Ambiguous Win

New York, New York, 1996

The office wasn’t oversaturated with colors, but it was opulent. Morris Rock, Esquire, certainly looked like he belonged. Every facet of him was carefully manicured, from the shine in his hair to the shine on his shoes. The pinstripe suit looked like a laundry press had its way with it mo-ments earlier. The whole ensemble cost more than Cleon probably made in six months. Cleon, on the other hand, certainly looked like he didn’t belong among the mahogany bookshelves with leather-bound volumes and law briefs. He wore a red Adidas tracksuit with white stripes run-ning along the zippers. It was a look from a bygone era, but it suited him. His Doc Martens boots were scuffed along the toes from kicking unsuspecting opponents in the shins. He was also hungover, so his face looked bloated. Even in his sorry state, however, Cleon was certain Rock’s receptionist would jump into bed with him without hesitation.

“Mr. Odom,” Rock said.

“Cleon.”

“OK.”

Rock began sifting through paperwork on his desk, mouthing the words silently to himself. Cleon knew it was an intimidation tactic; Rock was hoping Cleon would see him mouth words like “aggravated,” “intoxicated,” and “deadly weapon.”

“You’re a repossession agent?” Rock said.

It sounded more like a statement than a question.

“I’m an employee at Sistrunk’s Iron Works.”

“Relax, Cleon.”

Rock sat back in his chair. It creaked a little, as high-backed chairs sometimes do. Rock was charismatic and exuded charm without any effort. A less stoic person would have easily been swayed.

“As you can imagine, the work I do is very profitable, but sometimes it requires a less delicate touch,” Rock said.

He paused, found a piece of paper, and began reading aloud.

“It was at this point, Mr. Odom entered the conversation and said the victim should take a mo-ment and think about what choices he was going to make.”

Cleon had used different words the previous evening, but the gist was the same. He’d been at Patrick Vanderhick’s, enjoying a Jack and Coke and watching OTB on the closed-circuit televi-sion above the bar when two of the customers were getting mouthy with Doreen. She’d refused them service. Cleon hadn’t been paying attention, so he didn’t know the reason why, but Doreen was above reproach, so when she cut people off, there was no discussion.

The smaller one had been running his mouth, issuing threats to both Doreen and denigrating the bar. He wasn’t small in height, just that his partner was close to six-four. The guy with the mouth was probably five-nine. Once the guy sullied Doreen’s name, Cleon stood.

The stool squealed a little and drew both of their attention. The smaller guy grinned as though someone had rung the dinner bell. The bigger one looked frustrated, like he didn’t want to have to hurt someone, but he was compelled. It reminded Cleon of when a parent reprimanded a child and said it hurt them more than the kid.

“I’d sit back down,” the smaller one said to Cleon. Both men wore construction attire; most likely came directly to the bar after work. This may not have been their first stop. It didn’t mat-ter—it would be their last.

“Listen, fellas, you should just leave.”