SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense (17 page)

CHAPTER 31

Five days after being severed, Trick’s finger still throbbed with pain as he steered with his right hand into the parking spot. He pulled the bottle of Vicodin from the pocket of his camel hair sport coat and flipped the top off with his thumb. Swallowing a pill dry, he got out of his car and watched an Oak Lawn ambulance roar by on 95th Street. He walked in the front entrance of The Rusty Nail looking for Bob a little past four in the afternoon. The local lounge and divorcée hunting ground was known for the smell of stale cigarette smoke and stale pick-up lines. “As long as I’m in The Rusty Nail, might as well try one,” Trick called to Claus, the bartender.

“One nail, very rusty, it is,” Claus replied.

Trick folded a five-dollar bill into the shape of a paper airplane and sailed it into the receiving hands of Claus who just set down his drink. Savoring the smoky flavor of the Scotch mingling with the sweetness of the Drambuie, Trick spotted Bob at the other end of the bar and carried his drink down to talk to him. “Bob, you hear anything from Ciccone yet?” Bob didn’t answer, so Trick spoke louder, “Hey, man. What’s going on? You don’t look too good.”

Bob’s hanging head came up slowly and his bleary eyes focused on Trick. “Found out my girlfriend’s been cheatin’ on me.”

“No.” Trick took the stool next to Bob. “You know who the guy is?”

“Yeah.” Bob looked around and spoke in tones just loud enough to be heard over the jukebox. “That dago son-of-a-whore, Joey DeBonarino.”

“Oh, Joey the Boner. That’s no big surprise.” Trick swirled his drink and took a sip. “Who hasn’t he screwed?”

“How could she do this? I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

“Well, obviously Joey DeBonarino.”

“You prick.” Bob grimaced and pounded his fist on the bar. “I’m really fucked up over this.”

“OK, I’m sorry.” Trick tried to suppress a smile. “Just can’t resist a great straight line.”

“Shit! I don’t know what to do.” Bob downed his Sambuca and rubbed his forehead. “I’m gonna kill that wop bastard.”

“Your problem isn’t Joey. If it wasn’t him, it would probably be some other guy. You can’t go around killing people. There’s too many men in the world who’d screw your girl if they had the chance. Got to get to the root of the problem.”

“Ah, bullshit.” Bob lifted his glass for another sip but there was nothing but three coffee beans stuck to the bottom of the snifter. “Hey, barkeep. I’ll have another, just like the other.”

Trick raised his eyebrows, smirked and asked, “How many of those you have?”

“Lost track a couple hours ago.” Bob reached into his pocket and threw more cash on the bar.

“You’re going to get diabetes ingesting that much sugar.”

Bob took a big gulp of his fresh drink and coughed out a coffee bean. “Gotta die of somethin’.”

“That Joey’s always screwing around on his wife.” Trick heard giggles and turned his head to view a table of thirtyish looking ladies at a small table nearby. They were gabbing with animated hands and sipping foamy drinks garnished with orange slices and cherries speared on miniature plastic swords. “But I’m not going be the one to tell her and end up in the middle.”

“Yeah … Joey’s wife. That’s one good lookin’ lady, a bubble head but sweet … and what a rack.” Bob’s head swiveled around like a gyroscope. “I know a way to fix him.”

“What’re you going to do?” Trick’s light mood disappeared.

“Don’t worry.” Bob flashed a silly, crooked smile. “I got somethin’ in mind.”

“You better be careful. Joey may not be a real bad-ass but he always carries a shiv. He isn’t someone to play games with.”

Bob slapped his hand on the bar. “He was game to fuck my girl and now I’m game to play some games.”

“You’re not going to break the guy code and tell his wife, are you?”

“Nope.” Bob drained his glass again. “It’ll be good though.” Bob leaned over and put his hand on Trick’s arm, breathing licorice smelling alcohol on him. “And hey, the place for the meet with Ciccone’s been changed. I’ll let ya know.”

CHAPTER 32

His mind racing, Trick got out of bed with only a few hours of sleep. After getting ripped-off by Joker and Chevy, and Bob late on payments, he knew there was no way he was going to come up with enough money to appease the Mexicans and not lose more body parts. He looked at his hands. It was bad enough he was missing part of a finger, he liked the rest of them just the way they were.

He walked to the bathroom and studied his face in the mirror. There was no trace of the black eyes and the bump on his nose wasn’t going to be as noticeable as he thought. He searched the cabinet under the sink, took out Reggie’s clippers and plugged them in.

