by LOU HOLLY
“If I get back on my feet, I’d like to take you out to dinner,” Trick continued. “Circumstances could change overnight.”
“I don’t think Petros would like me going to dinner with my ex-husband,” Ginger said, walking to the living room closet to get Pat’s jacket.
“You kidding me? Pickle Nose? You can’t be serious.”
“At least he has a successful business … a legal one.”
“He also has two ex-wives.” Trick stepped closer and tilted his head to catch her gaze. “I’d like to talk about getting back together. I never wanted a divorce and I sure don’t want to be a weekend father. If I wasn’t locked up at the time …”
Pat eased back into the living room like a cat creeping along the back of a sofa. Ginger waved Pat closer and helped him on with his cowboy jacket, “Getting back together just so you can see your son more often is not on my agenda. Your three hours with Patrick is now two hours and forty-three minutes. I suggest you get going.”
Trick surprised his son when he scooped him up in his arms. He started for the door, hesitated and turned to Ginger. “You lost a lot of weight. What are you on, the Karen Carpenter diet?”
“I’m fine … just working too much. I need a good long rest. Just get going, please.”
As Trick drove the twelve miles to the pumpkin farm with Pat, an uneasy feeling hung in the car like a heavy fog stalled over Lake Michigan. Trick turned off the radio when he heard Paul Young singing, I’m Gonna Tear Your Playhouse Down. “How are you, Pat?”
Pat sat silent for a moment, then held his Spiderman doll out in front of him and seemed to speak to it. “I don’t remember you.”
“Pat, we talked on the phone every week.”
“I looked at your pictures in Mommy’s album. But I don’t remember you being my daddy.”
“We’ll change that.” Trick slowed down when he noticed a young doe standing by the side of the road. “We’re going to get to know each other all over again.”
“My friend Will has a daddy. He reads him a story every night.”
Trick put his window up as the warmth of October seventh cooled into early evening. “I might not be able to read you bedtime stories but you’re going to see a lot of me from now on.”
Pat finally turned to look at his father and shrugged. “How do I know you’re not going to leave me again?”
Trick reached over, took Pat’s hand and was taken aback by the softness of his skin, the delicacy in his care. He thought of when he was Pat’s age, how he grew up being bounced from one foster home to another, not receiving much that could pass for love and caring. “That little shit will eat you out of house and home,” he recalled one of his foster fathers telling his wife. He remembered the way the older biological sons of another family tormented him mercilessly behind their parents’ back.
Trick gently rubbed Pat’s hand and said, “I promise I’ll never leave you again. You can trust me, Pat. I love you more than anything in the whole world … anything.” He pulled a folded white handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to Pat. “Here, dry your eyes. We’re going to have fun tonight. No more tears. OK?”
“OK, Daddy.” Pat broke into an unexpected giggle and more tears streamed down his face.
***
While walking through the pumpkin patch and going on a hayride with Pat, Trick struggled to make conversation. His son, whom he treasured more than anything else in life, was solemn and quiet the whole evening. On the way back home, Trick realized it would take more time than he thought to re-establish a close relationship with his son. He dropped Pat off at Ginger’s living room door with the large pumpkin they picked out together along with a small one just for him.
Getting back in his car with that final clang of steel gates still echoing in his mind from earlier that day, he had the urge to hit a bar, have a drink and talk to a pretty lady on his first night of freedom. But knew he had better get going to his destination before it got too late.
CHAPTER 2
Trick pulled into the parking lot of Reggie’s condo. He nosed into a spot under an ancient cottonwood tree, got out and looked up to see a crow fly across the moon.
“Trick,” a gravelly, nasal voice called out making him flinch. “You duckin’ me?”
He turned to see Eddie Starnes walking up with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand, his muscle, Moogie, right beside him.
“No, of course not,” Trick replied, backing up against his driver’s side door to keep Moogie from circling behind. “I had every intention of coming to see you. Just got out today … wanted to get my ducks in a row first.”
Starnes walked up nearly toe to toe with Trick. “Well, you got my $60,000?”
“I’m working on it,” Trick said, feeling a cold breeze sting the back of his neck. “I’ve got a couple of irons in the fire. Just need a little time.”
