by LOU HOLLY
“No more punching. Just Davey, ‘cause he pushed me, so that don’t count.”
“Maybe you can find a better way to settle your problems instead of fighting all the time. You think you can do that for Mommy?”
“OK. But if someone tries to wipe a booger on me I’m gonna hit ‘im on the nose.”
“Well, it would be better if you told the teacher instead of using your fists.”
“I’m not a tattle-tale. I hate kids who rat.”
Ginger looked to Trick who just shrugged and shook his head. “Daddy, Mommy’s so tired she can hardly stay awake.”
She reached out to her son. “Pat, come closer. I have something important to tell you.” Pat took her hand and she pulled him next to the bed. “Mommy is always going to love you no matter where I am. I’m always going to be with you even though you can’t see me. Do you understand?”
“Are you going somewhere?” Pat’s chin quivered.
“Yes. I’m going to a place where I can always see you and love you. I’ll be watching out for you.”
“Like an angel?”
“Yes.” Ginger cried. “Like an angel.” She looked to Trick. “I want to hold him.”
Trick lifted Pat and laid him next to his mother. She lay holding him, stroking his hair until they both fell asleep.
***
Trick hit the power lock button on the remote as he walked up to the car with Pat in his arms.
Pat opened his eyes as his father set him in the front seat. “I want to go with Mommy and be an angel too.”
“Oh, Pat.” Trick knelt on the damp grass next to the curb. “You’re too young to be an angel. Mommy wants you to stay here and grow into a man and maybe get married, have a little boy of your own one day.”
As Trick got behind the wheel, Pat asked, “How come I never sleep at your house?”
Not wanting to chance a confrontation with his enemies with Pat around, Trick turned to his son and replied, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” He was soon to be Pat’s only parent and wanted to start off on the right foot and be honest. “I would love to have you stay with me but Daddy has something important to do. Something that little boys can’t be part of.”
“If you have work, I can help you. I’m gonna be six pretty soon and I’m strong,” Pat said, flexing his arm.
Trick buckled Pat’s seatbelt. “I’m sorry but I’m doing this to keep you safe. You’re going to sleep over at Karen’s again tonight.”
CHAPTER 45
“Hey, asshole, anytime you’re feeling froggy, leap up!” Trick yelled at the man a few stools to his right. Trick jumped to his feet and threw his empty whiskey glass, shattering it against the wall. He turned his attention back to the bartender. “I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough. Don’t ever try to tell me what to do. No one gives me orders!”
“Ingo, what are you doing? Get ‘im outta here!” the bartender called to the six-foot-seven bouncer.
The musclebound Ingo was leaning in close, rapping on a young lady with Farrah Fawcett hair. He heard the commotion and stomped up to Trick, who looked unsteady on his feet. “C’mon, out the door or I’ll throw you out.” He pushed at Trick’s chest.
“Hey, fuck you, Lou Ferrigno.” Trick backed up and raised his fists. “Fuck you and Arnold Whatziznigger. You can both go screw each other in the ass.”
“Walk out while you got the chance.” Ingo pointed to the door behind Trick.
“Who the fuck you supposed to be, Mr. Clean?” Trick’s body swayed. “Is it in the union rules all you clowns got to shave your head and wear a goatee?”
“Look, lame-brain, I’ll hit you so hard your daddy’ll feel it.”
Trick thought about the faceless man who fathered him and came at Ingo swinging. He punched the bouncer on his jaw, then missed with his left.
Ingo hit Trick hard in the stomach, knocking the wind from him and doubling him over. He threw the wheezing Trick over his shoulder, pushed the door open with his foot and dumped him on the gravel parking lot. “You ever come back here, I’ll put you in a wheelchair.”
***
As he staggered into the condo at four in the morning, Trick imagined his brain to be a bowl of bread pudding, at least that’s how he felt. He had never gone so long with so little sleep. Maybe if he could sleep a few hours undisturbed, he’d figure a way out of the maze that had become his life. Pulling off his torn jacket and dropping it on the floor, he made his way to the bedroom. The little red light on the answering machine was blinking. He thought of Starnes’ threat to kill him. “Go ahead and shoot me,” he mumbled. At least he would be able to sleep. A good long sleep. An eternal sleep. It sounded good right now. Except. Little Pat. He had to keep playing the game.