“Good bye, old friend,” he said to his reflection and slowly buzzed off his moustache. He examined his new face, then removed his sideburns too. Going through the clipper attachments, he picked one that he thought would do the job and trimmed his bushy hair down to approximately two inches all around. After lathering up his face and getting a close shave, he went to Reggie’s bedroom closet and located a tweed newsboy style cap and tried it on. “That’ll do,” he said, looking in the closet mirror.

***

“I’m glad you’re home.” Trick walked in as Ginger leaned against the open door, looking tired. He let out a big breath, then removed his tweed cap and sunglasses.

“What in the world?” Ginger scrunched up her face, seeing Trick as she never had. “What happened to you?”

“Just thought it was time for a change.” Trick rubbed his smooth face.

Pat ran into the living room, shouting, “Hi, Daddy,” then stopped in his tracks with his mouth and eyes wide open.

“OK, let’s have it.” Trick ran his fingertips through thick freshly cropped hair. “What do you guys think?”

“Well, you do look younger.” Ginger giggled. “I’ll give you that.”

“You look weird, Daddy.” Pat fell down laughing, kicking his feet.

“All right, joke’s over. Let me take you two to breakfast.” Trick looked out the large picture window. “Get out of the area, take a ride to Indiana. What do you say?”

“Sorry. Petros is coming by in a couple hours to take me and Pat to Greektown.”

“You’re still seeing that Durante nose, olive picker?”

“Of course I’m still seeing him.” Ginger coughed a few times. “We plan on getting married, soon as I get better.”

“What is it you think you got?” Trick walked closer to the window and looked down at the street.

“Probably just the flu.” Ginger rested against the wall.

“I hope you’re right, but I got to tell you, your eyes are starting to look yellow and you’re way too skinny.”

“I just don’t have an appetite and I’m tired all the time. I’m sure I’ll kick whatever it is. Always do.”

“I can’t hang around.” Trick glanced out the window again.

“What’s with you? Why are you so fidgety?”

Trick knelt next to Pat. “Hey, pal. How’d you like to draw me a picture?”

“OK, Daddy.” Pat got up and ran into his bedroom.

“Damn it.” Trick rubbed his temples. “Just make sure you know where Pat is at all times. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

“Oh, no. Patrick, what did you do?” She stomped up to Trick, grabbed his lapel and slapped his face. “What have you done now? Is our son in danger because of you?”

“No.” Trick grabbed Ginger’s wrists. “Not if I can help it. I’ll kill anyone who tries to harm him.” Trick put on a brave face and tried to hide how afraid he really was. “Just don’t let him play outside for a few days, till I figure things out.”

Ginger cried and put her head on Trick’s chest. “Why can’t you stay out of trouble?”

Her knees buckled and Trick scooped her up in his arms with an ease that alarmed him. He laid her on the couch and knelt beside her. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“I tried eating something last night but I threw up. Don’t worry about it. I’m not your concern anymore. Petros’ll take care of me.”

“Just because we’re not married anymore doesn’t mean I’m not concerned.” Trick’s voice trailed off when he realized Ginger had suddenly dropped off to sleep. He stayed on the floor next to her, stroking her cheek and watching her breathe the way he did when they were married.

Pat entered the room a few minutes later and held out a crayon drawing of the three of them on a roller coaster. “Is Mommy going to get better soon?”

Trick took the colorful artwork and rubbed Pat’s thick blond hair. “I sure hope so.”

CHAPTER 33

Bob weighed an ounce of cocaine, then dumped it from the scale tray into a Ziploc. He drove to Field’s Supper Club at 104th and Cicero and pulled into a spot behind the building at twilight, looking around for Joey DeBonarino’s red Corvette. He tapped out a line of white powder from a vial onto the back of his hand and snorted it through a rolled up twenty-dollar bill. Bob sniffed a couple times, then pinched the bottom of his nose. He sighed and opened his eyes as Joey nosed his Corvette into a parking spot and flashed his brights before stepping out.

Bob licked the residue off his hand and hopped out of the car like a kid on too much Ovaltine. “So, Joey. Joey, my buddy,” he said, walking up to greet him. “You got the cash on you?”

“Yeah. Right here.” Joey pulled a folded stack of hundreds and twenties from the back pocket of his Lee stone-washed jeans. “Sixteen hunnert.”

“You know you’re the only one I sell an ozzie to for this price?” Bob handed over the cocaine. “I don’t step on it either. ‘Cause you’re my trusted friend. Right?”