“Time? I been waitin’ for three years. You’re lucky I’m not chargin’ interest.”
“Hey, come on,” Trick said, pulling his face back from Starnes’ whiskey breath. “I was locked up. What the hell do you expect?”
“I expect you to come up with my money. I don’t care how you do it. Go rob a fuckin’ bank. But you will cough up some coin. Otherwise you’ll find your son’s head on the front porch with the mornin’ paper.”
Trick grabbed Starnes by the lapels of his motorcycle jacket. “You mother fucker, don’t ever threaten my son’s life again.” His voice raspy from dryness, Trick managed, “If anything ever happens to him I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
Trick heard Moogie’s .45 caliber revolver click next to his head. “Just come up with the dough.” Starnes shoved a fist into Trick’s chest. “I could hurt you in ways you couldn’t imagine. Never see it comin’, boy.”
With the exception of Moogie’s asthmatic breathing, they stood in silence, glaring at one another. After a few moments, Moogie tailed Starnes back to his pickup truck and they drove away. Leaning against his 1979 Lincoln Continental, Trick took a few deep breaths in an effort to compose himself. It was one of those times when an unfiltered Old Gold would taste great again.
He walked to the entrance he remembered so well and pushed the lighted button next to the name LeChat. A hand pulled a curtain aside and a familiar ebony face peered at him. The annoying sound of the buzzer unlocked the door, giving Trick entrance to days gone by.
“Look atcha, man. Put on some size while you were in da house. Been hittin’ dat iron, boy. Face looks different too … became a man while you were gone.”
“Hey, Junebug, it’s been a while. Yeah, I’m not the same person.” Trick shook Reggie’s hand and glanced around the first floor condo. “I appreciate you letting me bum here.”
“S’ok, man.” Reggie’s tone changed as he dropped the street dialect. “It’ll be good havin’ someone here keepin’ an eye on things while I’m gone.”
“Yeah,” Trick said, changing the subject. “I just had a run in with Starnes and that neanderthal, Moogie, out in your parking lot. Got any idea how he knew I’d be here?”
“Who me? No. How would I know? Must have heard you were out, I guess. Maybe tailin’ you.”
Trick tried to lock eyes with Reggie, who looked away with a wave of his arms and said, “Well, what do you think?”
“Place looks good … new couch, bigger TV.” Trick breathed in a combination of incense and lemon-scented Pledge. “A fishing boat, huh?”
“Yep, north to Alaska. Ten Gs for three months. Can’t spend any of it either. You’re on a boat the whole time. Work your ass off. Come back with some of that mean green. You know what they say, money talks.”
With deadpan delivery, Trick answered back, “Well, all it ever said to me was goodbye.”
Reggie chuckled and shook his head. “Why doncha sign up for the fishin’ boat? They’re always lookin’ for guys.”
“I’ve been away from my son way too long. I need to make up for lost time.” Trick looked at his gold Omega watch, w
ondering what it would bring at a pawnshop. “Ten grand wouldn’t solve my problems anyway.”
“Gotcha. Sit down, make yourself at home.” Reggie spread his palms out. “It will be for the next few months. Wanna beer?”
“Hell yeah, I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in almost three years. Well, except for some homemade hooch over in Cook County on Thanksgiving a couple years ago.”
Reggie walked into the kitchen and returned with two open bottles of beer. He handed one to Trick, and said, “Gentlemen, start your livers,” before settling into a velour recliner.
Trick took a big gulp of cold Michelob, wiped his sandy-brown moustache with his thumb and said, “Damn that tastes good.” He let out a long sigh. “I’m going to give my parole officer your address as my residence.”
“Why not? S’ok with me.”
“So, you’re out of the business?” Trick picked up a copy of Penthouse from the coffee table and thumbed through a layout with nude photos of Madonna.
“Yeah. After you got popped, then Mossimo, then Herbie. I knew what time it was.”
“Don’t blame you,” Trick said, settling back on the couch. “It’s not the same out there. Guys rolling over on each other left and right. No honor left.”
“What was it like? I was only in jail once, for a few hours in Chicago lockup. I can’t imagine. What did you do, like, three years?”
