by LOU HOLLY
Trick reluctantly opened his door and got to his feet. As the two brothers took him by the elbows and led him into the woods, Trick looked back to see the big guy put the toolbox full of cash in the trunk of the Olds. The tall Chicano quickly caught up and they kept walking until there was nothing but trees surrounding them. He grabbed Trick around the neck from behind while the brothers locked their arms tightly through his.
The leader grabbed Trick by the nose. “You want me to break it again?”
“No … come on.” Trick winced in pain.
“Tie him to the tree,” the leader ordered.
The big guy released Trick’s neck, walked around to face him and pulled a handgun from a shoulder holster hidden under his jacket. He ordered, “Open your kisser,” then stuck the barrel in Trick’s mouth and backed him up against a big elm tree. The two brothers forced his arms behind the tree and tied his wrists tightly with a heavy cord before the big guy removed the pistol from his mouth.
The leader pulled a Polaroid photo from his shirt pocket and put it in front of Trick’s face. It was a photo of little Pat walking out of Nathan Hale elementary school. “Cute little albino. If I cut his balls off, he’ll never make you a grandfather.”
“Hey, man. This is between us. I said I’d get everything I owe you. C’mon. Please.”
“I’m feeling generous today. I’m giving you one more week. Seven days to get the rest of the money.”
“Hey, man, can’t you give me a break on the price,” Trick pleaded, “how about fifty a ki?”
The leader pulled a pair of tin snips from the pocket of his long overcoat with a sardonic expression that Trick wished he could punch from the young gangster’s face. “OK. Hey, let’s be reasonable,” Trick tried to renegotiate, “sixty, man. Sixty a ki.” Trick knew he couldn’t come up with the balance even if it was fifty a piece for three kilos, not in one week.
“This is for making me wait.” The leader put on a pair of latex gloves as he walked around to the back of the tree and grabbed hold of Trick’s left pinkie finger.
A tiny fireworks display exploded on the inside of his closed eyelids. “Aaaggghhh!” Trick cried out as he felt tugging and excruciating pain. It was worse than anything he had ever experienced. “Ahh, ahh!” The agony seemed to be everywhere at once. It was bigger than his body, like an aura of hurt.
The leader walked around to face Trick. He held a portion of Trick’s finger up for him to see. “The first knuckle. Every time you make me wait, you lose another knuckle.” The young sadist calmly dropped the tip of the finger into a plastic bag. “A present for my python.”
Trick’s stomach convulsed as he dry-heaved.
“Cut him loose,” the big guy told the brothers.
One of them pulled a switchblade knife from the back pocket of his Sedgefield jeans and cut the cord with one swift movement. Trick dropped to his knees and inspected his bloody stump of a finger.
“Here.” The leader threw Trick a handkerchief. “Oh, cabrón,” he laughed, “I might have blown my nose on it.”
“Adiós, stubby,” one brother said, putting the switchblade back in his pocket as they walked away.
The pain grew with every breath. Trick prayed to go into shock. He prayed to God. He prayed to the Devil. In that instant he wished for death, anything but the misery that gripped his burning finger. With his right hand, Trick wrapped the hankie around the severed finger, holding one end in his right hand and the other end in his teeth. Almost passing out, he kept pulling tighter until the bleeding slowed, then awkwardly knotted it.
He made his way back to his car, drove to Cicero Avenue feeling dizzy and turned left. With one hand, he steered into the parking lot of St. Francis Immediate Care Center a short distance ahead, wondering if he should go in. “What choice have I got?” Trick began talking to himself deliriously, “cauterize it?” He stared at his finger that throbbed with every beat of his heart. “I hope they don’t ask too many questions or call the cops.”
Walking in, a combination of smells that didn’t register in his memory made him want to vomit. Sights and sounds took on a dreamlike quality. The white walls seemed to pulsate. He shuffled further holding his left hand, the white handkerchief now red with blood.
“Oh my! What happened to you?” A young lady behind the admissions desk exclaimed.
In a voice that seemed to come from someone else, Trick muttered, “I was changing a flat tire and the jack slipped.”
“When did this happen?”
