SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense (22 page)

“No one else knew I was gonna be at the El-Dorado, just you. And I never saw cops let anyone walk away from a situation like dat. Tell me it’s not fuckin’ fishy.”

“Think about it. How could I have known you were holding? You called me. Said you wanted to meet.” Trick suppressed his anger. “I was holding too. Doesn’t make sense that I’d call the cops on myself.”

“Yeah, OK. Dat much figures.” Joey brought his empty hand back to his side.

“Who else knew what direction you were heading, what kind of car you were in, and that you’d have the shit on you?”

“Yeah,” Joey replied, bobbing his head slowly, “dat fat fuck Bob. He was actin’ funny when I copped from him … right before I met you.”

Just to watch the expression on Joey’s face, Trick asked, “Any reason he should be pissed at you? Enough to set you up and lose a customer?”

“All right, let’s drop it.” Joey backed up a couple steps and waved his hands. “I believe ya. Why’d ya call?”

“Your family’s from Bridgeport. You know a guy, a Sal Bianccini?”

“Yeah, I know him. He’s in Pontiac, got winged in dat shootout with you and the coppers about four years ago. Why, wazzup?”

“I need to talk to him but I don’t want him to know I’m coming. I want you to send word tomorrow morning, have him put you on his visitor’s list. I plan to go see him using your name. I’ll need to borrow your driver’s license.”

“Whoa. Forget about it. Dat guy’s nutso,” Joey said, circling a finger near his temple. “Wouldn’t want to end up on his shit list. He may be locked up but he’s got a long reach.”

“Look, Joey, you do this for me and I’ll get even with Bob for you.”

Joey ran a thumb across his neck. “Ya mean like do him in?”

“I’ll take care of him.” Trick’s anger rose just thinking of the things Bob said about him.

“Mmm …
bene
, OK. But how you gonna pass for me? Huh? Ya don’t even look Italian, ya mick.”

“Don’t worry about that part.”

“Whadda ya mean? I’m five-nine, ya got a couple inches on me.” Joey motioned with his hands like someone juggling oranges. “I got brown eyes, brown hair. You got blue eyes and hair like one of dem soap opera guys.”

“I told you, I got it covered. Set it up.”

“
Madonna mia
,” Joey said to the night sky, then pulled out his wallet and handed Trick his driver’s license.

CHAPTER 40

In the parking lot of Pontiac Prison, Trick put on a pair of brown-tinted glasses, greased his dark blond hair with VO5, giving it a darker look, then put on a Chicago White Sox cap. Getting out of his car, he slouched as he walked to the entrance of the visitors’ gate. After showing the driver’s license that read Joseph Vincent DeBonarino, Trick got a queasy feeling walking into the maximum security prison. Passing through correctional center security gates again, he imagined walking into a funeral parlor and seeing his own coffin.

After being patted down, Trick was led through a series of gates and doors. Once inside the large visitor’s room, he went to one of the vending machines, inserted a dollar and got back a paper cup with small chunks of ice and bubbling Pepsi. He removed the glasses and hat, took a seat at one of the small round tables, sipped his drink and waited. Prisoners all dressed alike sat at tables with loved ones, family and friends. The spacious, cigarette hazed room echoed with conversation while inmates and their visitors caught up on each other’s lives. Some laughed, some cried and some had bitter words while they picked at thin slices of microwaved pizza, ice cream in tiny paper cups, soda and coffee.

Several minutes later, Sal entered the visitors’ room scanning faces. Trick stood and motioned to Sal who looked at him harshly. As Sal walked toward him, Trick saw that his right arm was shriveled, scarred and hanging limply at his side in his short sleeve shirt.

“Hey, Lefty, ya got a visitor?” A Puerto Rican gang member mocked Sal, “I didn’t know ya
had
any friends.”

Sal ignored him and walked up to Trick and stared into his eyes. “That is you, you mudder fucker. What’re you doin’ here? Get the fuck out.”

“Wait. Come on, sit down for a minute.” Trick stood and motioned toward a chair. “I drove a long way to get here.”

