by LOU HOLLY
Turning west on 79th Street, Trick looked back toward the parking lot to see Beasley’s Grand Marquis also driving west, right through the expansive lawn of Newcastle Park toward New England, where he left his Lincoln. Trick knew he had to double back and get his car before Bob recognized it, and avoid Beasley and the police at the same time. He continued past New England one block, turned left on Sayre, drove up a block, pulled over and shut off the lights. Taking the bag of cash with him, he threw the keys under a car parked in a driveway, removed the ski mask and put it in a curbside mailbox. He cut between two ranch style houses and continued back toward his car by scaling a six-foot chain link fence, where he received an unfriendly welcome from a German Shepherd running at him full speed. Trick moved as fast as he could toward the back of the yard, where he threw the bag of cash over the fence and tried climbing over, wincing in pain from his severed, stitched finger. He was almost over the top when he felt a tug holding him back. He looked behind to see the bottom of the long topcoat lodged firmly in the teeth of the growling canine. With his feet planted high on the fence, he removed the toy pistol from his pocket and threw it at him, bouncing it off his head. This just made the dog angrier, so he slipped out of the topcoat one arm at a time. Now free, he swung his body over the top, landing safely on the other side as he watched the large dog just inches away thrashing the coat side to side. It was then he realized his key ring, which included his car and condo keys, was in the pocket of the coat.
“Let go,” Trick commanded as he reached under the silvery metal fence and grabbed the collar of the coat. Putting his feet up against the fence, he pulled with all his might but could not dislodge the coat from the canine’s teeth. He stopped and looked at his left gloved hand, blood was seeping through the tan canvas material.
Trick stood and tugged the hooded sweatshirt over his head, dangled it over the top of the fence and called to the German Shepherd, who still shook the coat in his incisors like a ragdoll. “Here, doggie, take the nice shirt,” Trick coaxed. The dog ignored him so he got a foot hold on the fence, reached over further and began swinging the hood, hitting him on the head with it. The dog lunged at him and he dropped it. His four-legged tormentor grabbed the worn shirt in his teeth and glared at him. Trick jumped down, reached under the fence and yanked the coat to safety. He put it back on and stuffed his hand in the pocket, happy to feel the cold metal of the keys.
Creeping through the damp grass behind a row of neatly trimmed lilac bushes on the residential side of New England, Trick looked for Beasley’s Mercury, which appeared to be long gone. Beasley was wisely nowhere in sight as were Bob and Rebel, although their cars were still in the parking lot. The two autoless police officers remained in the middle of Newcastle Avenue joined by another Burbank patrol car. Trick could make out frantic explanations and arm waving from the obviously embarrassed officers.
A third patrol car slowly motored south on New England so Trick jumped behind a thick cottonwood tree. The police car suddenly picked up speed and flew past him. Trick peeked around the tree to see Bob running as fast as his plump legs could carry him through the park, heading toward 83rd Street. The police car at the entrance to the parking lot also raced in pursuit of Bob.
Ducking down, Trick ran toward his own car, got in and started it. He glanced in his rearview mirror to see Bob over a block away in the middle of 83rd, surrounded, with his hands over his head. Trick left his headlights off and drove slowly toward 79th, where he turned right, put his lights on and took off. He put the bag full of money on his lap, opened it and removed one of the stacks of cash held together with a wide red rubber band. He brought it to his nose and took a deep whiff, smelling the dirty history of the bills.
***
“So, Bob.” Trick buttered his toast, watching the shapely waitress walk away from their table. “How did your middleman deal go last night?”
“Oh, fuck, man.” Bob slapped his forehead. “You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me.” Trick broke a yolk with his toast and took a bite.
“One of these clowns I set the deal up with must have had loose lips because some Irish fuck knew where the meet was. He was disguised and robbed my buddy, took off with fifty Gs.”
“How do you know he was Irish?”
“He had a thick brogue.” Bob dribbled egg yolk into his goatee, talking with a mouth full of food. “In fact he sounded a lot like you, if you grew up on the Emerald Isle.”
“Sounded like me?” Trick looked up from his breakfast with one eyebrow raised.
“Yeah. But he was a lot bigger.” Bob put his hands out for emphasis. “Had shoulders like Schwarzenegger.”