“Just now, ten minutes ago.”
A doctor walked in from the hallway and said, “Let me see.” He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and inspected the end of Trick’s little finger. “That looks like a clean cut. Where’s the rest of your finger? There’s a possibility it could be reattached.”
Trick didn’t like the way the doctor looked at him. He thought this must be what it’s like when an insane person receives unwelcome, scrutinizing stares. He hesitated, trying to wake his brain up. Almost believing his own lies, Trick finally responded, “Oh … there was a sewer grate.” Trick felt lightheaded and thought he might lose consciousness. “It fell in.”
The doctor continued staring at him incredulously. “I hear a lot of stories here but this … this is bizarre.” He took hold of Trick’s chin and moved his head side to side, examining his face. “Did you break your nose recently?”
Trick stepped back and vomited on the floor. “I’m in a lot of pain here,” he yelled. “Forget about my nose. Just take care of the finger.” Trick pulled a few hundred dollars from his pocket that he held back from the Mexicans. “I got cash.”
Less than an hour later, Trick walked out with a prescription for pain killers, his finger pumped full of Lidocaine, stitched and bandaged. He eased into his car, still sick to his stomach. “Patrick, my little guy,” he sighed, resting his head back, “what’s your dad going to do?”
CHAPTER 24
“Never mind what happened to my finger and don’t try to change the subject. I’m serious as ass cancer.” Trick pointed at Bob. “I needed that money yesterday.”
“Patience, patience. You’ll live longer.” Bob held his green bottle of Heineken like it was a trophy and shook his head in a condescending manner. “When you bake a cake, you mix the ingredients and put it in the oven. You can’t tell the batter to cook faster. You can’t tell the oven to bake quicker. You sound like a little kid who can’t wait for Christmas.”
“Fuck you and your cakes. This isn’t home economics, Nancy.” Trick slammed his rock glass on the bar. “I’m not fucking around.”
Bob hopped backward off his bar stool at The Wall lounge at 112th and Harlem and said, “I’d love to stay and discuss high finances but I’m middlin’ a deal in a half hour.”
“Monkey in the middle? Sounds about your speed.” Trick’s finger still throbbed, even with the Vicodin he was taking. “How much you making?”
“One G for an introduction.” Bob bit at his jagged fingernails.
“That’s not what they’re paying you the grand for. They’re buying safety … protection. They want to know the other party isn’t a cop or there to rip them off. Hope you did your homework and not doing something half-assed like usual.”
“I know what I’m doin’.” Bob waved his hand as if shooing away a fly.
“Just be careful,” Trick said, trying to sound sincere. “How much is this person buying?”
“A kilo. I swear, doin’ business with you isn’t worth it, havin’ you up my ass all the time.” Bob swigged some beer. “Tell you how I operate. I don’t like anyone knowin’ where the deal’s goin’ down till the last minute so I got both parties waitin’ close by for my calls.” Bob did a cheesy impression of Steve Martin and dragged out his words, “Excuuuse meee!”
Sipping his Jameson whiskey, Trick watched Bob disappear around the corner toward the washrooms and payphones. He read 8:24 pm on his watch and followed in Bob’s direction slowly, hoping he wasn’t being too conspicu
ous walking past him while he talked on the phone. He had no trouble hearing Bob’s usual loud, high-pitched tone setting up the deal. After entering the bathroom, Trick stood with his ear at the crack of the door, listening as Bob continued.
By the time Trick made his way back to the bar, Bob was already at his stool. “I’m taking off,” Trick said.
“Stick around.” Bob patted the bar stool next to him. “One more quick one.”
“No. One’s enough. I’m on painkillers.” Trick picked up his half empty glass and swirled his ice. “You need liquid courage to do this thing? Maybe you should find another line of work.”
“Then who would you have to move all that primo nose candy for ya?”
“Got to fly.” Trick gulped the rest of his Irish whiskey. “See you tomorrow for breakfast, and don’t come empty-handed.”
