SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense
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Authors: LOU HOLLY
SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE
Lou Holly
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2016
© Lou Holly
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Dedicated to my wife, Liz
A special thanks to the Naperville Writers Group
TABLE OF CONTENTS
“Hands in da air!” Benny called out in the dark, walking up with Sal. “Dis is a stick up.”
Trick looked unfazed as he leaned against his 1979 Lincoln Continental under the hazy moon that hung in the bleak December sky.
“Look at this dapper bastard. Trick, ya dress more like a bank president than a drug dealer.” Benny’s laugh sounded forced. “Dis is my friend, Sal Bianccini.”
Trick nodded to Sal as he walked toward them and looked around the deserted parking lot behind the Ace Hardware on Cicero Avenue. He turned his attention back to Benny and squinted as icy pellets stung his face. “This is an odd place to set up a buy.”
“Dey closed at 9:00, not a soul around. Don’t worry. If ya got the stuff with ya, dis is gonna be a quick exchange, di beep di boop di bop.”
“Yeah, I got it right here in the car.” Trick blew onto his cold hands and looked back at Sal who was standing to Benny’s left. “You got the money? It’s $45,000 for one kilo.”
“Right here.” Sal unzipped his jacket and pulled a small satchel from his waistband.
Trick hesitated when he saw the handle of an automatic handgun sticking out of Sal’s inside coat pocket. He asked Benny, “You two know each other long?”
“Yeah, yeah, we grew up tagether in Bridgeport. We gonna do dis or what? I’m freezin’ and I got a New Year’s party ta go ta.”
Removing the car keys from his camel hair topcoat, Trick walked several feet back to his Lincoln and unlocked the door. He pulled a brown paper bag from under the driver’s seat, then walked back to Benny and Sal and held the bag up. Looking at Sal and nodding his head toward Benny, Trick said, “Give the money to Ben.” When Benny took the leather satchel, Trick said, “Look inside. Everything copacetic?”
Benny unzipped Sal’s satchel, inspected it, shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head back. “Of course. Ya think I’d set ya up?”
Trick tossed the paper bag containing a kilo of cocaine to Sal, who responded, “I’d like to test it.”
“C’mon, Sal,” Benny urged. “I told ya Trick’s stuff is always top shelf. It’s too cold out here ta be fuckin’ around. I give ya my personal guarantee ya won’t be disappointed. If it’s not da real deal, I’ll give ya back your dough myself. That’s how sure I am.”
“OK, give me the money.” Trick reached out his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
Benny handed the satchel of cash to Trick and said, “Oh, wait a second. Got somethin’ for ya in my car. Hold on.”
Hustling back to his car that was parked close to the side drive next to the hardware store, Benny opened the driver’s door and hopped behind the wheel. He looked at Trick with round eyes, started the car and sped away toward Cicero.
Sal shouted at Trick and grabbed the automatic pistol from his coat. “What’s goin’ on here?”
Trick stood holding the money with his mouth hanging open, then said, “Oh, no.”
Oak Forest Police cars flew in from the north and south entrances to the rear parking lot. Trick ran for cover behind his Lincoln and looked at the satchel in his hand. Sal followed him behind the Lincoln, crouched down next to Trick and said, “I’ll kill that shitbag. I swear to God.”
Looking behind them to the east, toward the backyards of the houses on Waverly Avenue about fifty yards away, Trick considered his options. There weren’t many. Try to run or give up.
The police officers, dressed in dark blue uniforms and heavy zipper jackets, jumped out of their vehicles with guns drawn, shielding themselves behind their idling cars. A voice from a loudspeaker echoed in the night, “This is Detective Frank Murray. Throw your weapons to the ground in front of the vehicle and come out with your hands over your head.”
“Do it,” Trick commanded, looking at Sal. “What choice’ve we got?”
“I just got out of the joint. I’m not goin’ back.” Sal looked at his pistol. “I’d rather be dead.”
“Well, I wouldn’t. I got a little boy at home.”
“You give yourself up, that boy’ll be callin’ someone else daddy by the time you get out.”
The frigid fresh air stung Trick’s nostrils as he breathed heavily. “It’d be better than never seeing him again.”
Detective Murray’s voice boomed across the large parking area, “Come out now! Throw down your weapons.”
“You got a gun on you?” Sal said, without looking at Trick. “Got one in the car?”
“No. Look, I’m liable to get one in the back if I run. I’d rather be locked up than end up dead or crippled.”
“You’re along for the ride whether you like it or not.” Sal stood with his knees bent, just enough to see over the trunk of Trick’s burgundy Lincoln. He aimed his gun and shot once at the police.
The officers immediately returned fire as Sal quickly ducked back down.
“Oh, shit.” Trick’s voice wavered. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Top of the world, ma!” Sal stood up and started blasting away at the police. “Aghhh, son-of-a-bitch!” Sal involuntarily dropped the pistol as bullets riddled his shoulder and arm, shattering bone and shredding nerves. He fell to his side moaning, “My fuckin’ arm. Pick up the gun. Either start shootin’ at them or put one in my head. I told you, I’m not goin’ back to prison.”
