SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense

by LOU HOLLY

  “Yeah … no. I know my gun had bullets. I was just checkin’ to be sure. You know.”

  “OK. Proceed.” Trick turned right on 159th Street.

  “I had my window open, checkin’ to see if my Colt had bullets. No … makin’ sure it had bullets. All of a sudden I had a gun up against my temple. I heard a voice, sounded like James Earl Jones, say, “I like your piece.”

  “So, you’re saying James Earl Jones put a gun upside your head.”

  “No. Of course not, Mr. Funny Fuck. I said he sounded like ‘im. James Earl Jones don’t go around with any damn Jheri curls. He’s too dignified.”

  “All right, you’re a James Earl Jones fan. What happened next?”

  “He took my gun. Put it in his pants.”

  “Wait. What do you mean he put it in his pants?”

  “You know, he stuck it in his waistband.”

  “Why didn’t you say waistband?”

  “Do you want to know what the fuck happened? I could have been killed.”

  “Oh, you could have been killed. Yes, I want to hear what happened.”

  “I heard gunshots and he told me to get out of the car. He grabbed my ear and yanked me around to the back and made me get in the trunk. That’s all.”

  “Oh. That’s all?”

  “Yeah. That’s all. I waited a long time, then you let me out.”

  “I’m glad that’s all, Bob. I’m glad no one knocked you on the back of the head with a pistol and shot at you.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Why, yes. Thank you for asking. I’m great, Bob. Except I probably need stitches, I’m filthy dirty from running through a prairie, dodging bullets and I’ve got a splitting headache.”

  “Did you get the money?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, I didn’t get the money.”

  “You still got the blow?”

  “Yes, I have the blow.”

  “Well, that’s good, anyway.”

  Trick drove the rest of the way in silence until they pulled up to Bob’s trailer home off Southwest Highway. He put it in park, looked at Bob and asked, “You don’t still expect me to pay you, do you?”

  CHAPTER 22

  “I’m sorry, Pat.” Trick knelt and put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “I can’t take you to the carnival today.”

  As Pat ran to his bedroom crying, Ginger said, “I hope you’re happy with yourself, breaking your son’s heart. That’s all he talked about all week.”

  “Look.” Trick stood and noticed the gauntness of Ginger’s face. “I’m sorry but there’s things that I need to take care of right away.”

  “I thought you wanted to spend time with your son. Where’ve you been, getting laid?”

  “No. That’s what I ought to be doing after being locked up all that time.” Trick’s voice softened. “You know Pat’s the most important thing in the world to me. Things are real crazy right now.”

  “Things are always crazy with you. Ever think things are crazy because you make them that way?”

  “Ok, whatever you say. I don’t want to fight. Please tell Pat I love him and I’ll be by next week. Tell him Daddy’s working and I’m going to buy him a new bike.”

  “I never knew anyone like you.” Ginger shook her head. “You don’t have any close friends. You don’t trust anyone. I don’t get it. How does that feel?”

  “I trusted you.” Trick zipped up his jacket and looked out the second story window and watched a lone robin trying to catch up to a flock flying south. “Look where that got me.”

  “That’s different. I was your wife. Things just didn’t work out.” Ginger poked Trick’s chest. “Just because you were rejected as a child doesn’t mean you have to reject everyone else. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to trust someone. Otherwise you’ll always be alone.”

  “I don’t need any amateur psychoanalysis right now.” Trick started for the door. “I have to go.”

  “Yeah, go on. Get out. I had plans with Petros. Now I gotta find a babysitter. Go fuck yourself!”

  ***

  Unable to finish, Trick pushed the rest of his late morning breakfast omelet away at the El-Dorado restaurant, listening for the payphone in the entryway to ring. After placing a five-dollar bill under his water glass, he went back to the payphone feeling lightheaded from lack of sleep. He stood looking at the phone for a couple minutes and then dialed again. “Where is that son-of-a-bitch?” Trick slammed the receiver down after his sixth call to Joker’s pager in the last two days. Not liking his options, he drove to Joker’s house in the nearby suburb of Chicago Ridge. Joker’s El Camino was in the driveway but his Harley was nowhere in sight. He pulled into the drive, walked to the side entrance and rapped on the aluminum screen door, feeling a chill in the air after eight straight days of unseasonably warm weather.