Once out of view, Trick jogged to his car and sped north on Harlem to the thrift store at 90th Street. He rushed in and paced up and down the aisles, feeling woozy from the whiskey and Vicodin. “Perfect,” he said under his breath, picking up some football shoulder pads. He threw them over one shoulder and located an oversized, dark topcoat, a hooded sweatshirt, sweatpants, and combat boots that looked as though they could have stormed the beach at Normandy. Walking with his arms full of musty smelling clothing, he headed toward the toy graveyard.
He plopped everything into a nearby empty shopping cart when he saw something silvery beckon him. “Damn, if this thing doesn’t almost look real,” he said, slurring a little as he tossed the metal toy pistol on the pile of clothing. His mind was becoming fuzzy but he knew he needed three more things.
“You work here?” Trick got the attention of an olive skinned, middle-aged woman walking by, bedecked with an ample amount of costume jewelry.
“I’m the owner. How can I help you?”
“I need a pair of gloves, a ski mask and sunglasses. I’m in a hurry.”
Trick followed the pear-shaped woman as she picked up various things for him to examine. After securing his final items, he glanced at his watch and asked, “How much do I owe you?”
“Follow me. I’ll ring you up.”
“Don’t got time.” He held a couple bills up. “How about forty bucks and we call it even?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, snatching the money from Trick’s hand like a seagull swooping up a carp.
“You got someplace I can change?”
“Sure. There’s a fitting room right back there, behind the appliances. But Halloween’s not for nine more days. Who are you supposed to be?”
Trick wheeled the cart back to a tiny stall that had a cloth curtain for privacy and saw his reflection in something that had the makings of a funhouse mirror. Slipping out of his jacket and shoes, he put the items on over his other clothes as quickly as possible. He walked out of the changing area with the life-size toy gun in one coat pocket, sunglasses, ski mask and gloves in another. With shoes in one hand and jacket over his arm, he sprinted out to the Lincoln.
Continuing north on Harlem, Trick wove in and out of traffic trying to make the green lights. He turned on the radio in an attempt to distract him from his pounding heart. He flew through the yellow at 84th Street, then cut a sharp right on 83rd. After making the fourth left onto New England Avenue, he headed north and slowed down, turning off his headlights for the rest of the way. Pulling up to the curb, he had a good view of Newcastle Park’s parking lot. He put the wool ski mask on, raised the hood of the faded black sweatshirt, looked in his rearview mirror and put the tinted glasses on.
Breathing heavy with excitement, he turned off the engine and got out of the car. Relieved that there wasn’t anyone hanging around or walking by, he tugged the work gloves over his hands and bandaged finger. He was just in time to see Bob pulling into the parking lot on the opposite side of the park and shutting off his lights. Bob got out of his Cadillac looking in the other direction toward residential Newcastle Avenue, lighting a cigarette. Trick walked over to one of the chain-link backstops and crouched down, estimating Bob to be about fifty yards away. There were at least thirty other cars in the parking area and the back door of the clubhouse cast a glowing shaft of light onto the grass behind the one story brick building. Trick carefully moved closer while a square dance caller’s voice echoed in the cool night air, “Star through, circle top, left allemande.”
Trick noted 9:02 pm on his watch as a cream-colored, older model Mercedes slowly pulled into the parking lot then wheeled into a spot near Bob’s Caddy. The driver got out and walked up to Bob. They grabbed one another’s hand and pulled each other close in a one-shoulder hug.
Maneuvering himself all the way to the end of the parked cars, Trick peeked around a tire. Recognizing the Kentucky based drug dealer standing with Bob, Trick whispered, “Rebel.” He could hear their voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
While Trick crept closer in the dark, another car entered and slowed down next to Bob and Rebel who were standing behind the Cadillac. The power window of a custom-painted green Mercury Grand Marquis went down and Bob walked up to it. He motioned with his hand toward Rebel, nodding his head.
The Mercury parked at the end of the line of cars and two imposing black men got out, one looking bigger than the other. One was wearing a lime-green suit, the other a full-length black leather coat. As they swaggered over to Bob and Rebel, Trick silently made his way to a minivan near the four.