Trick sat back down, looking up at Sal, who hesitated for a few moments, then lowered himself onto one of the brown plastic chairs. He swung his body, landing his lifeless right arm onto the table.

“You like that?” Sal looked at his useless appendage, then back at Trick. “Doctors want to cut it off, said I’ll never have use of it again. I won’t let ‘em,”

“Hey, Lefty, who’s your cute friend?” a young man with mahogany colored skin and a plastic bag over his hair interrupted. “Can you set me up?”

Sal raised his fist. “Push on, you gorilla-face fuck.”

The young man howled and laughed. “Pontiac builds excitement.” Then he danced away like he was moving down a Soul Train line.

“See what I gotta put up with every day?”

“I did time over that deal too.” Trick tapped his fingertips on his chest. “Didn’t like it any more than you.”

“Yeah, but it’s your fault I’m in here. You and that greaseball, Benny.”

“Wait a minute. Benny was the guy who set that deal up. I was only doing business with him for about six months. Said you and him grew up together.”

“Yeah, we both grew up in Bridgeport but I never liked that slime jabonee. Used to steal money outta his own mudder’s cash register. Piece of shit.” Sal grimaced. “That guinea scum split and went back to Italy, but I’ll get him too if I can find ‘im.”

“I got taken in just like you.” Trick put his open hands out. “That deal wiped me out. Spent close to a year fighting my case. Went broke in the process … bonding out, lawyers, appeals. They watched me like a hawk, could hardly make any dough before I went away. I’m out there struggling.”

“Why should I give a crap? I don’t wanna hear your problems. Got plenty of my own.”

Trick sat back and waited several uncomfortable moments. At a nearby table a young woman with her hair in cornrows sat close to her incarcerated man. He had his prison-blue shirttail out trying to hide that she was stroking him under the table. They were caught up in the moment and didn’t notice a guard approaching from behind. The uniformed guard hit the table hard with his baton making the couple flinch. She drew her hand back and they both straightened up. Trick spoke quietly, “Word is you’re getting out in a few years and plan to kill me.”

“Who’d you hear that from?”

“Not important.” Trick reached out with both hands. “I came to see what we can do to settle things between us.”

“Settle?” Sal motioned with his left hand. “Can you bring my arm back?”

“Come on.” Trick leaned in with both palms on the table. “I didn’t shoot you.”

“I told you I didn’t wanna go back and here I am, livin’ in this jungle with these animals. Every day I gotta hold myself back from killin’ one of these
mulignans
. Then I’ll be here forever. I begged you to put a bullet in my head and you wouldn’t do it.”

“Then
I’d
have been in here for the rest of my life. You’re not thinking right. The coppers investigate these kind of shootings. They pull the bullet out and run ballistics on it. They’d have known it was me.”

Sal stood and swung his body, knocking over Trick’s Pepsi with his paralyzed arm. “Visit’s over. See you in a few years. You’ll never know when or where it’s gonna happen but I dream about the look on your face when you know it’s the end. That dream’s what’s keepin’ me goin’.”

Trick’s heart beat rapidly as he watched Sal walk away but then stop at the guard’s desk by the door and motion back at him with his good arm. He knew it was time to get out of there.

CHAPTER 41

Trick got out of bed and pulled the drapes closed to seal off the flashing neon from the Rainbow Motel sign. Once again he couldn’t sleep and decided to drink himself into a slumber. Walking outside to the ice machine, he was met with the aroma from a nearby pizzeria mingling with the noxious smell of car exhaust. He filled the plastic bucket to the brim then carried it back to his room as noisy night traffic zoomed past on Archer Avenue.

Breaking the seal on a bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon, he heard the dim pop as he removed the cork, then filled a bathroom sink glass to the top over ice. He turned on the small black and white television and scanned the channels. He settled on an episode of
Alfred Hitchcock Presents
with actress Linda Fiorentino, but couldn’t concentrate on the plot.