  “Trick. My God, what are you doing here?” Joker’s barefoot wife, Brenda, pushed the screen door open a couple feet while a toddler in a droopy diaper clung to her leg.

  “Is Joker around?” Trick’s eyes darted back and forth. With her hand over her head gripping the door, he tried not to stare at the bottom of Brenda’s breast which was partially visible in her cut-off Harley-Davidson sweatshirt.

  “No. That bastard took off Friday night, right after Brandi’s birthday party.” Brenda wiped her wet hands on frayed Daisy Duke shorts, keeping the door propped open with her foot. “Joker, that’s a good name for that alley cat because he’s a joke of a husband.”

  “I need to get hold of him,” Trick said, looking over the top of his sunglasses. “It’s important.”

  “Get in line.” Brenda scowled as she brushed aside blonde frosted wisps of hair that had fallen loose from her rubber band hair tie. “I wish that mother fucker would die on the road.”

  “Beautiful, just fucking beautiful.” Trick stopped talking when he realized the towhead baby boy sucking on a bottle watched him closely with wide eyes. “I don’t suppose he left any money here for me.”

  Brenda’s laugh sounded hollow and raspy as she pulled a pack of unfiltered Camels from her back pocket and lit a cigarette. “Are you kidding? If he left any money here, I’d be gone.”

  Trick looked deep into Brenda’s gray eyes that were adorned with last night’s stale makeup. “Does he know about us?”

  “You mean, does he know you used to ball my teenage ass on a blanket at Bullfrog Lake?”

  “Well … that’s not the way I would have put it … but yeah.”

  “I never told him shit but when he gets drunk enough he needles me about you. Probably heard some talk.” Brenda blew smoke out of her nostrils. “Why?”

  “Just trying to figure out what’s going on.” Trick massaged his forehead with his fingertips. “When do you think he might be back?”

  “I have no idea. He usually manages to show up when there’s barely anything left to eat around here and gives me grocery money.” Tears welled up in Brenda’s sad eyes that appeared old before their time. She took a deep drag off her Camel then flicked it at Trick, bouncing it off his leather bomber. “Why don’t you get the hell out of here? You big prick. Did you ever give two shits about me?”

  “I … I, what do you mean?”

  “You knew I was in love with you. But you tossed me aside like a used rubber when a new bit of fluff came along. What happened? Did you just get tired of screwing me? Is that it?”

  “I didn’t realize.” Trick hid his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry. That was a long time ago. I …”

  “Did you know that the day I married Joker I kept looking back at the church door? I prayed that you would walk in and stop the wedding, tell me you loved me and take me out of there.” Brenda’s eyes revealed a hurt that ran deep. “You didn’t show up at all.” Her lips quivered and tears blackened from eyeliner trickled down her cheeks. “And now you’re here after all these years looking for money.”

  “Look, I was a young guy,” Trick said, staring at the ground, pushing a small stone around w
ith the tip of his crocodile boot. “I guess I didn’t think.”

  “Oh, you thought. It’s just that the only person you ever thought about was yourself. Being young is no excuse.” Brenda raised her voice and pointed a shaky finger. “Go on … get the fuck out of here, will you?”

  ***

  Seeing Bob’s Cadillac in the parking lot of the Back Door Inn, Trick pulled over and walked in the rear entrance. Bob didn’t notice as he approached from behind. Trick spun Bob’s barstool around to face him. “Hey, I told you I was on a deadline. It’s three in the afternoon and you’re sitting here getting shit-faced.”

  “Whoa. What the fuck. Don’t surprise me like that.” Bob put his hand on the pocket of his suede fringe jacket. “I coulda stabbed you.”

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” Trick looked around the sparsely filled bar, gave Bob a light slap on the face and said quietly, “You got coke all over your nostrils and moustache. You’re supposed to be selling the shit, not going through all of it.”

