by LOU HOLLY
“Yeah, dad,” the old greaser said, in a Southern accent with a lit Raleigh cigarette situated in the corner of his mouth. “We cool.” He reached for the cash with a hand that bore a crude India ink tattoo of the ace of spades. “We very cool.”
Trick dragged his tired body up the outside metal stairway to his room, unlocked the door with the oversized key, then flopped on the bed fully clothed. Hearing the muffled din of traffic from Harlem and an X-rated movie coming through the wall from the next room, Trick tried tuning everything out. But nothing could tune out his thoughts of the four Mexicans. He only had a fraction of the $277,000 he owed them but thought, if he could dodge them for another week, score two more kilos and sell it all in time, he might be able to come up with the money. Then he would only have Starnes to deal with. The lesser of two evils, but not by much.
CHAPTER 34
“Hey, what’s with the new image?” Bob hopped out of his Cadillac with the radio blasting. “You look like a damn game-show host.”
“Fuck you.” Trick yelled at Bob. “Did you do that? You set Joey up?”
“Who me?” Bob laughed, dancing an awkward boogaloo, his ample tshirted belly bouncing over the waist band of his hip-hugger jeans.
“I saw you, man.” Trick grabbed Bob by the collar of his open jacket with both fists, forcing him to stand still. “I saw you parked by the El-Dorado with that pussy eating grin on your fat face.”
“Let go of me! Don’t ever put your hands on me.” Bob shoved Trick off and backed away. “You think you’re Mr. Scary Guy now that you been in the joint? I’m not afraid of you.”
“I was holding! I could have gone back to prison for a long time!”
“I didn’t tell you to start sellin’ drugs again. Don’t blame me if you get locked up. You got your own free will. I got mine.”
“If I find out for sure you ratted out Joey, you’re through in this business. Don’t think I won’t spread the word.” Trick held out his hand. “Where’s my money?”
Bob handed him a sealed envelope and got back in his car muttering something Trick couldn’t make out. Trick hollered over the music, “What was that, Bob? Huh? There’s some other shit we’re going to straighten out when this deal’s done.”
***
“Sit the fuck down and don’t touch anything on my desk,” Oak Lawn Detective Sam Carlsbad ordered Bob. “What have you got for me? Better be something good this time. Otherwise you’re gonna find your mangy ass sharing a cell with Big Dick Willie.”
“Don’t worry.” Bob waved both hands. “I got plenty this time.”
“Worry? Do I look like I’m worried?” Carlsbad leaned back in his padded office chair. “I’m not the one looking at twenty-five years. Regardless of what you have to say, I’m going home to my color TV and a cold bottle of beer.”
“I can give you Trick Halloran wrapped up in a bow. Not just that, I got info on some psycho dealer named Barker. Now, I don’t know his first name or where he lives but he works with a big black guy. Wouldn’t be surprised if he hooked up with him in the joint.” Bob picked up a clear acrylic paperweight with a horsefly inside of it.
“Put it down!” Carlsbad yelled. “You got a description of this Barker? You even know if that’s his real name?”
“Well … no and no. But he’s a bad mammer jammer. Tried to rip-off Trick. Whacked him on the head with a pistol. His partner robbed me and stuck me in a car trunk.”
“Sounds like I’d be doing you and Halloran a favor by locking you up. You two tough guys are liable to get killed trying to be drug kingpins.” Carlsbad slammed his palm on his desk, making Bob flinch. “Forget about this Barker for now. Give me some specifics on Halloran.”
“First of all, he just changed his appearance. Cut his hair short, no moustache, wearin’ a round snap-cap. He’s drivin’ a different car too, a white Bonneville with temp plates.”
“Keep going,” Carlsbad said, not looking up from taking notes.
“Here’s the big thing, he’s movin’ some heavy product. Wants me to set him up with someone to buy two kilos from.”
“Really?” Carlsbad’s scowl turned to a grin. “You better not be bullshittin’ or you can kiss your virgin ass g’bye. So long freedom, hello baloney sandwiches and lights out at ten.”