Trick wondered what he was missing. How his enemies always seemed to be a step ahead of him. Pacing the floor of the small room feeling caged again, he wanted to get out of there, to go anywhere, out of the city, out of the country. Maybe that was the move. But he didn’t have a passport and knew they wouldn’t issue him one while on parole. He thought about his son, knowing he couldn’t leave him again, not if he could help it somehow. He considered running away with Pat but it wouldn’t be fair to Ginger. Losing her son would surely destroy her. This left him with one other reasonable option, turning rat. That would probably get his sentence reduced but it was a dangerous gamble. And what if his enemies retaliated by going after his son? Even if cooperating was a safe alternative, he couldn’t live with himself after doing that. He couldn’t become what he hated.

***

Trick woke the next morning to a maid banging on his door. “Meester! I need to get in!”

Kicking the sheet and cover off, Trick stumbled to the door. “Stop that damned pounding. I don’t need my room cleaned!” He slammed the door in the woman’s face, grabbed his throbbing head and hurried to the bathroom. Dropping to his knees, he vomited, breathed in the stench of last night’s regurgitated gyros sandwich and the urine stained rug around the toilet bowl, then puked some more.

“Oh God,” Trick moaned, feeling like firecrackers were going off in his skull. “Please make it stop.” He wondered if more people prayed on their knees in front of toilets than they did in churches.

Feeling a little better after a nap, Trick shaved and showered. He poured about a shot of bourbon into a glass of water and drank his hair of the dog with a shudder. With a fresh change of clothes, he headed out into the cool, early November breeze. Driving east on Archer, past a multitude of storefront businesses and apartment buildings, he pulled into Brandy’s restaurant on the corner at Cicero Avenue. His hunger was finally overtaking his nausea and he settled on a cheese omelet with wheat toast, washing it down with several glasses of Chicago tap water. His dull headache did not help as he struggled to think of a way to change his luck.

With some food in his belly, he felt straightened out enough to continue and drove down the street, leaving his recently purchased Pontiac in the long-term parking lot at Midway Airport. He walked to the car rental area and drove away in a two-tone Chrysler Fifth Avenue.

***

Trick pulled his cap down low before getting out of the rental car and walking into Barone’s Restaurant at 127th and Central. He looked over the top of his sunglasses to dial the payphone in the vestibule. “Joey, it’s me. I got to give you your license.”

“Yeah. I want dat back right away. Wanna meet downtown at Faces? Ton a pussy dere.”

“No. Tell you what, let’s meet at Heritage Park by the cannon. It’s more private and there’s something I want to talk to you about. Make it 4:30.”

***

Driving up on 149th Street in the foggy dusk, Trick could see Joey’s red Corvette. He pulled into the small parking area and walked straight up to Joey.

“Hey, Trick. Wuz happenin’? Some bidness ya wanna discuss?”

“Yeah. You could say we got some unfinished business. And don’t ever call me Trick. It’s Pat to you.”

“Uh, OK. Pat?” Joey’s hand went to his back pocket. “What’s da beef here?”

“You come sniffing around my wife when I was gone?” Trick surprised Joey with a hard uppercut to the stomach, doubling him over. “You pull that knife and I’ll snatch the eyes right out of your head.”

Trick grabbed him by the hair as Joey put his hands up and wheezed, “Wait, wait.”

“
You
didn’t wait too long, Joey. Started coming around soon as I was locked up.” Trick gave Joey a right cross, knocking him on his ass.

“Stop, stop! Nothin’ happened!” Joey wiped blood from the gash under his eye with the back of his hand. “I jus came around ta see if she needed some help.” Joey pulled his knife. “Dat’s all.”

“You weren’t going to mention it though. Were you? Didn’t think I’d find out.” Trick kicked Joey on the forehead, laying him out. “Don’t ever come anywhere near Ginger again, you fuckin’ lowlife.” Trick threw Joey’s driver’s license at him and walked away, wishing he could solve all his problems that easily.

CHAPTER 42

Toying with the paper wristband, that had Ginger’s room number on it, Trick rode the elevator up to the seventh floor. The metal doors parted and he stepped into the hallway, remembering the last time he came to visit Ginger in Christ Hospital. How beautiful she looked, her disheveled hair against the mint green pillowcase as she held newborn Pat close, his little blond head resting on her chest.