  “I was just headin’ out to collect some moolah. Square business.”

  “Collect? What did I tell you? I don’t want you fronting this shit out.”

  “Look, man, I been doin’ this long as you … longer even. This is the way I operate. And I never been busted. I got two words for you, quit fuckin’ worryin’.”

  “Don’t tell me not to worry. You have no idea what I’m up against, you dizzy buzz-head.”

  “So what’s a few days … a week? The world’s not goin’ anywhere. It’ll still be spinnin’.”

  “You don’t understand. This is serious shit.” Trick grabbed Bob by his jacket. “I need that money by tomorrow at the latest.”

  “What do you want me to do? Go round with my gun threatenin’ customers? These people are my friends. They’re loyal.”

  “I don’t care how you get it, just get it.”

  “I don’t need any of your shit.” Bob shoved Trick’s grip off his lapel. “You think you got problems, you don’t know. While you were in the pokey, fuckin’ playin’ cards and liftin’ weights, I lost one of my nuts.”

  “What are you talking about? Where’d you lose it?”

  “Oh, you’re gonna be a comedian now?”

  Trick spread his hands out in front of him. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Cancer. I lost my left nut to cancer. Had to get radiation on the other one. Might never have kids.” Bob downed a shot of tequila. “So, don’t try to rain a shit storm on me.”

  “Hey, I had no idea. I’m sorry for your loss. But you stumbling in and out of bars with one walnut rolling around in your nutsack has nothing to do with business.”

  “You’re a cold mother fucker.” Bob guzzled his bottle of beer and slammed it on the bar. “You know that?”

  “How’d you like a swift kick in that one kiwi you got left? Don’t fuck with me … not now. I’m telling you, get that money together, quick.”

  Bob rolled his eyes, stroked the braids in his goatee and said, “OK, Daddy. The lecture over? Can I go now?”

  “Just make sure nothing goes wrong,” Trick called after Bob as he walked out, then ordered a shot of Johnnie Walker Black before leaving. He got in his Lincoln and started heading to Top Notch to grab a burger but got delayed by a freight train at a railroad crossing on 95th Street. He turned the music down, leaned back and thought about little Pat, wondering what he was doing right then.

  “Come home,” he could hear his foster mother calling to him. “Come home, I put clean sheets on your bed. Take a little nap before supper,” she cooed. “I’m making your favorite, pot roast and hot rolls right out of the oven.”

  Trick wondered why she was rapping her rolling pin on the kitchen table. He was getting annoyed because the tapping was drowning out her words.

  “Hey, wake up!”

  Trick shot up in his seat, disoriented, and saw an Oak Lawn Police officer hitting his window with a billy club. “Step out of your vehicle, sir,” the officer ordered, with the billy club now patting into his open palm. “Sir, do you understand me? Step out of your vehicle.”

  The patrol car was parked behind Trick’s Lincoln and off to the left a few feet giving the officer room to stand without getting hit by the slow moving traffic filing past, ogling the scene.

  Letting himself out of the car, Trick stood as the police officer moved in uncomfortably close.

  “Have you been drinking, sir?”

  “No … no. I must have dozed off,” Trick answered back, trying to sound more awake than he actually was. The taste of Scotch lingered on his tongue so he backed up a step.

  “No kidding, Captain Obvious. Is that how you got the black eyes, falling asleep at the wheel?”

  Locking eyes with the officer, Trick replied, “What was that?”

  “I’m Officer Petak. I need to see your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance.”

  Without saying anything else, Trick retrieved his insurance and registration cards from his glove compartment, stood and handed them to the officer. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for his wallet and felt a handful of loose cocaine packets. He hesitated, being careful not to pull any out along with the wallet.

  Officer Petak noticed Trick fumbling around in his pocket and asked, “Do you have anything in your pockets that I should know about? Do you have any weapons on you?”

  “No … no weapons,” Trick quickly responded. “Here’s my wallet.”

  “Remove your license from the wallet and hand it to me, sir.”

