by LOU HOLLY
Ginger’s hoarse whisper called out in the dark, “What time is it?”
“Just about 7:00, at night, I think. Who kept calling?”
“Probably Petros. After you dropped me off last night, I drove over to the restaurant. I walked into the backroom and caught him screwing some new bimbo he hired, right on a banquet table.”
“I’m sorry.” Trick wasn’t sure if he was sorry but said it anyway. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“The way my life is going.” Ginger sighed. “What does it matter?”
“The hell with him. That nose of his … I don’t know how you got close enough to kiss him with that huge thing in the way.”
“Oh, Pat. You’re so bad.” Ginger giggled. “It is pretty big though.”
When Ginger turned on the lamp next to her side of the bed and sat up, Trick tried not to show shock at the amount of blonde hair on her dark red pillowcase. He pulled his silk boxers on and went to the kitchen, putting his mouth under the faucet, gulping cool water. Ginger followed him into the kitchen tying her robe then turned on her Mr. Coffee.
Trick wiped his mouth on his forearm and walked in the dim light to the living room as Ginger called out, “Do you want a cup?”
Trick finger-combed his cropped hair back and looked out Ginger’s large living room window for signs of trouble. “Yeah, sure.” He sat on the sofa in a shaft of light from the corner streetlamp that backlit his hair in a halo-like glow.
Ginger joined Trick and set a hot cup of coffee in front of him.
He wanted coffee to taste as good as it smelled, but with every cup he drank, it never did. Pouring the remaining bourbon from earlier into his coffee, he asked, “How are you feeling?”
“A little loopy … numb.” Ginger’s eyelids fluttered. “The pain stuff I’m on is pretty strong.”
“I want to explain all the craziness that’s been going on. I lied to you because I didn’t want you to worry. But you deserve the truth.” Trick rubbed his fingertips over the scab on the back of his neck. “About three weeks ago, right after I lost my job selling cars, I found a bag full of money and cocaine. I owed Starnes $60,000 so I gave him the cocaine to settle our score. Thought I was on easy street with $285,000 in my kit. Then the guys that the bag belonged to somehow caught up with me. They threatened me, took the rest of the cash and broke my nose.”
“I knew something was going on. Figures. That’s when you gave me the money for my new car.”
Trick nodded and continued, “They gave me a week to replace the drugs or pay them $300,000. I tried but I couldn’t raise that much in that short of time.” Trick held up his left hand, showing his little finger with the tip missing. “I’ve been dodging them ever since.”
“Is that why you cut your hair and shaved your moustache?”
“Yeah.” Trick brought the cup to his face and smelled the rich aroma. “I knew I couldn’t fool you for very long. Not you.”
“That’s why you told me to keep an eye on Pat.” Ginger softly touched Trick’s leg. “Why don’t you go to the police?”
“It’s not one of those kind of deals. They’d just lock me up for getting involved with drugs again and I’m even more vulnerable inside than out. There’s nowhere to hide in there, not even in seg.”
“Well, Trick,” Ginger said, with more than a hint of sarcasm, “you finally put yourself in a trick bag.”
“I really screwed up this time.” Trick shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I tell you one thing, it wasn’t worth it. If I could do it all over I would have left that bag on the side of the road and done any kind of work, even if it was digging ditches.” Trick sipped his spiked coffee then set it down. “Something’s been bugging me. I got to ask. Did Joey DeBonarino ever come around when I was locked up?”
“Oh yeah, sure. He started showing up as soon as you went to jail.”
“That rat fuck. Tell me what happened.”
“He came around, saying he was concerned for me and Pat. Said he wanted to help. Offered me money.”
“Lousy rotten mother … sure he wanted to help, wanted to help himself to you. Did you take any of his dough?”
“No. You think I’m stupid?” Ginger brought a hand to her chest. “It wasn’t easy turning him down though. I was worried how me and Pat were going to get by.”
“So, you’re telling me nothing went on between you two?” Trick pointed a finger. “We were still married at the time.”