Trick pressed the button on the machine. “Hello. Mr. Halloran. This is Ms. Gothley over at Christ Hospital. I’m afraid I have bad news for you. Please call us back at your earliest convenience.”
Trick lay on the bed, the swirling ceiling fan was a blur through his tears.
CHAPTER 46
Trick kept glancing in his rearview mirror. A late-model gray Ford with blackwall tires and a spotlight had been following about a block behind on Ridgeland Avenue since 143rd Street. So he sped up and flew through the red light at 107th. He could see the flashing lights ahead, warning that a train was coming. Accelerating faster, he bounced over the railroad tracks just before the gates came down. He slammed on the brakes and made a hard left onto 102nd Street, then made his way to Fireside Drive where Joker lived. There was no sign of Joker’s motorcycle and the garage door was closed so he circled around to 102nd again. With the revolver in his pocket, he parked next to the curb, cut through a yard and flipped over a wooden fence to get to Joker’s garage. Peering into the side window, he could see Joker’s Harley Softail parked there. Trick drew his gun, went to the side door and rapped lightly.
“Trick!” Joker’s wife, Brenda, with her toddler in her arms, exclaimed, “What do you want?”
“Is he in there? Don’t fucking lie to me.”
“He’s still in bed. Trick, what are you gonna do?”
Pointing the pistol in the air, Trick ordered, “Start walking. Keep going and don’t come back for a half hour.”
Brenda hurried down the sidewalk barefoot, crying, holding her little boy close as Trick opened the creaky aluminum screen door. With the gun pointed out in front of him, he crept to Joker’s bedroom door. He put his hand on the door handle and turned it slowly.
Trick threw the door open and Joker yelled, “What the fuck!” He jumped out of bed in his long johns and ran to his dresser.
“Don’t fucking move another step!” Trick screamed. “I’ll goddamn shoot you in the head!”
Joker’s hand reached for the top dresser drawer and Trick fired, sending a .357 hollow-point into a large glass jug filled with coins. Quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies exploded around the room, spraying into Joker’s face.
“All right! All right!” Joker yelled with his hands up to shield him. “Where’s Brenda?”
“She took the kid for a walk. Won’t be back for a while. Just you and me here.”
With the revolver pointed at Joker, Trick pulled up the edge of his mattress. “Still hiding your money in such a corny spot?”
“You think I’m gonna let you get away with this? Comin’ into my house, pointin’ a gun at me?”
“You think I was going to let you get away with ripping me off? I just lost Ginger and I don’t give a fuck anymore. You think you’re man enough to come after me, you do it, big guy.” Trick stuffed the rubber banded wads of cash into his pockets and backed out of the room. “I’ll be waiting for you.” Trick shot the overhead light fixture, showering Joker with shards of broken glass, then ran out of the house.
Chicago Ridge Police cars pulled up to Joker’s house with sirens blaring as Trick jumped over the wooden fence in the backyard. He peeked through the slats to see Joker in the driveway with his hands in the air, gripping a pistol. Cro
uching down, Trick ran to his car, hopped behind the wheel and drove off looking for Bob. But as he pulled away, he passed the same Ford with blackwall tires parked on the side of the street. The middle-aged man, in a jacket and tie, behind the wheel, watched him intently. As Trick drove away, the Ford pulled out after him.
***
“Damn. I got to shake this guy,” Trick muttered to himself, “fucking cop.” He drove up and down side streets, speeding up, slowing down, cutting through alleys, trying to ditch the Ford tailing him. “Screw this. I’m hungry.”
Trick pulled back onto Ridgeland heading north. He continued up to 95th Street and avoided the light by cutting through Fannie May Candies. He drove one block east and pulled into The Dot Spot drive-in. He watched his tail go east on 95th, then turn around and park across the street from him. Trick got out of his rental car and walked up to the counter of the 1950s eatery. After getting a tamale boat and a grape cooler, he sat under the shade of a tree at a picnic table and ate his lunch staring at his surveillance the whole time. Thinking.