Trick reached around the front wheel of his car and put the satchel of cash on the axle, leaving a grease stain on the camel colored sleeve of his coat. “Give me the coke.”
Sal groaned and handed the bag of drugs to Trick, who tossed it behind them as far as he could. He picked up the handgun and stared at Sal who writhed in agony, holding his injured arm.
“I can’t take the pain. Do it. Put me out of my misery.” The broken bone of Sal’s upper right arm protruded through his cotton jacket, now soaked in blood. “You’d do it for a dog, wouldn’t you?”
With the smell of hot steel and gunpowder in the air, Trick sat on the snow-dusted stones and leaned his back against the car with the automatic pistol in his shaking hand. “OK,” Trick shouted. “We’re giving up!”
“You lousy mudder fucker. I swear to God, if I live, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.” Before passing out, Sal whimpered, “You lousy prick.”
Trick threw the weapon over the car in a high arc; it hit the ground with a metallic thud. “You see it? That’s the only one. I don’t have a gun.”
“Stand up with your hands clasped over your head,” Murray’s voice called out again, “where we can see them.”
Trick knelt facing his car and put his hands over the hood. “I’m getting up,” he called out. “Don’t shoot me.” He stood to see several police vehicles and one unmarked car and started walking slowly toward them.
“Lay on the ground, face down.” Trick recognized Murray’s voice without the loudspeaker, then complied.
Several officers ran toward Trick with their guns drawn. One of them kicked him hard in his ribs and another landed heavily onto his back with one knee while the other officers approached the Lincoln with their weapons aimed in front of them.
“He’s unarmed,” Trick pleaded, as he lay in the icy snow and winced in pain while his hands were forced behind his back and cuffed.
“We know there’s only one weapon,” Detective Murray said, kneeling next to Trick and pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “Go on, help him to his feet,” Murray instructed one of the officers. Flipping open the wallet and removing Trick’s driver’s license, he read out loud, “Patrick Neal Halloran, May 19, 1954 … 27 years old. What’s a nice Irish boy like you doing in a mess like this?”
Trick glanced back to his car where several officers joked and argued about whose bullet hit Sal first. Wheezing from the pain in his ribs, he looked down at his silk tie, wet with snow. “I’d like to speak to my lawyer.”
“Oh, listen to this,” Murray’s older partner, Detective Armbruster, said, getting in Trick’s face. “Someone watches
Hill Street Blues
.” Armbruster slammed a wide fist into Trick’s solar plexus, causing him to double over and lose his breath. “You like shootin’ at cops, huh?”
Trick gasped for breath and managed, “I didn’t shoot at anyone.”
“If your fingerprints are on that gun, you’re goin’ away for a long time. Attempted murder of a police officer, you mongrel.”
“Of course my prints are on it,” Trick said, between labored breaths. “I threw the gun out like you told me.”
Armbruster grabbed a handful of Trick’s dark blond wavy hair and shook his head around. “You think a judge is gonna buy that?”
Trick smelled coffee on Armbruster’s breath when he leaned in close and threatened, “How’d ya like it if I bit your nose off, pretty boy?”
One of the officers returned with the bag that contained the cocaine and told Murray, “We found the drugs but can’t find the money. Does he have it on him?”
Murray answered, “See the soot on his sleeve? What does that tell you?”
“I … I’m not sure. He got it dirty?”
“You’ll never make detective that way. Use your noodle.” Murray pointed back to Trick’s Lincoln, “Look up under the car … try the wheel wells.”
An ambulance flew in with siren blaring and was waved back behind Trick’s car. Two EMTs loaded Sal into the ambulance on a stretcher and roared away again.
Armbruster sniggered and said to Murray, “Looks like 1982 is gonna be a good one for us. C’mon, let’s wrap up our paperwork and head over to Kicks on 66. We’ll ring in the New Year together.”
“I don’t think so.” Murray rubbed his graying brown whiskers with his palm. “I’m bushed.”
Back behind Trick’s Lincoln, the officer held up the satchel of money and shouted, “I got it!”
“This is one asshole who’s not gonna be celebratin’ tonight.” Armbruster smacked Trick across the face with an open hand spinning his head to the side. “Are ya, Mr. Fancy Pants?”
“All right, you’ve had your fun. That’s enough.” Murray squinted as his face changed to one of disapproval. “Let’s get him in the car and bring him in.”
Armbruster raised his voice and his ruddy face became redder. “Even if he didn’t shoot at us, he was party to it.” He grabbed Murray by the arm and pulled him aside. “What’s a matter with you tonight? You usually like to twist the knife a little once we got it in. What? ‘Cause he’s Irish?”
“No. I don’t know.” Murray studied Trick shivering in the cold, looking down at the ground. “Something about that kid.”