“You must have …” Trick dropped his fork into his hash browns and burst out laughing. “You must have pissed your pants.”
“Hey, man, it’s not funny. The cops showed up so I took off. But they caught me. I was in Burbank lockup for three hours. Finally let me go after a shit load of questioning because I didn’t have any weapons or drugs on me.”
Trick howled with laughter. “Bob, I could just picture those chubby legs of yours running down the street.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Oh, my God, Bob,” Trick managed, almost out of breath, laughing and slapping his hand on his leg.
“What the hell?” Bob shook his head. “You got one weird sense of humor, dude.”
Wiping his face with his napkin, Trick let out a big sigh and asked, “Where’s the money you owe me?”
CHAPTER 25
“You look like you could use a drink,” Trick said to his reflection in his rearview mirror, “but don’t take all day. You’re behind schedule.” He felt like going to one of his previous haunts, an old school tavern, not some fancy cocktail joint. So he headed over to the Delta Lounge on 87th Street.
Walking into the bar, there was little clue it was late afternoon. Once inside, it could have been just about any time of the day or night. It smelled exactly as it did three years ago. Probably the same as it did in the 1950s. Just like a tavern should. “Give me a short draft, Bert,” Trick said, recognizing the bartender. “Old Style, my good man.”
“Hey, pardner, der’s nuttin’ good ‘bout me.” The old guy chuckled, the wattle of his neck jiggling. “Just ask my wife.” He brushed the last wisps of his oily hair to the side with his fingers. “Long time, no see.”
Trick tossed a few bucks on the bar, took a stool and watched Bert tilt the glass under the tap as the golden lager filled it, forming a nice thick head. Bert wiped the suds that trickled over the side on the once-white apron tied around his ample belly, then slid the glass across the bar. Trick took a sip of the cold brew and set it down on the cardboard beer mat that Bert tossed in front of him. He kept his left hand in the side pocket of his bomber jacket to avoid questions about his bandaged, still throbbing finger. Glancing around, he took in a young guy down to his right with an empty shot glass in front of him, his hand wrapped tightly on a can of Blatz beer. Awful young to have such big bags under his eyes, Trick observed, and no wedding ring. He seemed to be married to the bottle. “Till death do they part,” he mused.
Two older guys, seated down to his left near the pool table, were having a friendly but animated argument about the Cubs and White Sox. Trick tuned them out and thought about Pat, his innocent, confused face haunting him.
Bert went to the phone behind the bar and talked quietly, glancing back at Trick. He hung up the phone, returned and leaned his hands on the bar, raising his eyebrows. “Getcha ‘nother one der, chief?”
“Fill ‘er up. I’m about a quart low,” Trick responded.
“Wish I had a buck for every time I heard dat one,” Bert retorted, refilling the glass.
Trick took the bottle of Vicodin from his inside jacket pocket and tried reading the instructions, but he couldn’t concentrate. His mind wandered back to the day his son was born. It was the happiest he ever felt. He remembered how he vowed never to let Pat feel alone and unloved as he did. He washed one of the painkillers down
with cold beer and looked at his watch. Pushing the rest of his drink away, he got up from his backless bar stool.
“Hey,” Bert called out, “yer not leavin’ already, are ya?”
“Yeah,” Trick said with a nod, reaching for his change, “got things to do.”
“Here.” Bert grabbed Trick’s glass. “Let me top ya off. For da road … on me.”
“Yeah, OK.” Trick left his money on the varnished wooden bar and eased back onto his stool. “Guess I got time for one more quick one.”
“Don’t make it too quick.” Bert grinned, showing a broken front tooth. “Gotta stop and smell da hops once in a while.”
Several minutes later, the front door flew open. Late afternoon sun glinted off the glass door hurting Trick’s eyes that had become adjusted to the darkly-lit saloon. A tall, good looking guy dressed in dark blue work clothes walked in and took the stool to Trick’s right. He wondered why this middle-aged man sat right next to him when there were plenty of other bar stools available.
“Bertie,” the guy next to Trick called out. “I’ll have a seven/seven and get anyone else who wants one.”