Trick was hoping there would only be three dealers to contend with and wondered if any of these guys were packing guns. He had second thoughts, reaching into the pocket of the overcoat and fingering the replica revolver. The voices were clear now as the four men made bravado conversation, trying to impress one another.
The man in the lime-green suit, who did most of the talking, asked Rebel, “You got the whole fifty Gs?”
“Yeah, it’s in the car,” Rebel replied. “I’ll get it.”
“OK, go get the package,” the ebony eyed man in charge told his leather clad bodyguard.
When the tall, portly man made his way back to the other three, Rebel was standing next to Bob with a brown paper bag.
“Let me see the money,” the lime-green suited man called out in a deep voice that resonated in the brisk, damp air.
“No problem.” Rebel tossed the bag of money to the man in green. “Hand over the shit.”
“Here ‘tis.” Leather coat flipped a Burger King sack to Rebel and pulled an automatic handgun from his waistband.
Trick jumped up from the cover of the minivan and ran up behind the pistol wielding man in leather. Flashing his toy revolver, he said in a mock Irish accent, “Drop the gun, or the last thing you’ll hear is a loud pop.” Trick stood close behind him with the cold metal barrel against the dark blue script tattooed on the side of the man’s brown neck, fearing his own life could end any second.
“OK. Don’t shoot.” The big guy tossed the automatic pistol onto the asphalt, landing with a thud. It went off sending a bullet in the direction of the clubhouse, making everyone flinch and Trick gasp.
“Kick the gun away,” Trick ordered, with the toy pistol pressed into the bodyguard’s neck. The big man trembled and kicked the gun, sending it skidding under a nearby car. “You,” Trick continued, directing his attention to the man in green. “Throw the bag behind you or I’ll spring a leak in chalky’s neck.”
“Fuck you and the IRA, you potato eatin’ mutha fucka. You shoot him and I’m gonna lunge atcha ass.”
Trick looked to his left to see two men peering at them through the open back door of the field house, the music and voices from within now silent. “This is a .357 Magnum. Bullet’ll go right through his neck and into your Moon-Pie face,” Trick bluffed, nearly paralyzed with fear.
“Quit fuckin’ around, Beasley. Give ‘im the money.” The big man visibly shook. “I don’t want to die, Lord. Please don’t let me die!”
“We live through this, I’m gonna kill ya myself, you big pussy-ass coward. You just to
ld them my real name!”
“You two sweethearts can have a lover’s quarrel later.” Trick tried to sound as menacing as possible. “Toss the bag!”
Beasley looked up at the torrent of swift moving clouds in the night sky, let out a moan and dropped the bag of money behind him.
A slow-moving Burbank Police vehicle stopped at the entrance of the parking lot facing north on Newcastle Avenue. A uniformed arm stretched for the spotlight through the open driver’s side window. Trick reached down, grabbed the bag and ran behind the minivan again. He now wondered how he was going to get away with the police there and open fields surrounding the area.
The spotlight hit the other four men still standing there and a voice rang out over a loudspeaker, “Stand where you are! Hands above your heads!”
Two Burbank Police officers exited their vehicle and walked toward Bob, Rebel, Beasley, and his bodyguard with flashlights in one hand and the other on their holstered pistols. Rebel dropped the Burger King sack and put his hands over his head along with the other three. One of the officers shined his flashlight on the hamburger sack at Rebel’s feet. “What do we have here? A late dinner?” The officer picked up the bag, opened it and pulled out a handful of new athletic socks while Trick crept toward Newcastle Avenue along the other side of the parked cars.
“Socks?” Rebel looked at Beasley and his muscle.
“I just been robbed!” Beasley shouted, pointing at the row of cars next to them. “A big Irish Mick in dark clothes and a ski mask just stole a bag of money from me.”
Rebel yelled, “What do you mean, you’ve been robbed?”
“We received a report of gunshots in the area,” one of the officers said, drawing his weapon and looking at his partner with a confused expression.
Trick stood and ran full speed toward the idling police vehicle with the bag of money, jumped behind the wheel and floored it toward 79th Street four blocks to the north. Tossing the sunglasses out the window, he looked in the rearview mirror to see the two officers running into the street, flashlight beams scattering in the night.