After finishing his meal, Trick got back in his car and flew out of the parking lot heading east, going ten to fifteen miles over the limit in order to make the green lights. Approaching Tulley Avenue, he looked in his rearview mirror to see the Ford a couple blocks behind. Just ahead was a railroad crossing, the same one that Officer Petak questioned him at a few weeks earlier. He slowed down and looked both ways on the tracks. To his right he saw a freight train in the distance heading his way. Before the crossing gates had a chance to come down, Trick impulsively made a left directly onto the tracks. With his tires straddling the steel rails, the whole car bounced on the wooden railroad ties as he headed northeast. He looked back to see warning lights flashing, bells going off, and gates lowering, trapping the surveillance car in traffic. But he had a new problem. The train was approaching faster than he estimated.
With Cicero Avenue in view several blocks away, Trick sped up, jarring his entire body. The foul smell of grease, tar and oil from the tracks crept into his car making him gag while the train whistle blew over and over. The chili covered tamale, grape soda with vanilla ice cream he just ingested felt like it was going to revisit his mouth as he bumped along praying not to get rear-ended by the rapidly approaching train. Up ahead he could see the gates coming down on Cicero stopping traffic as the train closed in on him with its deafening whistle becoming louder by the second. Trick hung tight onto the vibrating steering wheel as the train barreled up to his rear bumper with its brakes screeching. Just as the train was a few feet away, Trick cut his wheels to the left, skidding sideways off the tracks and onto Cicero.
With the train roaring by just feet behind him, Trick sat frozen gripping the steering wheel. Breathing heavily with his heart pounding, drivers and passengers stared and pointed at him. From an open window, a man, in a gray car with gray hair and a gray hat, shouted, “What are you? Fuckin’ nuts?”
He took a moment to compose himself, thinking maybe he was going crazy, then drove north on Cicero going as fast as he could without getting pulled over. He continued north surveying traffic behind him searching for the Ford until he got to Midway Airport. Wishing he could hop on a plane, he pulled into the Hertz car rental area instead, went in and switched out his car for another.
***
Trick walked around the corner of the Mokena townhouse garage in the moonlight as Bob was getting out of his Caddy. “Didn’t think I’d find you, did you? I followed your girlfriend over here and waited.” Trick backhanded Bob across the face making his cheeks ripple.
Bob punched Trick in the ribs then caught him on the jaw with a left hook sending him back a few feet. “You think I’m someone to slap around, fucker? I used to box Golden Gloves.”
“That was a lot of years and a lot of pounds ago, you fat fuck.” Trick came at Bob with fists raised and faked with a right. He swung his body to the left and kicked Bob hard on the knee instead, sending him onto his back crying out in pain. Trick pounced on Bob, pinned his shoulders down with his knees and pummeled his face.
“Get off me!” Bob screamed, lying on the cold asphalt driveway, “I’ll kill you! I swear to God, I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”
“You ain’t killing no one today.” Trick punched Bob in the mouth as hard as he could.
Bob spit out bloody broken teeth and mumbled, “I’ll get you for that.”
“I’m taking a souvenir for all my trouble with you, Bob.” Trick shook off the pain from the punch, then grabbed Bob’s left ear and started pulling, feeling skin tear.
Bob kicked his legs, wailing in pain, “Please! Please don’t pull it off!”
“Oh my God, Bob. What’s that smell? You stinking ass mother fucker, you shit yourself.” Trick let go of Bob’s partially torn ear and got off him. “Keep your ear. You’re going to need it in prison when some big bubba is whispering in it, ordering you to get on your knees.” Trick drew back his foot to kick him in the ribs but hesitated. Almost feeling sorry for Bob, he walked away listening to him blubber.
CHAPTER 47
Trick went to see the funeral director and requested that there not be a wake since Ginger had no close living relatives and only a handful of friends. Many of the people she thought were friends dropped her when he went to prison and they no longer lived in an expensive rented home and entertained.
