by LOU HOLLY
“Oh, I just told her that if she took care of us I’d let her sleep with you. I slipped her your number. Said she’d call you tomorrow around noon.” Trick turned and looked at Collette with a serious expression. “Use a sultry voice when you answer.”
“What?” Collette’s mouth hung open as they stopped next to his car, but then burst out laughing when Trick could no longer keep a straight face. “You are such a bad boy.”
“I slipped her a ten-spot.” Trick unlocked the passenger door and held it open. “Told her my name was Doctor Halloran and I was on call. Works every time.”
Collette surprised Trick with a soft kiss, then placed a hand on the front of her short skirt as she got in, preserving the mystery of her femininity. He closed the door and walked around the back of the car thinking the kiss seemed promising. He got in and asked, “Would you like to come over to my place for a drink?”
At first he thought Collette must not have heard him because she took a compact out of her purse and opened it, using the reflection to apply a fresh coat of lipstick. After pausing, she turned and said, “Something about you. I don’t know, maybe it’s not a good idea.”
“Come on, I’ll take you back home the minute you say so.” Trick held three fingers up in a mock Boy Scout salute.
“OK, just one drink. But you have to promise to be good. I’ve never been alone with a man before.”
Trick squinted, furrowing his brow. “You mean …?”
“No, I’m not a virgin and I’m not gay if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve never been with a real man, just guys my age.”
Trick was at a loss for words so he just nodded and turned on the radio. While Sade’s sultry voice moaned, “Smooth Operator,” Collette lit a cigarette and put the passenger window down a few inches. She studied Trick’s profile and said, “You know, you’re not a bad looking guy, a little rough but kind of nice too.”
“Thanks. I’ve been taking handsome lessons.”
Collette giggled. “What?”
“Yeah. Correspondence course, nine easy lessons to look more like Cary Grant.”
“Oh, really? How’s that going?”
“Lesson number one … have good looking parents. High cheekbones are a plus.”
“What about lesson two?” she asked, playing along.
“Stand tall, shoulders back. Think handsome and you’ll be handsome. Doesn’t matter if you have blue eyes or brown eyes, but if you have a nose like Jimmy Durante you’re liable to flunk the course.”
“What about three?” Collette laughed.
“That’s as far as I got. So, after seven more lessons, watch out. You might not be able to control yourself.”
“Oh, boy, I can’t wait.”
***
Trick opened a kitchen cabinet that contained several liquor bottles. “How about a twenty-four-year-old Scotch?”
“Jumping bunnies,” Collette exclaimed in a way that made him feel a little uneasy. “That’s three years older than me.”
Settling on the living room sofa, Collette inquired, “There’s still something I don’t get. Your name’s Patrick Halloran, but you don’t know if you’re Irish?”
“It’s a long story.” Trick swirled the ice in his Chivas Regal and took a sip. “I started out as Baby Patrick in the orphanage, no last name. From what I’ve been able to find out, I was adopted by a couple named Halloran. The records were sealed but I paid someone under the table for information. I was told the Hallorans adopted me in a last ditch effort to save their marriage. It didn’t work out so they ditched me. The first thing I can remember as a kid, think I was about four, was being brought back to the orphanage. I didn’t understand. There was a lot of crying. I had this lump in my throat that didn’t go away for a long time.”
“I’m surprised you can remember back that far,” Collette remarked.
Trick could see sadness in Collette’s eyes. Compassion he could take but pity was something he couldn’t stand. He learned to differentiate between the two long ago. “Something like that you don’t forget. I felt like I wasn’t good enough. That stayed with me all through my childhood. Can’t remember all the details but there were other foster homes. I was bounced around like a paddle ball, so were my feelings. Every time I went to live with a new family, I prayed they would keep me, even the ones who treated me like shit.”
“Sorry I touched a sore spot,” Collette said, looking uncomfortable. “Did you ever try to locate either of the Hallorans?”