“Yeah, sure thing. Buddies.” Joey extended his hand. “
Mio amico
.”

Bob gave Joey’s hand a tap and locked eyes with him. “Stay out of trouble.” Bob turned and walked back to his car.

Joey threw the ounce of cocaine in his trunk and watched Bob leaning against his old Caddy as he pulled away. The evil smirk on Bob’s round face prompted Joey to head straight to the nearest payphone.

Trick picked up the condo phone. “Yeah, who is it?”

“Hey, yo, it’s Joey. Joey DeBonarino. Zat you, Trick?”

“How did you get this number?”

“Reggie told me you were gonna be stayin’ dere.” Joey hopped from one foot to the other like he was walking on hot coals. “I was doin’ things with Reggie till he quit. Now I’m goin’ through Bob.”

“Yeah.” Trick didn’t try to hide the annoyance in his voice. “So?”

“So, I know he’s gettin’ his stuff through you. He told me. I wanna cut out the middle man.”

“I don’t step on no one’s toes, especially an old customer.”

“Let me tell ya, dis guy’s no one ta waste your loyalty on.” Joey used hand gestures for emphasis even though he was on the phone. “If ya heard da shit he says ‘bout you behind yer back.”

“You’ve said too much already. I was just heading out the door. How soon can you meet me in the parking lot behind the El-Dorado?”

“You kiddin’? I’m right down da street.”

Trick grabbed his supply of cocaine to be delivered that night and walked out the door into the cool dusk. He threw a paper bag full of ounces, half ounces, quarter ounces and ‘eight balls’ into his trunk and headed for the El-Dorado Restaurant up the street on the northwest corner. He pulled into the parking lot off the Midlothian Turnpike moments before Joey turned in from the Cicero Avenue entrance. There were four semitrailers and tractors parked behind the family-style restaurant so Trick used them as cover from passing traffic. Joey was experienced enough to know the moves and pulled close to Trick’s Lincoln in the large gravel lot surrounded by trees to the north and west.

They both got out of their cars and instinctively looked around. Joey stuffed his hands in the pockets of his denim sport coat, his head bobbing like a Jack-in-the-box as he walked toward Trick. With the sounds of traffic and dinging from a nearby gas station in the background, Joey retorted, “Whadaya hear, whadaya say?”

“Got a lot of running around to do. No offense.” Surrounded with the aromas of garlic and onion coming through the rear screen door of the El-Dorado, Trick shrugged and turned his palms upward. “But let’s get to the part where you tell me exactly what you want.”

“Cool your jets, Trickster. Been a long time.” Joey extended his hand.

“Maybe not long enough.” Trick ignored Joey’s waiting hand. “Look, I already told you, I don’t cross people in business. Always comes back to bite you on the ass.”

Joey pulled a joint from behind his ear and fired it up with a long pull. He held it out toward Trick as he suppressed a lungful of the odiferous dried weed.

“You know I don’t partake.” Trick shook his head. “OK, you got my curiosity up. What’s Bob saying?”

“I can’t repeat it. You’re gonna be pissed.”

“I’ll be pissed if you
don’t
tell me,” Trick said, raising his voice.

“OK, but don’t kill da messenger. Bob said you were a punk in da joint. Did most of yer bit on yer knees.” Joey took a drag off the joint. As he let the marijuana out of his lungs, he said raspily, “Said yer ass is so loose, every time ya fart ya shit yourself.”

Trick glared at Joey. A rage started somewhere in his gut and slowly rose up his body and exploded out of his mouth. “Mother fucker! I’ll kill that prick!”

Joey jumped back, dropping the joint on the stones at his feet. “Whoa, dude.” He turned to the sounds of commotion and looked behind them. “What da fuck?”

Two squad cars and an unmarked gray Caprice pulled in off Cicero and flew at them, skidding to a stop and throwing gravel every which way. Joey picked up the joint and flicked it off his thumb with his middle finger, sending a tiny orange arc that burst into a small flicker several feet away. Four police officers and two plainclothes detectives piled out at the same time and converged on Trick and Joey.

“What’s going on, boys?” one of the uniformed Crestwood officers asked, his hand on his holstered sidearm. “Smells like someone’s been smoking some good shit.”

“Don’t say any more than you have to,” Trick said to Joey out the side of his mouth.

An officer with a thick rust-colored moustache walked up uncomfortably close to Trick. “Any weapons or anything else in your pockets we should know about?” Not receiving an answer, he shoved Trick, then Joey toward the Corvette. “Up against the car. Hands on the hood.”