A chubby young nurse’s aide smiled at Trick who looked lost carrying a bouquet of flowers. He walked around looking at numbers on doors, some closed, some open, revealing family members sitting and standing, some with heads hung low. Pushing open the partially closed door, shock hit him when he saw Ginger lying on the first bed, her mouth open, tubes in her arms. Her half open eyes rolled to the side to see Trick holding a dozen roses surrounded with baby’s breath, wrapped in green tissue paper. He thought he saw a hint of a smile as she lay there motionless.

“Don’t get up,” Trick joked, hoping it would lighten the mood and hold back his tears.

Ginger tried telling him something but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. He grabbed a chair and pulled it close to her bedside.

No more than a hoarse whisper came from Ginger, who repeated, “Take good care of Pat … tell him every day how much I love …”

Her eyes closed and Trick wondered whether she suddenly fell asleep, passed out or worse. He dropped the flowers on the floor and ran to the nurses’ station. “Hey. Who’s in charge of Ginger Halloran?”

A woman of middle-eastern descent with thick black hair and thicker eyelashes said, “I’m Doctor Fahri. How can I help you?”

“What’s going on with my … Ginger? I was just with her three days ago. How could she get so sick, so fast?”

“Are you family?”

“Yes, she’s the mother of my son. She looks so weak. What’s being done for her?”

“We’re doing everything possible for Ginger. But we’ve run out of reasonable options. I’m afraid I have bad news. Would you like to come into the conference room?”

“No, please … tell me what’s going on.”

“Ginger has pancreatic cancer. I’m sorry but this type of cancer usually has a poor prognosis, even when diagnosed early. It typically spreads rapidly and is seldom detected in its early stages. Signs and symptoms might not appear until it is well advanced, when surgery is no longer an option.”

“Oh, God. No.” Trick leaned against a wall.

“The cancer has spread to Ginger’s liver and other areas. I wish there were more we could do. Give her anything she would like, candy, ice cream … whatever will make her happy.”

“You’re saying she’s dying?”

“I’m afraid she doesn’t have much time.”

“I don’t get it. A month ago she thought she just had the flu or something. She was up and around a few days ago.”

“Some cancers metastasize at a very rapid rate. I’m so sorry.”

Trick went back to Ginger’s bedside, picked the flowers up from the floor and set them on the bed. He sat thinking about young Pat. His son didn’t deserve any of this. He was just a little boy, never did anything to harm anyone.

Visions of Ginger’s younger girlish face kept Trick company as their first conversation replayed in his mind. He recalled the first time he took her to dinner, admitting he was a coke dealer and that she seemed unfazed. Only to realize two dates later that she thought he worked for Coca-Cola.

Trick lost track of time, lost in daydreams, lost youth, lost innocence. Ginger stirred, opening her eyes again and seemed surprised to see him, as though she didn’t remember talking with him only an hour earlier.

“I was dreaming.” Ginger smiled slightly. “You and me were at the Cape Cod Room, drinking piña coladas.”

“You want a piña colada?”

“What?” Ginger weakly shook her head, “Don’t be silly. I can’t have a drink. I’m in the hospital.”

“You want a piña colada?” Trick repeated.

A pretty young black lady pushing a cart with covered trays entered the room and cheerily asked, “How y’all doing? Would you like to feed Ginger?”

“Can someone else take care of that?” Trick replied. “There’s something I got to do but I’ll be right back.” He stood and patted Ginger’s foot through the bed covers. “See you soon.”

Riding the elevator down alone, Trick let out the tears he had been holding in. Back in his car, he drove to the McDonald’s drive-thru just down the street and ordered two large Cokes. He pulled away, opened his door and poured the drinks out onto the asphalt parking lot, then put the lids back on. He then drove to Petey’s Bungalow across the street from the hospital and walked in with the paper cups.

“Two piña coladas, easy on the rum. Put them in these.” Trick slid the empty cups toward the short burly bartender who had more hair on his arms than the top of his head. “And give me a Chivas neat while I’m waiting,” he added. “Got any twenty-four-year-old?”