The funeral was scheduled two days later. Trick wanted to get this nightmare behind him as soon as possible. It was bad enough that he found Ginger’s death almost unbearable; his main concern was for Pat. Losing a mother at such a young age could cripple a person emotionally. His son was going to need all the support he could get. But he didn’t know who Pat would get it from since he was facing a long prison sentence.
It was already a week and a half past the date he was supposed to pay the Mexicans $277,000 but he only had a fraction of it. After the police confiscated the $70,000 he brought to the Oak Lawn Hilton, he had less than $20,000 left. To bring the Mexicans such a small amount could lead to disaster. He needed time to sort things out but knew it was already too late.
***
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Karen whispered, standing in her apartment doorway. “She was a good person and I’ll miss her.”
“Thank you. And thanks for watching Pat again.” Trick smiled at his son, who was putting his jacket on. “He likes you. I can tell.”
“Well, I like him too but I haven’t been able to look for work and babysit him at the same time.”
“Here’s a thousand bucks,” Trick said, holding out a handful of cash. “I need you to be available to watch him again in a couple days.”
“What? A thousand? No, that’s too much.”
“Take it,” Trick said, putting the money in her hand and closing her fingers around it. “I need someone I can trust right now. Now you don’t need to look for work just yet. Remember this, when he’s with you, it’s important that you have him in your sight at all times. You can’t let him play outside. Don’t ask why.”
Trick walked down the apartment building stairway with Pat in his arms, then looked out the window to survey the area before slowly opening the door to inspect further. He saw no sign of Starnes or the Mexicans and hurried to his rental car. Not knowing how many days he had left with his son, he drove to the Ritz Carlton Hotel adjacent to the Water Tower Place shopping mall on the Magnificent Mile in Chicago.
***
Feeling somewhat safe within the confines of the upscale establishment and the adjoining towering mall, Trick got a suite and spent the next couple days with his son, escaping from the world outside.
On their first night away, Trick sat next to Pat in a booth at the lavish, mahogany-paneled Ritz Carlton Dining Room, where he instructed his son how to properly eat his lobster bisque, what fork to use for his salad, and to quit purposely burping as loud as he could. Trick ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon to go along with his filet mignon as though he might be having his last meal on death row. He slowly sip
ped the chilled champagne while talking to Pat and taking in the other patrons.
While sharing with Pat his towering concoction of chocolate cake, topped with a chocolate mold containing vanilla ice cream, covered in warm chocolate sauce and fresh whipped cream, Trick nodded hello to actor Richard Romanus, who was having dinner with a lady he presumed to be the man’s wife. “Always leave a good tip,” Trick advised Pat, counting out hundred-dollar bills, “even though you may never see the person again. It shows class and it’s good Karma.”
“What the heck is Karma?”
“Me and my big mouth.” Trick rubbed his forehead. “Karma is when if you do something bad to someone, something bad will happen to you sooner or later. If you do something good, you’ll be rewarded somehow.”
“Are you being rewarded for good things you did?”
“Hmm.” Trick thought about the good and bad things he did in his life. He liked to think of himself as a fair, compassionate person. He never stole anyone’s personal property, never cheated anyone, never went after another man’s wife, never hurt anyone that didn’t have it coming, never killed anyone. Not yet anyway. But there was the drug thing hanging over his head. Maybe Karma was kicking his ass for that.
Pat sat with his chin resting on his fists, searching his father’s face. Trick had to give his son some kind of answer. “The jury’s still out on that one, Pat.”
***
After a decent night’s sleep, room service breakfast and baths, father and son ventured out of their room again and into the city within a building. They walked around, travelled up and down escalators and elevators, played in toy stores and window shopped while working up an appetite.
Trick and Pat strolled through the expansive twelfth-floor hotel lobby and stopped to toss coins into the fountain while Tina Turner, nearby, signed autographs for an enthusiastic, young couple. They had a light lunch at the Ritz Carlton Café, where Pat slowly opened up about school, his friends and favorite toys. Trick tried to recall what it was like being a five-year-old. He couldn’t remember friends and toys. Instead, he remembered being punished at school and at home.
