SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense (6 page)

“Oh, boy.” Ginger rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner. “I feel one of your speeches coming on.”

“Give you an example. Before I met you, I was coming back from Baltimore. Just wrapped up some business out there and needed to get back quick to make another buy before my connect left town. I was driving to the airport and missed my turn on the highway. It was a while before I realized I had gone out of my way. So, I’m racing to get to the airport but when I got to the terminal it was too late, saw my plane pulling away from the gate.” Trick’s serious expression changed to a whimsical one. “Well, turned out that Southwest Airlines had another flight going to Midway an hour later. So, no big deal after all. Went to the bar, relaxed and had a drink.” Trick motioned with both hands. “Here’s the thing, the flight that I missed had mechanical problems and got diverted to Milwaukee. Turns out I got in a lot earlier than I would have if I made the first flight. Taught me something.”

Ginger tapped a gray ash into the kitchen sink and asked, “So, what do airplanes have to do with you getting a job?”

“Nothing. What I’m trying to say is, you don’t always know about things. Time tells the story.”

“So, you’re trying to put a positive spin on getting shit-canned?”

“Forget it. I’m casting pearls …”

“Pearls? What do pearls have to do with anything?” Ginger took a deep drag, blew smoke out of her nostrils and extended her palms out upward like she was checking for rain. “I’m not giving you back those pearls you got me.”

“Oh, my God. Are you really that …” Trick hesitated and turned to see little Pat stumbling toward them rubbing his eyes.

Pat stopped and looked up at his father. “Are you fighting?”

Trick knelt down and patted his son’s shoulders. “No, no. Me and Mommy were just having an intelligent conversation.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Kind of.”

CHAPTER 9

Pulling away from Ginger’s apartment, Trick didn’t know where to turn and started driving aimlessly. He knew he had to do something to get out of the mess he was in.

He traveled all the way to the Village of Willowbrook before getting on Interstate 55 and starting back. Heading east and passing a sign that read
Historic Route 66
, he looked in his rearview mirror to catch the last remnants of the sun disappearing behind massive purple clouds that reminded him of the Rocky Mountains. He contemplated Ginger’s weight loss as he drove along in the middle lane listening to the radio. Putting his headlights on, he took another look in his mirror to see the clouds already changing colors, losing their brilliance when something else caught his eye. A blood-red Dodge Charger was flying up from behind, darting in and out of lanes dangerously close to the other vehicles. Trick turned to see a white Chevy Blazer in the right-hand lane quickly move onto the shoulder to avoid getting clipped. After making its way past a number of vehicles driving in a pack, the Charger had room to run and flew past the First Avenue exit.

Trick then spotted a black unmarked police vehicle, with alternate flashing headlights, speeding up from behind on the right shoulder. The police car swerved, with screeching brakes, stopping just short of slamming into the Blazer, still on the side of the road. He looked ahead in the distance to see someone in the front passenger seat of the Charger throw a large dark bag out the window. The bag landed somewhere among the high weeds and cattails of the sloping ditch next to the expressway. After the bag was thrown, the unmarked car maneuvered around the Blazer and continued pursuit of the Charger.

Trick thought, “Did people in the other vehicles not realize what just happened?” He was in the business long enough to know what this might mean. Changing lanes, he quickly decelerated and pulled onto the shoulder. The two speeding cars were now out of sight and he carefully exited his Lincoln. He walked back about thirty yards and began looking through the tall growth and dry cracked mud that was at the bottom of the ditch. The sound of vehicles going past came in loud waves as he continued searching. Then he saw it, a fully stuffed black leather bag lying between an empty bottle of Gordon’s gin and a faded McDonald’s wrapper. Trick grabbed the zipper bag by both handles, climbed the incline and hurried back to his car with surges of wind from semi-trailer trucks nearly rocking him off his feet. He threw the bag onto the passenger seat as he hopped in behind the wheel.

Trick made his way into the right-hand lane and drove cautiously, breathing heavily with excitement. He looked over at the bag and pulled it closer, running his hand over the cracked leather. Toying with the zipper, he was unable to pull it open with one hand. He passed a sign indicating one mile to the Harlem exit. Steering with his knees, he made a quick move using both hands and finally got the zipper open a few inches. His heart started pounding when he caught a glimpse of cash.

