost certainly would join in. They could have weapons for all he knew. He had to think fast.

  Jake took a step toward Shooter and grinned at him. “You’re scared, aren’t you?” he said in a taunting voice. “You’re afraid you’re going to lose, so you’re looking for a way to quit. You can’t stop me and you know it.”

  “Kick his ass, Shooter! Don’t take that from him. Fuck that dude up,” yelled Jerome.

  Jake glanced quickly at Rick, who for the first time since Jake had known him, looked panicked. Rick was shaking his head and mouthing the word “Don’t!”

  Shooter pointed a finger in Jake’s face. “I can shut your ass down anytime I want. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  Jake pushed the ball into Shooter’s midsection. “Yeah? Prove it. You and me. One-on-one, right now. Let’s see what you got.”

  Most of the crowd was enjoying this. “Ooooeee, we got us a live one here!” yelled a voice from the crowd. “Time to teach that cocky son of a bitch a lesson, Shooter.”

  Jerome still wanted blood. “Fuck that shit, man! Let’s cut his ass to pieces.”

  “Shut up, Jerome. Clear the court!” Shooter commanded. He flipped the ball to Jake and grinned maliciously. “You’re on. Up to ten, by ones. Time for you to get schooled, chump!”

  Their one-on-one contest picked up where the previous game had left off, with constant pushing, shoving, and banging. Shooter quickly went up two-to-nothing, as he drove to the basket and eluded Jake’s blocking attempts with impressive aerial acrobatics. Jake found his shot again. Although Shooter was draped all over him, he resorted to a series of fade-away and turnaround jump shots that found the bottom of the net. Both players were soon breathing hard. There was no trash talking now, just intense focus and concentration. Every shot was contested. Every step toward the basket met bruising resistance.

  “Kick his ass, Shooter! Kill that motherfucker!” Jerome became increasingly vocal and hostile as the game progressed. Jake’s shooting touch stayed true, and soon he had pulled away. The score was eight to five, in his favor. He could see Rick on the sideline, looking pale and sick.

  Okay, you’ve made your point, Jake thought to himself. Don’t be stupid here.

  Jake missed his next several shots, and Shooter relentlessly drove the ball to the hoop. Within a few minutes, the score was tied nine – nine. Jake had the ball. “Showtime, Shooter,” he grinned. He dribbled to his left, spun in a half circle, changing directions, and drove hard to the hoop. He leapt as high as he could, and cradling the ball with his right hand, tried to slam-dunk it home. He came up short, and the ball bounced off the front of the rim. As Jake struggled to maintain his footing, Shooter chased down the long rebound and fired up a graceful fifteen-foot jump shot. He watched it rattle around the rim and drop through. “Yeah! Ballgame!” Shooter yelled, pumping his fist in the air.

  Jake bent over, put his hands on his knees and sucked in long gulps of air. He straightened up, walked slowly toward Shooter and held out his hand. “Good game,” he gasped.

  Shooter glared for a moment, then slapped his hand hard. “Now get your ass out of here. And don’t come back!”

  Jerome wasn’t finished. He strutted toward Rick and yelled, “Let’s kick their asses now!”

  Shooter gave Jerome a look that terminated the discussion. “I just did,” he said, still breathing hard. “You’re done,” he said looking at Rick and Jake. “Leave.”

  Jerome walked up to Jake, stared at him coldly, and in the most menacing voice his teenage body could muster, said, “Don’t come back, motherfucker. If I ever see you again, you’re a dead man.”

  “Thanks for the game, guys,” said Rick, trying to sound cheery and nonchalant, but the swagger was gone from his step as they hurried back to the car.

  Jake was pleasantly surprised to see that the BMW was still there and unharmed. He flopped down into the passenger seat. The adrenaline rush that had sustained him over the past hour had subsided, leaving him feeling utterly exhausted – physically and emotionally. He turned his head sideways and said in a tired voice, “Rick, I love playing ball with you, but this was a really stupid idea. We’re lucky to be alive.”

