by 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
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
“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 picke
d 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.”
CHAPTER 1
The fragrance of the red maple leaves swirling lightly around Trick in the Indian summer breeze overwhelmed him and triggered something in his 31-year-old mind. Youthful nostalgia and lost innocence competed with the sadness that became his unwelcomed everyday companion. It was great to be a free man again but he still had serious problems to deal with.
Walking up the sidewalk to his ex-wife’s apartment, Trick wondered how his five-and-a-half-year-old son would react to seeing him again. November 3, 1982, a date he hated remembering. The look on little Pat’s face when Trick told his son he wouldn’t be seeing him for a long time haunted him every day he was away. Once a week, Ginger allowed him a two-minute collect call with Pat while he was locked up. It had been two years, eleven months and four days since they last saw one another. He thought he had it all back then, a pretty wife, a beautiful little boy and a legitimate business. Attempting to phase out of drug dealing and into the straight world. Straight downhill is what it was. Why was it he always did so well breaking the law but fell flat on his face in the legit world?
After getting buzzed in, Trick bound up the steps to the second-story apartment. The heavy wooden door opened slowly. “Well, look at this. The absentee father’s returned,” Ginger said as he walked in. “I want Patrick home by 8:00. That gives you less than three hours.”
“After all this time, that’s what you want to say to me?”
With little Pat standing behind his mother, clinging to her leg, Ginger rolled her eyes. “Don’t get on my case.”
Trick self-consciously ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, how do I look?”
“You fishing for compliments? OK, you look good … lost that boyish look. Prison agrees with you.”
“Ixnay on the isonpray,” Trick said, shooting Ginger a stern look.
“Oh, that’s right. You were in college,” Ginger fired back in a sarcastic tone.
Pat peeked around to look at his father, then retreated from view. Trick got down on one knee and said, “Hi, Pat. Let me get a good look at you.”
“Go on. Say hi to your father,” Ginger coaxed flatly.
“Hi, Daddy.” Little Pat looked at the floor, rocking from one foot to another as he held his cloth Spiderman doll tight to his chest.
“Want to go to Bengtson’s Farm and pick out a pumpkin for Mommy?”
Pat looked to his mother with questioning eyes, then hesitantly asked Trick, “Can I bring Spidey?”
“Yeah, you can bring Spiderman. He can help us find a good one.” Trick reached out and pulled his blond, blue-eyed boy into his arms and felt the child’s body stiffen. “I missed you so much, Pat. I thought about you every day.”
“Well?” With one hand on her hip, Ginger cocked her head with an impatient look on her pretty but overly made up face. “Money? That $5,000 you gave me before you went away didn’t last that long, you know.”
Trick looked Pat in the eye and said, “Why don’t you go wash your hands … or something. We’ll get going in a minute.” As Pat scampered off, Trick stood and t
urned his attention back to Ginger. “I hope you know that five grand was the last of my cash.” Trick reached in his pocket. “Look, I’ve only got $125 on me right now but Reggie owes me and he’s good for it. I’ll have more in a couple days.” He studied Ginger’s face in the late afternoon sun that filtered through the swaying branches from the picture window. “You look tired.”
“Well, thanks to you, I’m back at the Tinley Teacup. Never thought I’d still be waitressing at 29. You can pick Pat up there Thursday if you have my money.”
Trick glanced around the living room trying to locate the aroma that kept pulling him back in time a few years, then spotted the bowl of potpourri on Ginger’s coffee table. “I’ve got something big in the works. If my ship comes in, you can get off your feet again. Maybe set you up in your own place … a little coffee shop or something.”
“Oh God, here we go again.” Ginger shook her head. Bleach blonde hair danced on her shoulders as she smirked. “You and your big plans. Now that you’re out, why don’t you just get a job like everyone else and quit hustling?”
“Yeah, doing what? I don’t have any practical experience. I’m used to being my own boss and not everyone wants to hire an ex-con.”
Ginger sighed as she turned to look out the living room window at the fading leaves on the trees.