“Nothing happened. He pestered me for a while and saw he wasn’t getting anywhere. He got the hint and quit coming over. That’s the whole story.”
Trick grimaced and punched his palm, causing his healing finger to sting.
“What are you going to do?” Ginger pulled his face toward hers. “I told you nothing happened.”
Pulling away, Trick said slowly, “I’m going to have a little talk with Joey the Boner.”
“Oh, Patrick. Please don’t. You’re on parole. You don’t need a battery charge too.”
***
Trick called Joey and set up a meeting in the large parking lot of the Southwest Ice Arena. He knew he’d have to control his temper because there was something he needed from Joey before he could get even with him. He also had to set the record straight. Not wanting false rumors spread about him, he needed Joey to know he didn’t set him up.
Spotting Joey’s Corvette on the outskirts of the lot with the parking lights on, Trick pulled next to him. They got out of their cars and walked up a few feet from one another. “Looks like we both got lucky and made bail,” Trick said, trying to read Joey’s demeanor.
“Yeah, but I’m fucked. Probably do time again. And I swear, I’ll kill the mudder fucker dat set me up.”
Trick watched Joey go for the back pocket where he kept his stiletto switchblade. “I’m telling you, Joey, I didn’t set you up. You know my reputation. When I got busted in 81, I kept my mouth shut. Never ratted on anyone in my life.”
“No one else knew I was gonna be at the El-Dorado, just you. And I never saw cops let anyone walk away from a situation like dat. Tell me it’s not fuckin’ fishy.”
“Think about it. How could I have known you were holding? You called me. Said you wanted to meet.” Trick suppressed his anger. “I was holding too. Doesn’t make sense that I’d call the cops on myself.”
“Yeah, OK. Dat much figures.” Joey brought his empty hand back to his side.
“Who else knew what direction you were heading, what kind of car you were in, and that you’d have the shit on you?”
“Yeah,” Joey replied, bobbing his head slowly, “dat fat fuck Bob. He was actin’ funny when I copped from him … right before I met you.”
Just to watch the expression on Joey’s face, Trick asked, “Any reason he should be pissed at you? Enough to set you up and lose a customer?”
“All right, let’s drop it.” Joey backed up a couple steps and waved his hands. “I believe ya. Why’d ya call?”
“Your family’s from Bridgeport. You know a guy, a Sal Bianccini?”
“Yeah, I know him. He’s in Pontiac, got winged in dat shootout with you and the coppers about four years ago. Why, wazzup?”
“I need to talk to him but I don’t want him to know I’m coming. I want you to send word tomorrow morning, have him put you on his visitor’s list. I plan to go see him using your name. I’ll need to borrow your driver’s license.”
“Whoa. Forget about it. Dat guy’s nutso,” Joey said, circling a finger near his temple. “Wouldn’t want to end up on his shit list. He may be locked up but he’s got a long reach.”
“Look, Joey, you do this for me and I’ll get even with Bob for you.”
Joey ran a thumb across his neck. “Ya mean like do him in?”
“I’ll take care of him.” Trick’s anger rose just thinking of the things Bob said about him.
“Mmm … bene, OK. But how you gonna pass for me? Huh?
Ya don’t even look Italian, ya mick.”
“Don’t worry about that part.”
“Whadda ya mean? I’m five-nine, ya got a couple inches on me.” Joey motioned with his hands like someone juggling oranges. “I got brown eyes, brown hair. You got blue eyes and hair like one of dem soap opera guys.”
“I told you, I got it covered. Set it up.”
“Madonna mia,” Joey said to the night sky, then pulled out his wallet and handed Trick his driver’s license.
CHAPTER 40
In the parking lot of Pontiac Prison, Trick put on a pair of brown-tinted glasses, greased his dark blond hair with VO5, giving it a darker look, then put on a Chicago White Sox cap. Getting out of his car, he slouched as he walked to the entrance of the visitors’ gate. After showing the driver’s license that read Joseph Vincent DeBonarino, Trick got a queasy feeling walking into the maximum security prison. Passing through correctional center security gates again, he imagined walking into a funeral parlor and seeing his own coffin.