“No. Why would I? They didn’t want me then. Don’t think either of them would want to see me now. Besides, there’s a lot of Hallorans out there. Phonebook’s full of them.” Trick held an imaginary telephone to his ear. “Can you picture me? ‘Hello, Mr. Halloran, are you the guy that broke my heart?’” Trick shook his head. “No, I don’t see that in my future.”
Collette leaned closer and gently rubbed the back of Trick’s neck. He set his glass down and turned to kiss her as her mouth opened in response. He slid his hand under Collette’s cropped sweater and felt her softness through the thin laciness of her bra.
“C’mon, be good. You promised,” Collette moaned. She pulled away and adjusted her clothing. “We just met. It’s our first date. I’m not like that.”
“I understand. It’s just that I’m very attracted to you and … I haven’t had sex in three years.”
“A good looking guy like you?” she asked, wrinkling her forehead. “Come on.”
“No really, I’m not kidding. It might be better if I told you a little more about myself.” Trick looked down and rubbed his forehead, hiding his eyes. “I just got out of prison. Did a few years on a cocaine beef.”
“Oh, no.” Collette pulled the hem of her skirt further down over her tanned thighs. “That must have been horrible.”
“The worst part was being taken away from my son.” Trick straightened up and continued, “It’s understandable that if you break the law there’s got to be some consequences. But it doesn’t seem right that a guy’s family has to struggle while they’re in there playing cards, lifting weights, killing time. I think it would be better if we were forced to work at full wages, doing anything, construction, manual labor, whatever. As long as the money was sent to your wife and kids, you know, people on the outside who depend on you.”
“I can’t get over you being in prison. I never went out with a bad boy before, not a real one.” Trick thought he detected a hint of glee in her voice. “If my dad found out … oh boy.”
“What does your dad do?”
“He’s a police officer, detective with Orland Park.”
“Oh, great. Say … what did you say your last name was?”
“Johnston.”
“I better take you home now.”
***
Trick shut his headlights off just before turning into Collette’s driveway. “Collette … I was thinking. I’d love to see you again, but your father could be a problem.”
“Really, you think so?”
The vague sarcasm in her voice gave Trick a twinge of anger, reminding him of his ex-wife. “Maybe if he got to know me, found out I was legit, not dealing anymore. He might give me a chance.”
“I don’t know.” Collette watched the living room window of her house. “Maybe. They say anything’s possible.”
“What does a guy have to do? I lost everything when I got busted, everything. I did my time, paid my debt to society.” Trick turned the radio off. “Tell you what. If your dad asks about me, tell him my last name’s O’Connor. OK?”
“I don’t like lying to Daddy. I love him but sometimes he scares the snot out of me. How long do you think that would work anyway?”
“I don’t know. But I’d love to take you out again. I really like you. You got class.”
Trick leaned over to kiss Collette but she quickly turned her cheek to meet his lips. “I better get in before Daddy gets up and looks out the window. I’ll let myself out. Bye.”
“I’ll call you,”
Trick’s voice trailed off as Collette shut the car door behind her.
CHAPTER 12
“What the fuck?” Trick kept glancing in his rearview mirror on the way home after dropping off Collette. He slowed down to five miles under the speed limit on 143rd Street and hoped they would turn off. “Undercover cops? What the hell do they want?” He first noticed the glow from the yellow fog lights on the vehicle behind him as far back as LaGrange Road. When the driver blew the red light at Harlem Avenue and kept up with him, Trick knew this wasn’t going to be a good night. He drove cautiously the rest of the way to the condo complex, pulled into the parking lot and turned the engine off. A coffee brown Oldsmobile 98 pulled directly behind his Lincoln, blocking him in. Trick turned in his seat to see four men exit the vehicle. “These guys aren’t cops,” he said under his breath.
The four dark figures broke into pairs and approached both sides of his car. Two of them, who looked like brothers, went to the front passenger window, while the shorter of the two men by the driver’s side tapped on his window with a tire iron. He made a circular motion with his left hand as he said, “Roll it down.”