“I’m not shittin’ you. How ‘bout I set him up with you guys to make the buy? He thinks he’s coppin’ from Gene Ciccone. Doesn’t even know what Ciccone looks like.”
“I’ll do the thinking around here.” Carlsbad threw his size twelve shoes up on his desk in Bob’s face. “But that’s not a bad idea. Yeah. Halloran and I never met.” Carlsbad ran a hand over his short spiky hair. “Set it up for tomorrow night. Tell Halloran the deal’s going down tomorrow or he’ll have to wait a few weeks. I’ll let you know the time and place in the morning. I want this guy now.”
“It’s not that simple. Besides, I want somethin’ in writin’ givin’ me immunity.”
“Tomorrow! Get the hell out of here before I send your goofy butt over to County for the night. Just for the fun of it.” Carlsbad grinned at Bob and patted his sidearm. “I’ll say you went for my gun.”
Bob jumped to his feet and stuttered as he strode out of the room, “I’m g-gonna get right on it, t-tonight!”
***
Trick felt groggy, something wasn’t right. His eyes were heavy, felt like his lids were glued together as he slowly forced them open. Through blurred vision he saw something sparkling in the air, then movement and geometric shapes. As his eyes focused he realized the luminous object was a crystal chandelier, with people milling around tables beneath it in an upper-scale banquet room. He couldn’t move and looked down to see his shirtless body chained to one of the round support pillars in the vast room. He knew everything had finally caught up to him. It was over. It was all over. He scanned the faces of guests standing around making small talk and filling their plates with shrimp, crab claws and steak tartare from long tables covered in white linen.
He viewed at least thirty people. The group included Starnes, Moogie, Bob, Joker, Todd Wickerstock, his parole officer Arthur Patoremos, Ginger, Petros, Collette, Chevy, Charles Brummerstedt in his wheelchair, Joey, even some of his teachers from grammar and high school. Occasionally, one of them would smile at him as they ate with their fingers, talking and laughing. Trick tried calling out, but only emitted unintelligible garble.
Then he noticed the four Mexicans strutting around with machetes and carafes of sangria. They walked up to him and one by one silently cut slices off his stomach, chest, shoulders and arms, putting them on their plates with the rest of the assorted meats. He looked around frantically for someone to stop them as he desperately tried to scream in pain. Blood ran down his body and saturated his tan slacks.
Starnes and Moogie were next. Brandishing silver steak knives, they walked up and shaved off more slices of skin. Starnes gave Trick one of his usual sneering expressions and said, “Got a tip for you in the last race. Don’t put your money on Patrick the Dreamer. He’s a longshot.”
Trick’s heart beat so hard he could barely breathe, the pain so excruciating he thought he’d pass out. One at a time they approached making small talk and hacking off bits of his body. Before taking his slice, his high school wrestling coach said, “You never tried hard enough. Might have made something of yourself.”
Collette walked up next. She cut off one of his nipples and giggled, “You’re like way old anyway. Might get ptomaine poisoning from this old piece of meat.”
After Collette walked back to her waiting girlfriends, his former foster father, Charles Brummerstedt, wheeled up. He pulled up a bloody pant leg and carved off a piece of Trick’s brown-haired calf. Trick thought he might vomit from the pain, then Charles said, “Remember your lessons, boy. A pound of flesh, ‘tis mine and I will have it.” He put the skin between his false teeth, blood dripping down his gray chin whiskers and wheeled away.
Ginger was last. “I suppose this means I won’t be getti
ng any more child support?” She unzipped his blood soaked pants, now completely red, took out his cock and began cutting.
Trick shot up in bed, covered in sweat, screaming the scream he couldn’t in his sleep. His heart pounded like a jackhammer. He grabbed his fifth of Jack Daniel’s from the motel nightstand and drank straight from the bottle. It was going to be another night in a long row without enough sleep. Using the remote, he clicked on the TV and scanned the channels, settling on CBS News Nightwatch. He got up and opened his suitcase, took out his scale, cocaine supply, Ziplocs and began weighing out his deliveries for later that day.
CHAPTER 35
“OK, I’m at a payphone now.” Trick glanced around the tight metal-framed enclosure, surrounded by cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and dried gobs of spit on the acrylic windows, being careful not to lean against anything. “What’s so urgent?”