  The officer looked at the license, looked at Trick, then back at the license. “Mr. Halloran, why are you asleep at the wheel on 95th Street backing up traffic?”

  “I’ve been working two jobs,” Trick lied. “Trying to stay ahead on child support.”

  “Where were you heading when you fell asleep?”

  “On my way to Top Notch to grab a beefburger.”

  “Would you mind opening your trunk for me?”

  Trick felt his heart skip a beat. He hesitated and looked at the ground thinking about the cocaine and cash in his trunk.

  Officer Petak put his hand on his sidearm and demanded, “Mr. Halloran, I’d like you to open your trunk.”

  “Look, Officer. I’m running late. I’m starving and I got to get to my second job.”

  “I can hold you here till I get a warrant to search your vehicle.”

  Trick knew that he had nothing. He was holding a bum hand, not even a low pair. All he could do was bluff. “Go ahead. Get your warrant. I haven’t done anything wrong. Anyone could fall asleep waiting for one of these long-ass freight trains to go by.”

  “You have something in your trunk you don’t want me to see? Drugs? Weapons?”

  Pulling himself together, Trick stood his ground, realizing the officer didn’t have substantial evidence to get a judge to sign a warrant. “If I’m under arrest, take me in. Otherwise I’d like to be on my way.”

  Petak stood looking Trick in the eye. Trick held his stare for several moments and wouldn’t blink. The officer finally handed the license back but held onto it tightly as Trick tried to take it. “Have a nice day, Mr. Halloran,” he said, releasing his grip.

  CHAPTER 23

  Pulling out of Ginger’s parking lot after dropping off a new bicycle for Pat, Trick saw the Mexicans’ Oldsmobile 98 parked in the street. Having them know where his son lived sent a shock of fear through him. He turned right onto the Midlothian Turnpike and put the visor down to block the blinding late afternoon sun while considering his options. He wished there was somewhere he could send little Pat for a while. The boy had no living grandparents and there weren’t any close family members for him to visit. He didn’t think Ginger would consider pulling him out of school and sending him away anyway. And telling her about the Mexicans would only result in her cutting him off from seeing his son. Dreams of being a father to Pat again were what kept him going those slow, miserable years in prison.<
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  He knew that going to the police wasn’t an option. Being involved with drugs and drug money would put him right back in prison. He considered making an anonymous call to the cops describing the four and the Oldsmobile but he had no proof of anything. Knowing how law enforcement operated, there just wasn’t enough for them to go on. It could indirectly put him under scrutiny and he didn’t need the attention right now. He was unsure of what to do. Try to outrun them? Hide somewhere until he figured things out? If he left town, his enemies could retaliate by going after his son. He had to face them.

  The Olds pulled up next to Trick’s Lincoln as he headed west. The big guy, still in his red and black Bulls jacket, shouted at Trick from his open passenger window, “Follow us!”

  Trick trailed behind as they pulled into the parking lot of Rubio Woods, a short distance ahead. He parked beside them, waiting to see what would happen next. He stayed in his car as all four of the Latinos got out of their Olds and approached his open window.

  “I’ve got part of it.” Trick squirmed in his seat, looking up at the four. “I just need a little time. I’ll get all of it. I promise.”

  In the sunlight, the four men looked younger, maybe early to mid-twenties. The short, stocky guy in charge started laughing and the other three followed suit. “He promises,” he cackled. “I like that. I promise, I promise. You give me a good laugh. Everybody should have a good laugh every day. Good for your soul.”

  “Enough funny stuff.” The big guy grabbed Trick by his hair. “Where’s the money?”

  “It’s in the trunk.” Trick pressed his trunk release button. “In the tool box.”

  “Don’t make us count it,” the big guy threatened. “How much is there?”

  “$43,000,” Trick spoke up. “The $20,000 that was missing plus $23,000 toward the balance. I’ve been running around night and day, barely sleeping to round this up. I just need more time.”

  “Remember what I told you about telling me things I don’t want to hear?” The leader stroked the patch of black hair growing under his lower lip. “Better get out of the car.”