  Rick took offense, his feistiness returning now that he had reached the relative safety of the BMW. “Stupid? Who the hell was being stupid? I can’t believe you called that Shooter bastard a chickenshit. That’s what almost got us killed!”

  Jake didn’t stir. His head leaned back into the plush leather of the passenger seat. “That was a calculated move. I was in complete control,” he said quietly.

  “Yeah, right. If that’s your idea of staying in control, I’d hate to see you when you lose it.”

  “Hey, I got him focused on whipping me in basketball instead of killing me. I’d say that’s a good thing.”

  “Until you started beating him. It’s a good thing your game fell apart at the end.”

  “That’s okay,” Jake said, looking straight ahead and smiling to himself. “Shooter was able to save face in front of his homeboys, so we’re still in one piece. And everyone there, including Shooter, is wondering whether I let him win.”

  Rick looked astonished. “You let him win?”

  “Like I said, I was in complete control.”

  CHAPTER 9

  On Thursday of the following week, Rick picked up Jake after work, and they drove to City College together to watch the summer league play. Jake wore his basketball shoes and gym shorts, but after his previous experience, had no expectation of getting into a game.

  They found a seat in the bleachers and watched the warm-ups. There did not seem to be nearly as many players on the floor as there had been last time. Rick nudged Jake with his elbow and nodded toward the far end of the court. “Look who's here—your buddy.”

  It was Shooter, warming up with a group of players wearing green jerseys. An uneasy feeling settled over Jake. Over the past week, he had thought a great deal about their visit to St. Simon’s, and with the passing of time, he came to realize how foolish that trip had been. He had no desire to encounter Shooter or any of the other characters from that playground ever again.

  As game time approached, it appeared that the green team was going to be shorthanded. Shooter scanned the hopefuls in the crowd, looking for a stand-in. His gaze fell upon Jake and Rick, and he paused for a moment, staring at them. “Hey, Stanford,” he yelled, referring to the name on Jake's T-shirt. “You wanna run?”

  Jake was flustered. “Me?” he asked, pointing to himself.

  “Yeah, you. Come on.”

  “Go on,” urged Rick, shoving him toward the court. “That's why we're here.”

  Jake wandered onto the court, feeling shaky. Shooter tossed him a green jersey and introduced Jake to his three teammates, none of whom he had seen at St. Simon’s. They looked at him doubtfully. “I've played with this dude. He's alright,” Shooter announced.

  The game was starting, and Jake had no time to warm up. He'd seen the caliber of play on his
previous visit, and felt sure he had no business being in the same court as these guys. Although his shooting had been red hot when he played at St. Simon’s, he knew that was not a performance he could duplicate at will. His primary goal was to avoid embarrassing himself or hurting his team.

  The game was a blur, fast-paced and physical. Shooter and his pals put on an impressive show, and Jake contented himself with playing solid defense and getting the ball into the hands of his teammates. His team won handily. While he felt that he hadn't added much, Jake was pleased that he had gotten through the entire game without embarrassing himself. He hadn't shot much, but scored on most of the shots he did take.

  As Jake walked off the court after the game, Shooter called out after him, “Hey, Stanford! Good game,” he yelled, pointing a finger at Jake's direction. He walked toward Jake, extending his hand. “Thanks for playing.”

  “Any time,” Jake replied.

  “You gonna be here next week?”

  “Probably.”

  “You ought to come, man. If we're shorthanded again, you’re in.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “So, did you play at Stanford?” Shooter asked.

  “No. I just go to school there. Law school.”

  “No shit? You're gonna be a lawyer? That's cool. I'll probably need a lawyer someday.” He laughed.

  “Call me any time. So, where are your pals from St. Simon’s? Don't they play up here?”

  “Nah. Most of them have too much attitude. I stopped inviting them because they embarrass me. They have a way of starting fights and getting thrown out.”