Bob’s raspy soprano voice sounded higher than usual as he excitedly explained, “The meet with Ciccone’s on for tonight at the Oak Lawn Hilton, nine o’clock, room 1004. Got that?”
“Yeah, nine tonight, 1004. You’re going to be there, right?”
“Uh, no.” Bob cleared his throat. “Wait, yeah. I’ll try to make it.”
“I want you there,” Trick’s voice changed to a commanding tone. “Never even met this Ciccone before.”
“All right, all right. I’ll try to get there before you. Just go up and knock on the door.”
***
Trick entered the Oak Lawn Hilton Tower at 93rd and Cicero with $70,000 he stacked in an old briefcase that he found in Reggie’s closet. Smelling chlorine and feeling humidity from the indoor pool area, he paused and scanned the lobby, looking for anything out of place. Three casually-dressed men sat on chairs reading newspapers. Two of them peered up at him, then went back to their papers. Trick looked back as the automatic sliding doors opened with a swooshing sound. In walked four men in polyester suits and ties who headed straight toward the first floor bar. Apprehension tugged at him, pulling him back toward the door. He had the strong urge to abandon the deal but didn’t have a plan-B. Checking his watch, he thought there was time for a quick drink and still be on time.
Walking into the upper-scale lounge, Trick had a feeling people were watching him and felt his neck and shoulders stiffen. As a two-piece husband and wife lounge act performed, he wondered if people were looking at him because he displayed nervousness or they were watching him because they were undercover officers. He walked to the bar and set the briefcase on the barstool next to him. Standing with an alligator loafer on the chrome foot rail, he pulled out a ten-dollar bill and waved it at the bartender.
The thirtyish, bosomy bartender sashayed up to Trick, running her hands down the front of her ruffled tux shirt. She pulled at the ends of her black clip-on bowtie and smiled. “What can I get you, sir?”
“Cuervo Gold, straight up,” Trick spoke up, loud enough to be heard over the entertainers performing Love Will Keep Us Together. He watched her tight black shorts as she walked away, then noticed eyes darting at him from across the bar from two men in fresh barbershop haircuts. He wasn’t sure if he was being paranoid but everyone looked like a cop to him that night.
Long false eyelashes batted at him when the bartender set a shot of tequila in front of him. “Would you like lime and salt?”
“Don’t be silly,” Trick said, waving his hand to the side. He downed the shot and set it down hard on the polished resin covered bar. “Hit me again.”
A man in a silver Schwarzenegger Commando haircut and neatly trimmed moustache walked into the bar scanning faces, then walked out again.
When she returned with another shot, Trick asked, “Do you know that guy who just walked in and out of the bar?”
“What guy?” she asked, raising her dark penciled-in eyebrows.
Trick threw his head back and swallowed the ounce of booze in one gulp. “Never mind.” He dropped the ten on the bar, walked back into the lobby and stood looking at the door. Breathing heavily, he glanced down at the briefcase and decided to leave. He walked into the parking lot and looked up to the tenth floor of the cylinder shaped hotel, then at his recently purchased Pontiac about thirty feet away. His watch read 9:04 as he made his way back to his car. Hearing the lock buttons pop up, he opened the door listening to the dings. He peered up again, studying the thirteen story building, the tallest in the area. The dinging was like an alarm telling him he had to decide, either run away and be a victim or face his problems. He couldn’t stand the annoying dinging anymore and slammed the door. The effects of the tequila suddenly made him feel gutsy and he turned back to the hotel.
The doors parted and Trick reentered, ignoring the inner voice warning him of danger. His heart beat harder as he walked the circular hallway, located the elevators and pressed the button. As he waited, two men in suits passed slowly behind him. They paused, then kept walking. Clutching the briefcase to his chest, Trick rode the elevator to the tenth floor. Practically everything he risked his freedom for over the last two weeks was stuffed in the faux leather case.
He stepped out of the elevator, made his way around to room 1004 and knocked. The door swung open and Trick looked up at a man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut who towered over him. Behind him, sitting on the dresser, was a younger, thick-muscled guy with short, neatly parted hair.
