The Next Rainy Day. Philip David Alexander

know that Russ is hanging out with the Streets. He got into a fight with a guy down at the Salby Tavern; word is he was trying to collect a debt for the Streets. He's wearing the infamous gloves now, too. That's the Streets' big tactic, doing break and enters and chickenshit thefts with gloves on. They're not criminals, really. Basically they're losers who dabble in crime. This is the type of crap they do, stealing tools, shoplifting, and then selling the stuff at flea markets. We could pick them up and do them for theft under. They'd get a fine and some community service. Same goes for Rusty.”

      “No jail?”

      “Not for theft under. Doubtful.”

      “I heard the Streets had robbed banks, dealt drugs . . .”

      Big Rich chuckled.

      “They sold some weed when Alvin the biker was living with their old lady. He disappeared though. Probably feeding some worms and other assorted ground-dwelling creatures in a field somewhere. I don't think they've sold any weed since. As far as banks, they're too dumb to rob a bank. That takes some planning, some brains, at least to do it right, you know?”

      I placed my head in my hands. I told him not to do anything just yet. He got up and looked ready to leave. He put his hat back on and said, “Listen, Bert, I realize you've been through a lot, you know, with Mrs. Commerford. She was a nice lady. And now your boy's doing this. Look, why don't you think on it? You want me to visit Taft, I will. We'll see if we can hang a theft charge on the three of them. But one thing's for sure.”

      I looked at him. His tone of voice had shifted.

      “What's that, Rich?”

      “The Streets are jackasses, we're watching them. They'll wind up in jail sooner or later. I just hope Russ can figure out they're a waste of perfectly good space and oxygen before that happens.”

      I watched him pull away. He flashed his roof lights for a split second and honked his horn as he turned right onto Commerford Road. I continued to sit there. Rich Franklin had said that Rusty had been in a fight on the Streets' behalf. That he was wearing those ridiculous gloves. I tried to feel sorry for Rusty. First of all, you don't get in a fight when you collect money, when you're strong-arming a guy. You beat the snot out of him, scare him, motivate him to get that cash and get it fast. Rusty had taken a few pops in the head during that scrap and he was wearing the marks from it. And stealing from my basement as opposed to lining up a real B&E or robbery. It all reeked of a poor punk just yelling for attention. It smacked of bush league criminals, fucking amateurs that the cops don't even consider a real threat, but watch them until they trip and fall all on their own. As sad as it was, the sympathy wouldn't come. And then the noisy white Toyota carrying Travis back from the gym pulled up. I watched my youngest boy get out, lean over, and say something to the driver. He gave the hood of the Toyota a friendly thump with the side of his fist and waved as it sped away. And my feelings for Russ dropped off the radar. I'll admit it. I couldn't bring myself to feel anything for him.

      Travis sat in the kitchen, shovelling cereal and chopped banana into his face. He said he'd had a good workout and the kid who'd picked him up was named Tony Mooney, played in the same league. I told him to send Tony over for a free muffler and tailpipe. And then it was down to business. I told Travis about Rusty and the stolen tools. He put his spoon down and closed his eyes.

      “Man, why does he do stuff like that? You sure those tools are missing? They're not the ones you sold, you sure about that, Dad?”

      “Travis, I ran that shop for years. I know what was down there. I know that place like the back of my hand. Your brother and those Streets stole from me.”

      Travis got up and washed out the bowl, held the spoon under a stream of hot water. Out of nowhere he said, “There's this girl at school, Glenda Petrie. On Friday she comes up to me, leans on my locker, and makes some small talk. After we talked for a while, she says,‘Your older brother is a sicko.'”

      Travis turned and leaned against the counter. His voice was brittle. He looked worried.

      “I asked her why she'd say that. She tells me that her and her boyfriend were out at Bryant Park, in his car sharing a beer, smoking some cigarettes, just kicking back. This black pickup truck comes bombing in, parks, and just sits there. After a while, it starts rocking. Glenda and her boyfriend think this is a scream so they just sit and watch. The truck stops rocking after a few minutes and the interior light comes on. Someone pitches a beer can out of the window. Glenda's boyfriend says he thinks it could be Rusty Commerford in the truck and wants to get out of there, in case Rusty spots him, you know, accuses him of spying or something. So he puts the car in drive and starts to roll, but then the door of the pickup flings open and out falls Cassandra Street, half naked, giggling away like she's drunk. Two arms reach out after her and start yanking her back in. Glenda and her boyfriend got nervous and got the hell out of there. But Glenda said that it was Rusty in the driver's seat. She saw him.”

      Travis sat down and stared at the floor. I felt like I had motion sickness.

      “This girl at school, she's certain it was little Cassie Street?”

      Travis nodded.

      “Goddamn, she can't be more than fifteen, Travis. Isn't that right? What grade is she in?”

      “She's in grade nine, but I think she flunked grade two or three. That's what I heard.”

      “Your brother's out of control.”

      Travis looked like he was carrying the weight of the world. He had the worry gene, just like his mother.

      “Yeah,” he said.

      “Well, this is it. I'm gonna have to talk to Rusty,” I said.

      “Yeah, but Dad, I don't want you two fighting. I don't want anyone getting hurt.”

      “No one's gonna get hurt. Russell's moving out, though. We can't live like this. You can't concentrate on hockey, school, everything you've got to think about with this shit going on. If he wants to carry on like this he'll have to do it away from here. I won't condone it. If I let him stay, turn a blind eye, that's just what I'd be doing.”

      Travis pushed his chair back from the table quickly.

      “Man, I shouldn't have told you that.”

      “Travis, what he's doing is illegal. The stealing, the fighting for those Street brothers. What he did in that truck with Cassie Street is insane; it might be statutory rape for God's sake! I know for a fact she's barely sixteen.”

      “I'm going to bed. I don't feel too well.”