Trick lowered his window, and calmly as he could manage, said, “What did I do, cut you off or something? Sorry.”
“We want to talk to you, whetto,” said the short, stocky young man with wide-set eyes and slicked-back hair.
“I’ve got a gun,” Trick said, putting his right hand inside his sport coat, trying to bluff.
“I don’t think so, parolee.” The short guy, who seemed to be in charge, opened his long topcoat revealing an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. “But we do,” he said, fingering the gun. “You have something that belongs to us. The black leather bag, where’s it at?”
Trick didn’t have time to think. The first thing out of his mouth was, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
With the tire iron resting on the open window a couple inches from Trick’s face, the leader said, “C’mon, outta there, on your feet.”
“You must have the wrong guy,” Trick said, getting out of his car.
The tallest of the group, wearing a Chicago Bulls jacket, shoved Trick out of the way and pressed the trunk release button, popping it open. He went to the back of Trick’s Lincoln, found the black leather bag under a blanket and held it up. “Why you lying to us? You think we’re stupido? Now you make me feel like hurting you.”
“Let’s go, Homes.” The short stocky guy pushed Trick from behind with the tire iron in his spine. “Get in my car. We’re going for a ride, have a little conversación.” He motioned toward the front seat as the guy in the Bulls jacket opened the passenger door. The leader got behind the wheel, pinning Trick between him and the big guy. The two brothers, who had not said a word yet, got in the back.
As they pulled out of the parking lot, Trick asked, “Where we going?”
“Not far.” The leader looked straight ahead. “Somewhere we can have a little privacy.”
Trick felt his filet mignon coming up into his throat. He swallowed hard and said, “Why don’t we just stay here and discuss this?”
“Shut the fuck up, thief. We’ll tell you when to talk,” one of the brothers said in a heavy Mexican accent, pushing a pistol hard into Trick’s ear.
They drove to woodsy 147th Street and pulled onto a service road just east of the Missionary Sisters of Saint Benedict. “Get out of the car, bean bandit,” the short guy said, as the others began exiting onto the uncut grass behind a cove of trees. “I don’t want any blood in my 98.”
A pistol, from behind, tapped Trick on the side of his head. He felt dizzy as his heart beat even faster getting out. Feeling wobbly on his feet, Trick pleaded, “Look, I’m open to any kind of negotiations. Just tell me what can I do to make things right.”
Still holding the bag, the tall one in the Bulls jacket rummaged through it. “How much dinero is missing?”
Trick felt cold metal at the back of his neck. “Uh, let me think. Give me a minute.” Trick breathed heavily. “Twenty thousand, that’s all. Just twenty.”
“The coke’s not here,” the big guy said, raising his voice. “You’re going to give it all back, just the way it was, the twenty that’s missing and the three kilos. Or we’ll have to do very bad things to you and your family.”
“Oh, fuck,” Trick mumbled as his teeth began chattering uncontrollably.
“Where’s the drugs?” the leader asked. “In your crib?”
“No. Look, the drugs are … gone.” Trick had the odd sense that he had been struck by lightning when he felt a bolt of pain run through his skull. Everything went dark and he collapsed to the ground. Seconds later, his vision returned and he looked up to see the short young man standing over him with the tire iron. The pain became more excruciating and centrally located as he realized he had been struck on the nose.
“Don’t ever tell me what I don’t want to hear. Understood, puto? Just tell me things that make me happy.” The leader smoothed his slick hair back. “We know you won’t go to the policia. Drugs … drug money; you’d be right back in prisión.”
Trick got to his knees and put his hand on his nose. When he looked at his hand it was full of blood.
The leader spit on the ground next to Trick. “Not so guapo now, eh, maricón? You’re going to return the missing money, and the yayo just the way we left it. If you don’t come up with the kilos, you owe us another $300,000. You got one week. Comprendo?”
“Yeah, got it.” Trick waved his hands in surrender knowing this was no time to attempt a negotiation. “Comprende.”