“You’re a little late. Thought you might have changed your mind.” The tall man, in an inexpensive sport coat and open-collared shirt, stood back, allowing Trick to walk in. “You are Trick, right? Patrick Halloran?”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Trick craned his neck and entered. “You Ciccone?”
“I’m Sam. Ciccone works for me.” The big guy shut the door and extended his hand. “You can deal directly with me from now on.”
“Where’s Bob?” Trick felt the vice-like grip and added, “Thought he’d already be here.”
“We sent him out for some beer. He’ll be right back.” Sam motioned with his thumb. “This mope over here’s my partner, John.”
John hopped to his feet and shook Trick’s hand. “We do a lot of business with Bob. Never screwed us and knows how to keep his mouth shut. He tells us you’re someone that can be trusted.”
“I never ratted on anyone.” Trick glanced back and forth between the two. “Kept my mouth shut and did my own time when I got busted.”
“That’s what we want to hear,” Sam bellowed. “You have it all with you? Seventy thousand?”
“Yeah.” Trick opened the briefcase and held it in front of him. “You want to count it?”
John took the case, closed it and set it on the nightstand. “That’s OK, we trust you. Bob wouldn’t send someone stupid enough to try and rip us off.” John glanced at Sam, then back to Trick. “We want to make sure we’re on the same page. You’re here to buy two kilos of cocaine, right?”
“Two kis, yeah. Where’s the stuff?” Trick looked around the room. “You got it here?”
“Sit down.” Sam motioned toward the bed.
John walked behind the bed, returned with a small suitcase and set it on Trick’s lap.
Trick looked up at Sam and John standing next to him. He opened the suitcase and immediately knew something was wrong. Inside the case were two large Ziplocs filled with loose white powder. “What the hell is this?”
Sam’s and John’s demeanors suddenly changed. Both reached behind their backs and drew pistols that were hidden under their sport coats. Sam yelled, “Put your hands behind your head! You’re under arrest!”
The hotel room door and the adjoining room door burst open simultaneously with three more men from each bearing down on him with guns drawn.
Trick felt his heart sink as he realized Bob had set him up. It was all over. His freedom, relationship with his son, everything was gone. “How could I be so stupid?” Trick berated himself internally. “What’s going to happen to Pat?” he thought, looking down the barrels of pistols.
“You’re lucky we’re not the ba
d guys,” Sam said with annoying glee, taking the suitcase containing the phony kilos of cocaine from Trick’s lap. “You might be dead right now. I’m Detective Samuel Carlsbad. Patrick Halloran, you’re under arrest for Intent to Purchase a Controlled Substance. I’ll take your wallet.”
Carlsbad instructed Trick to stand and put his hands behind him. He cuffed Trick, then pulled the car keys to his Pontiac from his leather jacket. Trick felt his stomach convulse when Carlsbad threw the keys to his partner and said, “Check out the car.”
Carlsbad read Trick his rights and added, “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Uniformed and plainclothed officers walked in and out of the room getting a good look at Trick. They joked around looking very pleased with themselves while burning off adrenalin.
With handcuffs pinching his wrists, Trick walked to the window and looked down at the southwest corner of 95th and Cicero where the Lorelei Restaurant used to be, before the Oak Lawn tornado leveled it in 1967. His mind went back to younger days when he rode to the restaurant on his bicycle. After he swept up, the owner would let him sit at the counter and order a banana split. The only words that came out of Trick’s mouth were, “I’d like to speak to a lawyer.”
Dreading further bad news, there was nothing Trick could do but wait for the other shoe to drop. Several minutes later, John rushed back into the room holding a brown paper bag in the air. He laughed as he called out, “Jackpot!”
Carlsbad grabbed Trick by the collar of his jacket. “Halloran, looks like you’re double fucked.”
***
At the Oak Lawn Police Station, Trick couldn’t remember his lawyer’s number so he dialed his ex-wife’s phone. “Ginger,” he blurted out, “I need your help. Call my lawyer.”
“Oh shit,” Ginger answered, the disappointment in her voice painful to hear. “Are you kidding me?”