Before making the Seagram’s Seven and 7 Up, Bert grabbed Trick’s glass and started filling it up again.
“No. Wait.” Trick waved his hand to the side. “I was just leaving.”
“Don’t be silly,” Bert said, without looking up. “Chevy here just bought ya a beer.”
Chevy pivoted on his stool toward Trick and extended his hand. “The name’s Stanley Krupnik but friends call me Chevy … ‘cause that’s all I ever owned.” Chevy ran grease stained fingernails through his salt and pepper, wavy hair. “Please. Have a drink with me. It’s gonna change your life.”
“Damn, look at you two sittin’ next to each other.” Bert extended his neck toward them for emphasis. “I can’t believe it.”
“Bertie, give us a few minutes,” Chevy appealed, pointing his chin at Bert, “will ya?”
Trick picked up his glass, looked at it, then set it back down. “What are you selling, Stanley … Chevy.”
“Not sellin’ nothin’. Only giving away good news. This face look familiar to ya?” Chevy tilted his head to the side not losing eye contact. “It ought to.”
“What’re you driving at, Chevy.” Trick slapped his hand on the bar.
“Hey, that’s a funny one. What’re ya drivin’ at, Chevy. Ha ha.” Chevy dropped his smile. “I’m gonna get right to it, boy. I’m your father, the one that brought ya into the world. Whacha think ‘bout that? Huh?”
Unable to say anything, Trick just looked at Chevy with his right hand wrapped around his glass.
Bert walked back over to them and exclaimed, “If yous two don’t look like a couple bookends, I don’t know what. Like a mirror image. Younger and older. Just like you looked around that age, Chevy. Pretty near just like ‘im.”
Trick caught Chevy shooting Bert a dirty look. Chevy nodded his head to the right and said through a clenched jaw, “Go get me a Slim Jim. Will ya, Bert?” He rubbed his graying whiskers with his palm and returned his attention to Trick. “So Patrick, I hear they call ya Trick.”
“What kind of proof you got?” Ignoring Chevy’s last comment, Trick continued, “What makes you think you’re my real father?”
“I wouldn’t be tellin’ ya I was if I wasn’t damn sure.” Chevy splayed his extended fingers. “I did a lot of askin’ around. And now I finally tracked ya down.”
“Look, you’re a perfect stranger to me.” Trick leaned away onto his elbow. “You don’t expect me to start calling you Daddy? Do you?”
“I understand this is a shock.” Chevy nodded slowly. “Give it time to sink in.”
“I need to see some kind of proof. A birth certificate naming you as my father … something.”
“All in good time. First, I wanted to meet ya face to face.” Chevy stared at Trick. “Yeah, I can see a lot of your mother in you.” Chevy tapped his index finger to his nose then pointed at Trick. “Yep.”
“Something about this … doesn’t feel right.” Trick tried not to stare at the ample amount of curly, graying hair growing out of Chevy’s ears. “I’ve had to rely on my gut instincts all my life to survive.”
“Perfectly understandable, especially given your choice of profession … sellin’ drugs.”
Trick turned to face Chevy. “How do you know about that?”
“No secret.” Chevy turned both palms upward. “Word is ya made a lot a dough before ya got locked up. Still have a lot stashed somewhere.”
“You heard wrong. All the money I made back then is gone.” Trick tightened his right hand. “Like trying to hold onto a fistful of sand.”
“I can understand ya wantin’ to have people think you’re broke. Otherwise ya might have ‘em followin’ ya ‘round, hopin’ to get their hands on it. But, hey, ‘nuff about that for now.” Chevy gulped down his drink and rattled the ice toward Bert. “Probably have a million questions.”
“For argument’s sake, let’s say you’re my real father. Who is my mother? Where is she? Why did I grow up alone?”
“Your mom, sorry to say, is gone.” Chevy threw a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. “Dead.”
“Dead? Of what?” Trick surveyed Chevy’s greasy engineer boots. “What was her name?”