“In the meantime, we’ll be watching your ass.” The leader stood over Trick with the tire iron resting back on his shoulder. “Remember something, bandito. I’m a Mexican, not a Mexican’t. I always take care of business.” The four calmly walked back to their car and drove away, leaving Trick on his knees bleeding.
The moon behind the hazy clouds took on an eerie glow. Trick wondered if it was from the tears that welled up from the stinging pain he felt. Smelling his own blood, he made it to his feet and stumbled, looking around to get his bearings. He took a clean handkerchief from his back pocket, held it to his nose and thought – a couple miles, maybe less, to the condo. The sooner he started moving his feet, the sooner he would get home. Cutting through the darkened Midlothian Country Club around midnight, a lone rabbit stopped in his tracks and watched Trick cautiously. He thought the cottontail had a look of concern, then it hopped away without glancing back. Tasting the blood that dripped into his throat, he kept spitting, trying not to swallow too much. The high wind brushed the treetops with early warnings of a cold November while he kept putting one foot in front of the other, walking, stumbling, until after a span that didn’t seem to be measured in regular time brought him to the doorway of his temporary digs.
Trick unlocked the door, thankful that none of his neighbors saw him in his current condition. The last thing he wanted was to answer questions. He staggered in, half expecting the condo to be ransacked but nothing looked out of place. He went straight to the bathroom, threw the blood-soaked handkerchief in the wastebasket and inspected the damage. It was broken, just as he thought. Along with the swelling and sick looking color his face was taking on, his nose had a pronounced curve to it. So he tried his best to shove it back in place with his fingers and thumb. Screaming in pain as his knees buckled, he crumpled to the floor. Trick gasped for breath as the blood flowed freely again. He grabbed the sink, pulled himself to his feet and spit a big clot of blood from the back of his throat into the toilet, then flushed the blob away. His nose was noticeably straighter but still swelling.
He went to the kitchen, got a popsicle from the freezer and ran it under hot water until only the stick remained. Locating a serrated knife, he held half of the popsicle stick over the edge of the kitchen counter and began sawing, with blood dripping over everything from his nose. He went back to the bathroom, found a roll of white surgical tape in the medicine cabinet and tightly
taped up his nose with half of the popsicle stick on either side of it.
By now he was starting to resemble a raccoon, as blood collected beneath the skin under his eyes. He went back to the kitchen and made a cold compress with ice in a dishtowel. Trick grabbed a cold beer and sat in the living room with the icepack on his nose, wondering how he was going to get out of this mess. It was one thing owing money to that sadistic bastard Starnes. He knew where the son-of-a-bitch lived and could retaliate if things got too ugly. These Latino guys were a different matter. He had no idea who they were or where they came from. The bigger questions running through his mind were, how the hell did they know who he was and how could they have known he was holding the bag?
CHAPTER 13
After a night of sporadic dozing on the living room recliner, Trick got up and read 10:30 am through the blood splatters on his watch. He took off his new Armani jacket and ice-blue silk shirt, checked the pockets, and tossed them in the waste basket. Worried that Ginger might have already bought a new car with the $15,000 he gave her, he called her but there was no answer. So he took a shower, letting cold water run over his face, washing the dried blood away. Staring down at the red water swirling around his feet, Trick pounded his fists on the shower tiles, cracking one of them. His breathing became labored thinking about the wasted years he spent locked up and separated from his son. Now he had all this to deal with too.
Trick looked in the mirror and removed his homemade splint. He had two black eyes and his nose looked as though he was going to have a bump on the lower bridge, even after it healed. Trick redressed his nose with another homemade splint, then tried calling Ginger again. There still was no answer so he decided to go over there right away.
His heart pounded while he talked to himself on the short drive to her apartment: “Please. Say you didn’t do it.” But there it was; a brand new white 1986 Chrysler convertible where Ginger’s old Chevy was usually parked. “Damn it!” He slammed his car door behind him and took big strides up to Ginger’s apartment building.