“Twelve. That good, pal?”

Trick nodded and took the glass barely out of the bartender’s fingertips. He brought it to his lips, smelled the oaky aroma and swallowed half of it in one gulp.

The bartender returned with the piña coladas and Trick downed the rest of his blended Scotch whiskey. He put the plastic lids back on, tore the paper off the straws and pushed them through the small slits in the lids. “How much do I owe you?”

“$6.50. But, hey, I can’t let ya walk out with those. Ya gotta drink ‘em here.”

Slapping a fifty-dollar bill on the bar, Trick looked him in the eye. “Try and stop me.”

Without looking back, Trick hurried out and got in his car, half expecting the guy to come out the door after him.

He returned to Ginger’s room to find her alone again. She seemed a little stronger after her meal and pushed herself into a sitting position. “You get me a shake?”

“Something better.” Trick handed her a drink and sat next to her. “Till the world is through with us,” he said, tapping his cup against hers.

Taking a sip through the straw, Ginger managed a smile and sang in a raspy voice, “If you like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.”

Trick turned his head and blinked back tears.

“I’m not going home anymore, am I?”

“I don’t know. Try to think positive.” Trick kissed her hand. “I’ll always love you.”

“I know, Pat, I know,” Ginger said softly. She winced in pain and grabbed her side. “I need to know that Pat’s going to be OK. Please promise me you’ll do everything possible to straighten out the mess you’re in and keep him safe. He needs you now more than ever.”

Trick knew he couldn’t honestly say everything would be all right. He didn’t want to lie to Ginger but felt he didn’t have much choice. He couldn’t send her to her grave worrying. “I’ve got everything straightened out. I worked out a deal with the cops.”

“Thank you. It’s not going to be easy for him.” Ginger’s eyes rolled back. “You’re going to have to love him enough for both of us.”

“There’s nothing more important to me than our son. I’ll do everything humanly possible.” Trick caressed her face. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Anything.”

“Karen has a key to my apartment. I left the money you gave me in Pat’s lunchbox. The title for my car is in my top right dresser drawer, bring it to me.” Tears rolled down Ginger’s sunken cheeks and her voice broke. “I want to see my son one more time.”

A short while later, Ginger was asleep again. Trick got on his knees next to her bed, put his hands together and looked up at the ceiling. “Please God, I never asked for much. Please help Ginger. Don’t let her suffer. Please.”

***

Trick walked into the condo for the first time in a week to an annoying ring. He went straight to the bedroom and picked up the phone on the nightstand. “Yeah, who the fuck is it?”

“Is that any way to talk to your benefactor?” Starnes growled back. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be in the can. And where the fuck you been? I been callin’ over there the last couple days.”

“None of your damn business. Look, I’m not in any kind of mood for your bullshit right now.”

“Bullshit? Don’t get cocky with me, you paddy nigger. Meet Moogie over at El-Mar bowling alley tomorrow morning at 10:00. Yous two are gonna go pay someone a visit.”

Pulling the rigged mirror off the wall, Trick reached in and pulled out his pistol. “I’m not going anywhere with that asshole. Find someone else.”

“You and me had a deal. I got you out, mudder fucker. Now you’re gonna do what you’re told. You know what happens to welchers? Huh?”

“I don’t have rules anymore.” Trick never felt so low. Hitting bottom changed something in him. He survived things most men hadn’t, things a lot of men couldn’t. Knowing his situation couldn’t get much worse made him feel strange, almost giddy. After everything he went through, he was still here. Left with only choices. Nothing seemed to matter much anymore. Just his son. “The only rules I have are the ones I impose on myself.”

“What kind of crazy-ass shit you talkin’ about? You understand what’s goin’ on here? I’ll fuckin’ kill ya!”

Trick opened the chamber, counted six bullets and snapped it closed again. “Do what you got to do, boy. I’ll see you around.” He hung up the phone and caught his reflection in the mirrored wall. He sat on the bed and put the barrel to his temple. He suddenly felt tired, very tired. He wanted to sleep, a good long sleep.