After being patted down, Trick was led through a series of gates and doors. Once inside the large visitor’s room, he went to one of the vending machines, inserted a dollar and got back a paper cup with small chunks of ice and bubbling Pepsi. He removed the glasses and hat, took a seat at one of the small round tables, sipped his drink and waited. Prisoners all dressed alike sat at tables with loved ones, family and friends. The spacious, cigarette hazed room echoed with conversation while inmates and their visitors caught up on each other’s lives. Some laughed, some cried and some had bitter words while they picked at thin slices of microwaved pizza, ice cream in tiny paper cups, soda and coffee.
Several minutes later, Sal entered the visitors’ room scanning faces. Trick stood and motioned to Sal who looked at him harshly. As Sal walked toward him, Trick saw that his right arm was shriveled, scarred and hanging limply at his side in his short sleeve shirt.
“Hey, Lefty, ya got a visitor?” A Puerto Rican gang member mocked Sal, “I didn’t know ya had any friends.”
Sal ignored him and walked up to Trick and stared into his eyes. “That is you, you mudder fucker. What’re you doin’ here? Get the fuck out.”
“Wait. Come on, sit down for a minute.” Trick stood and motioned toward a chair. “I drove a long way to get here.”
Trick sat back down, looking up at Sal, who hesitated for a few moments, then lowered himself onto one of the brown plastic chairs. He swung his body, landing his lifeless right arm onto the table.
“You like that?” Sal looked at his useless appendage, then back at Trick. “Doctors want to cut it off, said I’ll never have use of it again. I won’t let ‘em,”
“Hey, Lefty, who’s your cute friend?” a young man with mahogany colored skin and a plastic bag over his hair interrupted. “Can you set me up?”
Sal raised his fist. “Push on, you gorilla-face fuck.”
The young man howled and laughed. “Pontiac builds excitement.” Then he danced away like he was moving down a Soul Train line.
“See what I gotta put up with every day?”
“I did time over that deal too.” Trick tapped his fingertips on his chest. “Didn’t like it any more than you.”
“Yeah, but it’s your fault I’m in here. You and that greaseball, Benny.”
“Wait a minute. Benny was the guy who set that deal up. I was only doing business with him for about six months. Said you and him grew up together.”
“Yeah, we both grew up in Bridgeport but I never liked that slime jabonee. Used to steal money outta his own mudder’s cash register. Piece of shit.” Sal grimaced. “That guinea scum split and went back to Italy, but I’ll get him too if I can find ‘im.”
“I got taken in just like you.” Trick put his open hands out. “That deal wiped me out. Spent close to a year fighting my case. Went broke in the process … bonding out, lawyers, appeals. They watched me like a hawk, could hardly make any dough before I went away. I’m out there struggling.”
“Why should I give a crap? I don’t wanna hear your problems. Got plenty of my own.”
Trick sat back and waited several uncomfortable moments. At a nearby table a young woman with her hair in cornrows sat close to her incarcerated man. He had his prison-blue shirttail out trying to hide that she was stroking him under the table. They were caught up in the moment and didn’t notice a guard approaching from behind. The uniformed guard hit the table hard with his baton making the couple flinch. She drew her hand back and they both straightened up. Trick spoke quietly, “Word is you’re getting out in a few years and plan to kill me.”
“Who’d you hear that from?”
“Not important.” Trick reached out with both hands. “I came to see what we can do to settle things between us.”
“Settle?” Sal motioned with his left hand. “Can you bring my arm back?”
“Come on.” Trick leaned in with both palms on the table. “I didn’t shoot you.”
“I told you I didn’t wanna go back and here I am, livin’ in this jungle with these animals. Every day I gotta hold myself back from killin’ one of these mulignans. Then I’ll be here forever. I begged you to put a bullet in my head and you wouldn’t do it.”
“Then I’d have been in here for the rest of my life. You’re not thinking right. The coppers investigate these kind of shootings. They pull the bullet out and run ballistics on it. They’d have known it was me.”