“Sally. Sally Smith. Yeah, Hodgkin’s took her a while back. Good old gal, Sally. Pretty too. Don’t know what she ever saw in a hotrod hooligan like me. Drinkin’ and fightin’ … fightin’ and drinkin’.” Chevy picked up his fresh drink, swirled the ice with his finger and took a sip. “Sorry for abandonin’ ya but I was in trouble with the law back then. It was either go to jail or go in the Army. Never had a chance to marry Sally. Didn’t even know she was pregnant when I shipped off to boot camp.” Chevy pulled a Lucky Strike from his pack on the bar and struck a match. “She was only sixteen at the time.”
Trick sat silent for several moments, rubbing his forehead. “Krupnik. That’s Polish?”
“Yep. Polish and proud of it.” Chevy waved his cigarette as he spoke. “You should be too, boy.”
“Always thought I looked more Irish than anything else.” Trick glanced across the bar at his reflection.
“Well, Sally was Irish some, I suppose.”
“I’ve got to digest all this. And I’m real busy right now.” Trick shot to his feet. “How do I get hold of you?”
“Wait, don’t run off. Let me buy ya dinner. We could go over here to the Ground Round.”
“Maybe some other time. I’ve got a lot to do.” Trick rocked from his heels to his toes. “We’ll talk. OK?”
“I tell ya I’m your father and ya want to leave? What’s a matter with ya, boy? Ya get dropped on your head when ya were little? I been lookin’ for ya for a couple decades and I finally find ya.” Chevy talked with the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, one eye squinting from the smoke. “Doesn’t that mean anything to ya?”
“Yeah, sure it does, of course but … I’m in an awkward spot. Shouldn’t even have stopped here.” Trick grabbed his cash off the bar leaving the coin change. “I can’t explain but I’m under a lot of pressure, on a tight schedule. I’d be happy to get caught up in a couple weeks and figure out what’s what.”
“You’re a peculiar one. Must’ve been raised by some queer folk. All right, run off. Do whatever it is that’s more important than gettin’ to know your own father.” Chevy’s long cigarette ash dropped on his pants. “Thought ya’d be as tickled as me.”
“Look, this is a lot to take in. I always wondered what it would be like to meet my real parents … and … it wasn’t like this,” Trick’s voice trailed off, his left hand never leaving his pocket.
“Take my number and call me. Hear? Soon as ya settle your nerves.” Chevy’s face tightened into a smarmy smile. He held out a bent business card. “I love ya, boy. Want to get to know ya.”
“Yeah, sure.” Trick took the grease smudged Krupnik’s Service Station card and looked it over, avoiding ey
e contact. “OK, I’ll call you in a few days.”
CHAPTER 26
“I thought Pat would be here.” Trick glanced around at his son’s toys strewn about Ginger’s living room carpet. “I haven’t seen him all week.”
Ginger turned her back to Trick and continued folding her lingerie. “His friend’s mother took them to the show. He’ll be back in a couple hours.”
“Damn it. I’ve been super busy and I set this time aside to see him.” He motioned with his hand toward the picture window. “And it turned out to be a beautiful day, seventy-one out there.”
“Plans change,” she said over her shoulder. “Should have called.”
“Well, here. Take this anyway.” Trick nudged Ginger on the back of her yellow tube top and handed her a folded stack of bills, keeping his left hand in his jacket pocket.
“What’s this for?” She dropped the cash on the coffee table and continued folding and stacking her laundry on the couch. “You’re caught up on child support and you already bought me a new car.”
“This is for back support.” Trick looked Ginger up and down and was concerned that she seemed to have lost even more weight in the past week. “For when I was away.”
“I hope you don’t think you can buy me back.” Ginger bent over in her terrycloth shorts and picked up a see-through negligee from her laundry basket and hung it around her neck like a scarf. “None of this is for sale.”
“Look, I’m trying to be nice here. Will you stop that for a minute?” Becoming annoyed and aroused at the same time, Trick continued, “Why do you have to make everything so hard?”
Ginger turned to Trick and raised her voice, “Oh, I make things hard? Are you serious? You left me with a two-year-old to raise by myself. You made things hard, Patrick. You.”
“I didn’t leave you. They locked me up. I had no choice.”
“Yes, you did!” Ginger screamed. “You made a choice to break the law. Making a lot of money was more important than your family. I didn’t need expensive clothes and flashy cars.” She threw a lacy lavender bra on the floor. “I needed you.”