  Jake looked puzzled. This was the same guy that had seemed ready to tear him apart last week. Now he seemed perfectly friendly, and reasonably well-spoken. Shooter must have sensed Jake's confusion. “Look, man. I need to act a certain way around my homeboys, on our turf. It's just the way it is,” he stated with a shrug. “That was a stupid goddamn stunt you boys pulled last week—really stupid. Don't go back there. If I hadn't been there, that could've been a bad scene. You'd have gotten hurt—bad. I mean it, don’t go back there.”

  “Don't worry. I thought it was a bad idea to begin with. I have no intention of going back.”

  “Good. So tell me your name again, Stanford.”

  “Jake McShane.”

  Shooter repeated it, as if trying to commit Jake's name to memory. “Nice playing with you. See you next time.”

  Jake watched Shooter strut out of the gym, slapping hands and shouting out greetings as he went. Halfway to the exit, he stopped and turned around. “Hey, Stanford,” he called out. “When was the last time you dunked a basketball?”

  Jake paused for a moment before answering, then responded truthfully. “Never.”

  Shooter stared back at Jake, nodding his head slowly, as he reflected on the final minutes of their one-on-one contest. “Didn't think so.” He smiled, as he turned and walked away, shaking his head. “Later, man.”

  CHAPTER 10

  For the remainder of the summer, Jake and Rick continued their visits to City College on Thursday evenings. Jake played with Shooter's team on only one other occasion, but that was fine with him. Just watching the action was a treat, and being able to say he played in the City College summer league was an accomplishment in itself.

  Conditions gradually improved at the law firm. Paul Doherty, an enthusiastic and sincere young partner who oversaw the firm’s summer clerkship program, had become concerned by Jake's repeated absences from the firm's social functions. Jake's fellow clerks explained to Doherty that the cause of those absences was the mountain of work continuously heaped upon Jake by the unsympathetic Mr. Pritchard. Doherty must have intervened behind the scenes because Jake was approached by a junior associate, who informed him that he had been asked to assume all of Pritchard's pending projects. The workload eased considerably, and Jake finally was able to partake in the social activities. He actually began enjoying the work and the camaraderie.

  On weekends, Jake spent time relaxing at his parents’ house and reconnecting with old friends. His parents lived in Beverly, an old neighborhood on the southwestern outskirts of the city. When he had a free evening, he would often visit one of the neighborhood’s drinking establishments on Western Avenue, where he was certain to run into friends and acquaintances he had known since childhood. There was a smattering of young professional types, but for the most part, it was a working-class bunch—policemen, firemen, other city workers, and a variety of tradesmen. Many of them drank too much, and would never amount to anything, but Jake still felt a strong connection to these people. He had grown up with them, gone to school with them, and played sports with them. They shared a common history and a bond that would never be broken, no matter how wide the gulf between their lives might otherwise become.

  After the final game of the City College summer league season, Rick suggested that they go out for a beer to toast their Chicago summer. Since City College was closer to Jake's neighborhood than Rick's, Jake suggested they go to Riley's Pub, one of the least seedy of the Western Avenue bars.

  Jake waved to the bartender as they walked in. “How's it going, Jimmy?” The bar was crowded for Thursday evening.

  “Jake! Good to see you,” Jimmy replied. “Back from California?”

  “I've been here for the summer. Heading back next week,” Jake said as he pulled up a couple of barstools. “This is my friend, Rick. He's from the North Side, but don't hold that against him.”

  “Hey, I've got nothing against North Siders, as long as they’re not Cub fans.”

  Rick shook hands with Jimmy and laughed. “Hell, no. I was when I was a kid, but I gave up on them a long time ago. I don’t like losing!”

  “Good! What'll you have, fellas?”

  They ordered a couple of beers and chatted with the steady stream of old pals who came by to visit Jake.

  “It seems like you know everybody in this place,” said Rick. “I feel like a party crasher at somebody’s reunion. Friendly bunch though, no doubt about that.”