Sal stood and swung his body, knocking over Trick’s Pepsi with his paralyzed arm. “Visit’s over. See you in a few years. You’ll never know when or where it’s gonna happen but I dream about the look on your face when you know it’s the end. That dream’s what’s keepin’ me goin’.”
Trick’s heart beat rapidly as he watched Sal walk away but then stop at the guard’s desk by the door and motion back at him with his good arm. He knew it was time to get out of there.
CHAPTER 41
Trick got out of bed and pulled the drapes closed to seal off the flashing neon from the Rainbow Motel sign. Once again he couldn’t sleep and decided to drink himself into a slumber. Walking outside to the ice machine, he was met with the aroma from a nearby pizzeria mingling with the noxious smell of car exhaust. He filled the plastic bucket to the brim then carried it back to his room as noisy night traffic zoomed past on Archer Avenue.
Breaking the seal on a bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon, he heard the dim pop as he removed the cork, then filled a bathroom sink glass to the top over ice. He turned on the small black and white television and scanned the channels. He settled on an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents with actress Linda Fiorentino, but couldn’t concentrate on the plot.
Trick wondered what he was missing. How his enemies always seemed to be a step ahead of him. Pacing the floor of the small room feeling caged again, he wanted to get out of there, to go anywhere, out of the city, out of the country. Maybe that was the move. But he didn’t have a passport and knew they wouldn’t issue him one while on parole. He thought about his son, knowing he couldn’t leave him again, not if he could help it somehow. He considered running away with Pat but it wouldn’t be fair to Ginger. Losing her son would surely destroy her. This left him with one other reasonable option, turning rat. That would probably get his sentence reduced but it was a dangerous gamble. And what if his enemies retaliated by going after his son? Even if cooperating was a safe alternative, he couldn’t live with himself after doing that. He couldn’t become what he hated.
***
Trick woke the next morning to a maid banging on his door. “Meester! I need to get in!”
Kicking the sheet and cover off, Trick stumbled to the door. “Stop that damned pounding. I don’t need my room cleaned!” He slammed the door in the woman’s face, grabbed his throbbing head and hurried to the bathroom. Dropping to his knees, he vomited, breathed in the stench of last night’s regurgitated gyros sandwich and the urine stained rug around the toilet bowl, then puked some more.
“Oh God,” Trick moaned
, feeling like firecrackers were going off in his skull. “Please make it stop.” He wondered if more people prayed on their knees in front of toilets than they did in churches.
Feeling a little better after a nap, Trick shaved and showered. He poured about a shot of bourbon into a glass of water and drank his hair of the dog with a shudder. With a fresh change of clothes, he headed out into the cool, early November breeze. Driving east on Archer, past a multitude of storefront businesses and apartment buildings, he pulled into Brandy’s restaurant on the corner at Cicero Avenue. His hunger was finally overtaking his nausea and he settled on a cheese omelet with wheat toast, washing it down with several glasses of Chicago tap water. His dull headache did not help as he struggled to think of a way to change his luck.
With some food in his belly, he felt straightened out enough to continue and drove down the street, leaving his recently purchased Pontiac in the long-term parking lot at Midway Airport. He walked to the car rental area and drove away in a two-tone Chrysler Fifth Avenue.
***
Trick pulled his cap down low before getting out of the rental car and walking into Barone’s Restaurant at 127th and Central. He looked over the top of his sunglasses to dial the payphone in the vestibule. “Joey, it’s me. I got to give you your license.”
“Yeah. I want dat back right away. Wanna meet downtown at Faces? Ton a pussy dere.”
“No. Tell you what, let’s meet at Heritage Park by the cannon. It’s more private and there’s something I want to talk to you about. Make it 4:30.”
***
Driving up on 149th Street in the foggy dusk, Trick could see Joey’s red Corvette. He pulled into the small parking area and walked straight up to Joey.
“Hey, Trick. Wuz happenin’? Some bidness ya wanna discuss?”
“Yeah. You could say we got some unfinished business. And don’t ever call me Trick. It’s Pat to you.”
