Rough Trade by Gini Hartzmark Read Free Book Online Page B

asked, unable to conceal his amusement.
    “That’s Dr. Sweetie to you,” Claudia replied, unfazed. She dug into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a small ampoule of smelling salts.
    I had to admit that it was an elegant and audacious plan.
    She broke it open quickly, held it directly under Jake the Giant’s nose, and then neatly stepped out of the way. He was on his feet in an instant, roaring like he’d been stung, and looking around for someone to take it out on. For an instant I had to fight the urge to run, and I immediately discovered a newfound respect for bullfighters, rodeo clowns, and anybody else who was willing to get into the ring with three hundred pounds of thundering flesh.
    Fortunately, this wasn’t the first time the cops of the Eighteenth had been called upon to wrestle a drunk. Eventually, using the same technique that is used for herding angry elephants, they managed to get him on his feet and set him moving toward the door. However, getting him into my Volvo was a whole new adventure.
    As soon as we got him out on the sidewalk and into the cold air, he seemed to take notice of where he was and started bellowing about police brutality until I was sure that we were going to draw a crowd. He also took a swing at one of the officers who had the good sense to duck. Surprisingly it was Claudia who got him into the car. She grabbed his arm and twisted it with a well-practiced snap behind his back and used it as a lever to maneuver him into the backseat. I wondered whether this was something they taught in medical school or whether it was just something you had to pick up on the job.
    I thanked the cops profusely, hopped behind the wheel, and stepped on the gas. It wasn’t until we were rolling that I realized that I had absolutely no idea where we were going. When I stopped at the red light at Michigan and Chicago, Jake the Giant reached over the seat and tapped me on the shoulder. It was like being hit with a ham.
    “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded in the unmodulated bellow of the truly plastered.
    “My name is Kate Millholland. I’m the attorney sent by the team to pick you up and take you home.”
    “There’s no way I’m goin’ back to Alabama!” he screamed. Every time he opened his mouth, he seemed to emit an alcoholic breeze. I could hear him scrabbling in the dark for the door handle and prayed that he was too drunk to find it.
    “We’re not taking you back to Alabama,” I assured him hastily. I was still wondering where exactly it was that we were going to take him.
    “Where do you live?” asked Claudia.
    “Great house, real big, all full of marble and shit. You want to come and check it out, baby? You want to come over, go skinny-dippin’ in my hot tub?”
    “I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline that very kind offer,” replied my roommate, who as a rule preferred to deal with people while they were safely under anesthesia.
    “I’m sure he lives in Milwaukee,” I sighed, wondering why this simple fact had not previously occurred to me. “Then what are we going to do with him?”
    “Let’s just take him back to the apartment. He can sleep it off on the couch.”
    “Surely you’re kidding.”
    “Do you have a better idea?”
    Her silence formed an eloquent reply.
    We rolled down the windows for the rest of the ride. Even if the cold air didn’t actually sober him up, I hoped it Would at least keep him from throwing up. The inside of the Volvo, which I used interchangeably as a garbage can, Was already disgusting enough without adding the eruptions of an offensive lineman to the mess.
    By the time we arrived in Hyde Park, Jake the Giant was sound asleep and snoring.
    “Can’t we just let him sleep it off in the car?” inquired Claudia as we pulled into the parking space behind our apartment.
    “I don’t know,” I replied dubiously. “It’s pretty cold. What if he dies of hypothermia?”
    “You’re right. I guess the Monarchs would be pretty pissed