  Jake had felt some apprehension about bringing Rick to one of his neighborhood hangouts. He was quite sure that Rick wasn’t accustomed to this type of crowd. His fears turned out to be unfounded, as Rick easily fit right in, talking sports with the guys and flirting with the girls.

  “Jake McShane! Hey everybody, Jake McShane is in the house! Let’s partyyyyy!” The booming voice belonged to a big redheaded man with a baseball cap on backwards, staggering toward them.

  “Friend of yours?” Rick asked.

  “That’s Eddie Mullins. I’ve known him since we were ten. Looks like he’s added about fifty pounds since I saw him last.”

  Jake stood up and offered his hand to Eddie, who ignored it and wrapped him in a huge bear hug. “Jakey! How the hell are ya?”

  “Hi Eddie. Nice to see you. You look good.”

  “Aw, kiss my ass. I look like a fat drunk. But I love you for saying so.”

  “This is my friend, Rick,” said Jake. “We go to law school together in California.”

  “Damn glad to meet you, Rick. Welcome to Riley’s!” Eddie bellowed, as if he owned the place. “Law school … I forgot you were in law school, Jake. Maybe you can help me. I need some legal advice.” He looked at them hopefully, through bleary eyes.

  “We’re not lawyers yet, Eddie, but maybe we can help out. What’s the problem?”

  “I got fired by the city a few months ago. I worked for the police department for three years, and they up and fired my ass with no warning. I want to sue those bastards.”

  “They fired you for stealing, Eddie,” said the diminutive man on the bar stool next to Rick, in a loud and irritable voice. He was wearing dirty work clothes and stared intently at his beer mug as he spoke. “He’s told his sad story to everyone in this place a hundred times,” the little man explained to Rick and Jake without taking his eyes off his beer. “He arrested some scumbag and emptied the guy’s pockets for evidence. Found a wad of hundred dollar
bills and decided to keep it for himself. Seems the city had a little problem with that. Go figure.”

  “Hey, the guy was a lowlife drug dealer,” Eddie explained. “I found a bag of weed on him, too. You didn’t mention that. The way I see it, that money was obtained from his illegal activities. It would’ve been forfeited if he’d been convicted. I just helped the wheels of justice turn a little faster. Anyway, my partner ratted me out and the guy walked. The prosecutors dropped the case. What a joke!”

  “I hate to be pessimistic, Eddie, but I don’t think you have much of a chance,” said Jake, trying to sound at least a bit sympathetic. “If—”

  “Wait, that’s not the whole story. I had a perfect record. Well, almost perfect. They wrote me up a few times for missing too much work, but nothing like this had ever happened before. Don’t they have to give me a warning?”

  “Not for stealing, you mope,” said the man at the bar.

  “But if I were black or Mexican, they wouldn’t have fired me. That’s discrimination!”

  “Do you know of any minorities that were treated more leniently for this type of issue?” asked Jake.

  “Not personally, but that shit happens. It happens all the time.”

  Jake searched for a way to let his old friend down easily. “Eddie, my advice is to get past this and move on with your life. Whether you think it’s fair or not, the Chicago PD is unlikely to change its mind.”

  Rick spoke up. “But, if you can prove discrimination, you might have something worth talking about. If that’s the case, and if you find the right kind of lawyer who can push the right buttons, you might be able to convince them to give you your job back.”

  Eddie looked indignant. “The hell with that! I don’t want to work for those assholes again. I want to take them to the cleaners. I want to score some cash!”

  “You’re dreaming, Eddie,” said the man on the bar stool. “Just stick with your lottery tickets. Your odds are better.”

  As Eddie shuffled away muttering to himself, a man in tennis clothes who had been listening from a few feet away approached the group. He looked familiar to Jake. “Hi guys. Pat Corcoran.” He looked to be about thirty, had thinning blond hair and a dark tan. “You may have known my brothers. I think they’re about your age. Paul and Kevin.”