Turning onto the southbound Harlem Avenue exit, Trick steered into a Shell station a short distance ahead on the street’s west side. He pulled up on the far right in the parking lot and slammed it into park. After looking around, he opened the bag all the way. Paper-banded stacks of 100s, 50s and 20s practically jumped from the open bag.

“Son of a fuckin’ whore,” Trick said out loud and turned the radio off. Removing wads of bills, he saw something at the bottom of the bag. Pushing the remaining money aside, he pulled out what appeared to be a kilo of cocaine. He’d seen enough of them to know what they looked like and counted a total of three identically packaged kilos. Taking a pocket knife from his glove compartment, he cut into the taped surface of the solid rectangular package. He pulled out a small amount onto the flat surface of the blade and examined it, taking the small iridescent, flaky rock between his fingertips, breaking down the luminous layers and feeling the texture. Bringing it to his nose, he smelled the combination of bubblegum and cat piss fragrance that told him it was the real deal.

He looked into his rearview mirror to see a car slowly pulling up behind him. He could see the look on the man’s large square face. It wasn’t a friendly one. Trick jumped when the man blew his horn and his heart pounded faster still when the man yelled though his open window.

“Hey,
kolo
,” the man called out in a Polish accent. “Can you pull up? I want to get some air in my tire.”

Trick turned around, smiled and waved. He drove around to the rear of the service station and hastily put the contents back into the bag. Continuing south on Harlem, past the Candlelight Dinner Playhouse, he spotted a payphone in the parking lot of Prince Castles Hamburgers. Getting out of his car, he fished some change out of his jacket pocket, stepped up to the payphone and dialed.

He heard Starnes’ nasal voice mumble, “Yo, what’s up?”

“Glad you’re home. I got good news for you. It’s Christmas, a white Christmas in October. Can I come by?”

“Get your tinhorn shanty-Irish ass over here.”

“I told you, I’m not Irish. I’m not sure. I mean … I might be.” But Trick realized the call was already disconnected.

Trick took the bag to the back of the car, opened the trunk and carefully looked around. He unloaded the cash, covered it with an old plaid blanket, then drove the rest of the way to Starnes’ Palos Hills home cautiously, no more than five miles over the limit.

Ringing Starnes’ doorbell, Trick waited a few seconds, then impatiently knocked. The red painted door flew open, followed by a gruff command, “Get in here, boy. We’ll go down to my bar in the basement.”

Starnes carried his beefy frame around to the back of the bar and said, “Grab a stool.” He took two crystal rock glasses from a silver serving tray and set them on the bar. “What can I getcha? I’m havin’ my usual, Jack and Coke.”

“I’ll have the same.” Trick couldn’t hold back a smile as he patted the black leather satchel sitting on his lap. “I suppose you’re wondering what I got in the bag.”

“I’m kinda hopin’ for somethin’ old, green and wrinkled,” Starnes said, preparing two drinks. “That’s a big bag; I hope you don’t disappoint me.” He ran his grease-stained fingernails through his prematurely graying curls and locked eyes on Trick. “I wouldn’t like that very much.”

“I got something better than cash,” Trick said, setting the bag up on the bar. “I owe you sixty grand.” He opened the bag, took out a kilo of cocaine and set it down between them. “I got three kis. If you want to take these instead of the dough.”

Starnes jumped back a step and yelled, “What the hell’s the matter with you!” Lowering his voice, he admonished, “I never bring drugs into my house. This is where I live with my wife and kids. You tryin’ to get me busted?”

“You want me to leave or you want to listen to my proposal?”

“You crazy gutterslag ass-monkey.” Starnes sat on a stool behind the bar. “Say what you gotta say and make it quick.”

“This product is pure, you fucking butt slug,” Trick replied, holding his ground. “Open it up and try it.”

Starnes looked at Trick like he could kill him and pulled a knife from behind the bar. He paused, then made an L-shaped cut into the tape-wrap of the sealed kilo. He scooped out a generous portion, dumped it on the bar and started chopping the soft rocks and flakes with the knife. “Where’d this shit come from?”

“Columbia,” Trick said evasively and shrugged. “What do you think?”

“No, funny guy.” Starnes separated the cocaine into two generous lines. “I mean, where did
you
get it?”

“Look … that’s my business.” Trick put his hand on the kilo. “Either you want these three or you don’t. I know damn well you could wholesale them just the way they are for at least twenty-five G apiece. You’d be ahead like a bandit. I know you have those kind of connections.”