“Just about,” Trick said, pulling at a loose edge of the gold Michelob label. “Prison is not what you think. Not like the movies, TV shows. Hollywood writers need to make their stories interesting so there’s all this shit about guys getting shanked or raped every day. It’s not like that. What it is … is boring. Every day’s like the last. Once in a while there’s a fight. No big deal.”
“Anybody ever try anything funny with you? You know.”
“No, man. No. You got to understand.” Trick paused, running his fingertips over the rough synthetic sofa fabric. “Men don’t suddenly turn queer because they have a set of bars in front of them. If a guy’s got a proclivity toward men on the outside, he’ll have it on the inside. The ones that do get reamed are usually just the punks, guys who want it. They get passed around. I don’t care if I was locked up for the rest of my life; I’m not going down that road.”
Reggie shook his head. “Hope I never have to find out.”
“You’d do OK.” Trick held his beer bottle up to the light, watching bubbles race to the top as he chose his words. “I didn’t have much trouble. A couple of little scrapes. Most of those thugs didn’t want to mess with me. They saw me jogging the yard in ninety-degree weather, hitting the weights every day, doing handstand pushups against the wall … Enough about prison, talking about it is almost as boring as being there. I’m out and I’m not going back. I’m through dealing too.”
“Gonna get a straight job? Won’t be easy for you. Gettin’ by from week to week. You were up there. How much were you makin’?”
“For a while there, for over a year, I was pulling in at least ten a week.”
Reggie’s eyes popped open, “G’s?”
“Yeah. It was a lot of fun. Taking Ginger to all the five-star restaurants downtown, shopping on the Magnificent Mile. I dropped over ten grand on clothes one week.”
“Yeah, but, where’s all that scratch now?”
“The money’s gone, all of it. What the cops didn’t confiscate I spent on lawyers and appeals. I’d have been better off just copping a plea. Would have got out sooner and saved a lot of dough.”
“Speakin’ of money. You got the run of my condo the next three months and we forget about the $2,500 I owe you. Right?”
“That’s a little steep. Let’s say we knock $1,800 off the balance for rent. I’m going to need a little operating capital. Ginger’s already leaning on me for child support.”
“I got a thousand. How ‘bout I give you half?” Reggie stood and opened his wallet. He flipped through a stack of bills, counted and held some out toward Trick. “I’m gonna need a little foldin’ money for the trip to Alaska in the mornin’.”
“Yeah, that’s cool … for now.” Trick took a swig of cold brew and asked, “What’s going on with Richie?”
“Rich Quigley?”
“No, man. You know, Richie C.”
“Oh, I haven’t seen that guy around in a couple years.”
Trick leaned forward, setting his empty beer bottle on a Year of the Ox coaster. “Ask around about him, will you? Me and Richie were doing a few things together before they revoked my bond. Gave him the last of my dough for a kilo. Expected that jamoke to get a hold of me. I’m not only broke, I’m deep in debt.”
“You just said you were through dealin’. What’s with that?”
“I am. But if I can get my hands on that one kilo and sell it, I can pay off Starnes and have enough cash to get back on my feet.”
“Let me make a couple calls.” Reggie stood and grabbed Trick’s empty bottle, “Want another beer?”
Trick nodded, then looked at the television that had the volume turned down. A big handsome lug with a full moustache grinned at the camera then pulled away in a red Ferrari. He listened as Reggie made calls from the kitchen telephone.
A few minutes later, Reggie walked back into the living room with another beer for Trick. “He’s in Concord.”
“Concord? On 95th? Son-of-a-bitch.”
CHAPTER 3
Trick felt a chill as he walked into the Tinley Teacup restaurant at 159th and Harlem to pick up his son. He spotted little Pat sitting in a booth, drawing on the back of a paper placemat with an orange crayon.
“Mommy’s mad at you again. She said you were supposed to be here a half hour ago.”
Ginger shot Trick a perturbed look as she stood next to a table taking a late lunch order. He took a seat across from Pat and asked, “What’re you drawing, buddy?”
“This is Rambo. He’s beating up the bully at my school who makes fun of me. His daddy said you’re a bad egg.” Pat looked up. “Are you?”