A heavyset older officer, with a nameplate reading Officer Shadowsky, wheezed heavily when he yelled, “Spread ‘em.” He kicked Trick’s legs further apart as he patted him down from behind. He went through Trick’s pockets, throwing the contents on the warm hood of Joey’s car. “If I cut my hands on any razor blades, I’ll personally cut your balls off.” Shadowsky moved on to Joey and threw an elbow into his kidney from behind sending the late-twenties drug dealer to his knees in pain. “Oh. Excuse me. Did that hurt, Joey? My daughter told me to tell you hello, if I should ever run into your low-rent Casanova ass.”

Detective Frank Murray approached Trick and said, “Keep your hands right where they are.” He turned to his new partner, Jimmy Garcia. “Meet Patrick Halloran. We know each other. Don’t we, Trick? Yeah, I remember that Lincoln. See the bullet marks?” Murray waved a finger toward Trick’s car. “I was with Oak Forest when we put ‘Mr. GQ’ here away a few years ago. Him and his buddy had to do it the hard way, turned into a gun battle.” Turning his full attention back to Trick, Murray continued, “I don’t know what you’re up to but I could report you to your parole officer just for associating with a known felon like Joey the Boner here. Get you sent right back, lickity split.”

Back on his feet with his hands stationed on his hood, Joey interrupted with, “Yous guys didn’t suddenly appear because ya smelled pot from Cicero Avenue. Whadda ya want?”

Shadowsky barked, “What do we want, he asks. We want to lock your ass up for a long time. Take your
braciole
out of circulation till it’s useless.” He took both Trick’s and Joey’s keys and opened the trunk of the Corvette. “Well, well, looks like our tip was right.” Shadowsky held up the ounce of cocaine Joey just purchased from Bob. “I’m buying first round at Murphy’s Law. OK, let’s check Halloran’s car.”

“Let me have Trick’s keys,” Murray said with a wave of his fingers. He snatched the keys out of the air and handed them to Trick. “Get out of here. We got what we came for.”

“What’re you doing?” Shadowsky yelled and shook his fist. “He might be dirty!”

“You set me up?” Joey shouted as Trick walked to his car.

Trick got behind the wheel thinking about the several ounces of cocaine in his trunk and dropped his set of keys on the floor mat. He picked them up and steadied his right hand with his left to get the key into the ignition. He turned the engine over and put it in drive, praying the cops didn’t change their mind. As he pulled away, his relief turned to dread. Something wasn’t right. A lot of things weren’t right. Why did the cops show up when they did? More importantly, why did Frank Murray let him go without checking to see if he was holding? As he pulled onto the Midlothian Turnpike heading west, he passed Bob, who was parked on the side of the road facing east, looking onto the El-Dorado parking lot with a wicked smile.

***

When Trick was through with his deliveries and pickups for the evening, he went back to the condo, quickly packed up what little he had and loaded it into his Lincoln Continental. A short time later, driving north on Western Avenue on Chicago’s southside, Trick surveyed the multitude of used cars shining under florescent lights. He pulled into one of the used car lots and got out of his car with the title in hand. Less than an hour later, Trick drove away in a nondescript looking white Pontiac with temporary plates and his belongings in the backseat and trunk.

Parking behind the brick wall at the J.C. Motel at Southwest Highway and Harlem Avenue, Trick recalled the times he took Ginger there when they first started dating and couldn’t keep their hands off one another. He went to the registry office and signed in under the name Harry Callahan. Slipping an extra fifty under the glass divider to the middle-aged man in a slicked up, 1950s jellyroll hair style, Trick appealed, “I don’t have my driver’s license with me. Are we cool?”

“Yeah, dad,” the old greaser said, in a Southern accent with a lit Raleigh cigarette situated in the corner of his mouth. “We cool.” He reached for the cash with a hand that bore a crude India ink tattoo of the ace of spades. “We very cool.”

Trick dragged his tired body up the outside metal stairway to his room, unlocked the door with the oversized key, then flopped on the bed fully clothed. Hearing the muffled din of traffic from Harlem and an X-rated movie coming through the wall from the next room, Trick tried tuning everything out. But nothing could tune out his thoughts of the four Mexicans. He only had a fraction of the $277,000 he owed them but thought, if he could dodge them for another week, score two more kilos and sell it all in time, he might be able to come up with the money. Then he would only have Starnes to deal with. The lesser of two evils, but not by much.