“Yeah, but you owe me moolah not drugs. I still have the risk of sellin’ this shit to get my money back.” Starnes snorted a line up his right nostril and pinched the bottom of his nose. “Oh yeah, that’s money.”

“Come on, this is what you do. That tow and snowplow business is just for show, a way to pay some taxes so the feds don’t get suspicious. You’re a drug dealer. That’s how you got rich.”

Starnes snorted the other line up his left nostril. His head flew back and his eyes closed. Composing himself, he said, “Even if I say yes, you gotta get this stuff outta here right now.”

“What do you mean, if? I know damn well you wouldn’t pass up a deal like this. And, no, if I leave with this stuff, the deal’s off. I’ll break it down and sell it myself, give you back your sixty and walk away with a nice profit.”

“This doesn’t smell right. Why
don’t
you sell it yourself? You tryin’ to set me up?” Starnes raised his voice. “After you leave I get a knock on the door?”

“I quit the business, that’s the only reason I’m offering you this deal. I did my time and I’m not going back. If I have to jump back in, I’m jumping in with both feet. I could make some real dough on this. Whack it in half and re-rock it, break it down into ounces and make buku bucks. Walk away with over three-hundred Gs. But I can’t take the chance of being separated from my son again.”

“None of this makes sense. Where did your broke-ass get the scratch to buy three kis? You steal this shit?”

“I was in the right place at the right time, just sort of fell in my lap. That’s all I’m going to say.” Trick gulped the rest of his drink, stood and put the kilo back in the bag. “You’re not the only person I can sell this stuff to. I’m just giving you first crack at it because I owe you and I want to get this stuff off my hands quick. I’m leveling with you.”

“Alright, take it easy. Sit down. You want another drink?”

“No, I’m going.” Trick grabbed the handles of the bag. “With or without this stuff.”

Starnes stood up and leaned forward on his knuckles like a gorilla. “If I get raided after you leave, I’ll have someone throw a stick of dynamite through your ex-wife’s front window while she’s watchin’ Johnny Carson.”

Trick acted as though he didn’t hear Starnes’ last remark. “I want to hear you say this makes us even. That you’re not going to come back later with some bullshit about interest or street tax or any other catches.”

“Yeah, even-steven. Square business.”

“Good. You and I don’t have anything else to talk about.” Trick pulled the three kilos from the black bag and set them on the bar. “That’s the last threat I’m ever going to take from you. We’re finished.”

Without another word or looking back, Trick walked up the stairs and out the front door with the empty bag, felling a great weight lifting.

***

Driving to Reggie’s condo that would be his home for the next few months, something nagged at Trick but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It just seemed too damn easy. “Quit worrying,” he tried convincing himself. “All your problems are solved.”

In the parking lot of the condo, Trick got out of his car and looked around. He could hear the laughter and shouts from older children playing at nearby Walker Park. It was close to 9:00 pm, all would be quiet soon except for the occasional barking dog or roar of a motorcycle from Cicero Avenue. He watched an elderly couple walk past holding hands on Laramie Avenue, each with hair white as cotton. When they were far enough away, he opened his trunk, loaded the cash back into the black bag and entered the condo, feeling as though he were walking through a dream.

Trick turned the stereo on and tuned it to the Oldie station. After making sure the drapes were completely closed, he unzipped the leather satchel and dumped the cash on the living room carpet. The Bombay Sapphire that Reggie left in the freezer seemed to beckon him, so he mixed himself a strong Gin and Squirt on ice while a love song from The Skyliners carried into the kitchen. Gulping half of his drink down, he topped it off with more liquor. Trick walked back into the living room and stared at the pile of cash.

Money
by Barrett Strong came on next. He cranked it up and called out, “Perfect.” He gulped some more of his cocktail, set it on the coffee table and danced wildly around the pile of banded bills, laughing and singing.

When the song was over he did a backflip, landing on the cash, and rolled around in it for several moments. He lay there with his eyes closed and caught his breath before getting up and turning the music back down. “Down to business,” he said, grabbing his drink and sitting on the floor in front of his newfound fortune. One by one, he slid a band off a stack of bills and carefully counted before replacing it back in the band. Once tallied, they were placed on the coffee table in sections of 100s, 50s and 20s.

After making another drink, he sat on the couch in front of the coffee table with pen and paper and counted his windfall over and over. “Two-hundred-and-eighty-five-thousand dollars,” he said, dragging out his words. “Two-hundred-and-eighty-five.”