“I’m trying, I’m trying. Don’t pay any attention to guys like that. Inside they’re not happy, so they want to make you unhappy too. Pat …”
Petros, the owner of the family style restaurant, strutted up and interrupted Trick’s train of thought when he blurted out, “So, how does it feel to be a free man again?”
“What does he mean, Daddy?” Pat stopped drawing and tilted his head. “Free?”
Trick looked up at Petros and shot back, “I’d appreciate a little discretion there, malaka.”
“You should leave Ginger alone. She don’t love you no more. You’re a good looking guy. Go find another girl.”
Trick fished a quarter out of his pocket and handed it to Pat. “Why don’t you go get yourself a prize?”
Pat took the coin, gave Trick a funny look, and walked to the hostess station where three vending machines stood; one with salted peanuts, one with gumballs, and one with little toys in clear plastic egg-like containers.
With Pat out of earshot, Trick turned his attention back to Petros, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’d do anything for my son. Even remarry Ginger and put up with her immature, selfish bullshit. As long as I’m with my boy … that’s all that matters to me.”
Stroking his thick black moustache with his thumb, Petros rebuked, “Look, my friend. After I marry Ginger, we let you see him a couple days, on weekends, so I can take Ginger to Greektown and show her off. Give her the things a lady like her deserves. I’m going to be raising Pat. I’ll see he gets everything he needs. Don’t worry, if you go back to prison, I’ll be there for him.”
“You know what I don’t like about you guys? You get set up in a restaurant by the Greek Syndicate and think the waitresses are your playthings. You think American girls are a bunch of whores you can impress with your little restaurants.” Trick laughed. “Big shots in a tiny little corner of the world.”
“You American men are so jealous of our success.” Petros smiled smugly. “G
et used to it. Me and Ginger are going to have lots of kids, give Pat some brothers and sisters.”
“Yeah, well, let’s hope they don’t end up with your schnozzola.”
Ginger finished setting plates of Reuben, French Dip and Monte Cristo sandwiches in front of customers, then stomped up to Trick and Petros. She put her hands on her hips and demanded, “What’s going on over here?”
Standing and taking four hundred dollars from an inside pocket of his calfskin jacket, Trick tossed the folded bills on the table. “Here, this is for child support.”
“Where’d you get this?” With customers looking at each other, trying to hide their amusement, Ginger picked up the money and waved it in the air. “What’re you up to now? Huh?”
“Don’t worry about it. Damn … you complain if I don’t have it and complain if I do.”
Pat crept up unnoticed and asked, “How come everyone’s yelling?”
“We’re not yelling, Pat,” Trick said, taking his hand. “This is what’s known as a spirited discussion.”
Walking toward the entrance with Pat in tow and bumping shoulders with a Tinley Park Police officer entering the restaurant, Trick looked back at Petros. “You want her, you got her. She’s your problem now.”
Petros grabbed the officer by the arm as they both watched Trick storm out. “He’s a drug dealer. You should keep an eye on this one, my friend.”
CHAPTER 4
Trick had a bad feeling walking into Concord Nursing Home. Was Richie really here? It didn’t seem right.
“Can I help you?” asked the chubby young lady, seated behind the open sliding glass window.
“Yeah, Richard Caponigro. He here?”
“Let’s see.” Her long purple fingernails flipped through a large notebook. “Room 218 West.”
The expansive day room, trimmed in log cabin motif, was sparsely filled with bouquets of silver hair scattered here and there. A young man, dressed in a barbershop quartet outfit, jubilantly played the piano in a corner, singing Oklahoma! to the few that noticed. One octogenarian gentleman with a pencil thin moustache and a white, well-worn navy hat tapped his foot in time. As Trick turned the corner and proceeded to the west wing, he felt nauseous from the smell of urine and feces while patients cried mournfully for help. Through open doors he viewed the living dead, on their backs, waiting to go on to their husbands and wives who already left the material world. Some not even aware of where they were or who they were, with open mouths and thin skin barely covering ancient bones that looked as though they were trying to make a break for it. Others sat in wheelchairs in the hallway nodding and saying hello, studying, as though they knew you somehow.
