by LOU HOLLY
“Starnes!” Frank called out with his gun drawn. “Hands in the air. Both of you.”
“You guys cops?” Starnes turned to face Frank and Owl with his arms raised.
“Better hope we are.” Owl pointed his pistol directly at Starnes’ head.
“I only ask ‘cause I already donated to the impotent policeman’s fund,” Starnes quipped.
Owl looked at Frank. “Funny guy, huh. Whadya think?”
“It’s going to get a lot funnier.” Frank turned back to Starnes and Moogie. “Empty your pockets. Put everything on the roof, then place your hands on the hood.”
Frank held his gun on Starnes, who stood to Moogie’s left. Owl patted them down as they bent over with their hands on the warm hood of Starnes’ pickup.
“Hey, asshole. When we say empty your pockets, we mean everything.” Owl pulled a pistol from Moogies’ inside jacket pocket, then cracked him on the side of his head with it.
“Son of a fuckin’ bitch,” Moogie yelled, flinching.
“You callin’ my mother a bitch? I’ll shoot you in the head and swear you went for my gun,” Owl said, moving closer to Moogie, who had blood trickling down the side of his face.
As Frank went through the contents on the roof of the pickup, Starnes asked, “What do you guys want? A monthly payoff? We can work somethin’ out if you give us protection, inside info, lean on our competition.”
Frank picked up a thick wad of bills held together with a rubber band and flicked through it. “How much you got here?”
“Forty Gs,” Starnes answered. “You gonna take my scratch?”
“No.” Frank tossed the stack of money onto the damp grass between the curb and the sidewalk. “I’m not taking, I’m giving.” Frank pulled an envelope out of his jacket and slipped it into the back pocket of Starnes’ black jeans. “That’s what you laid out for someone’s bail a couple weeks ago. You’re officially off his back as of right now. Don’t ever contact this guy again, for any reason. If I hear different, I’m going to come back and cramp your style so bad you won’t be able to jerk off without the law knowing about it.”
“He owes me for more than the bail I Iaid out.”
“Really? What else does he owe you money for? Drugs? Want to swear out a complaint?”
“OK, I get the point. But why you doin’ this? What’s you’re angle? I gotta know.” Starnes turned and looked Frank in the eye. “Someone we know turnin’ snitch?”
“We’re through here.” Frank walked away and motioned for his partner to follow, but Owl stopped behind Starnes and raised the butt of his gun to hit him on the head. Frank looked at Owl and shook his head no.
“Think we won’t find out?” Starnes called out in the cool night air. “That fuck goin’ into witness protection? … He a cheese eater now?”
Ignoring Starnes’ barrage of questions, Frank and Owl got back into the patrol car and pulled away.
“This person you’re stickin’ your neck out for is a lucky so-and-so.” Owl shook his head. “Lucky to have you in his corner.”
CHAPTER 52
The hoarse bark of a dog filtered through the cracked plaster wall while Trick paced the worn area rug that set crookedly on the creaking hardwood floor of the living room. He turned the television on, only to see the same gray pattern of electronic snow as he did the last four times he tried it. Turning it off again, he walked the floor a few more minutes and then sat on the musty smelling sofa that was scarred with cigarette burn marks. The entire two-bedroom, one-story house seemed to have a slight odor of rancid potato chips. He picked up the People magazine featuring Cybill Shepherd that he already thumbed through several times. “TV’s sexiest spitfire,” Trick read from the cover. “Cute. But not as pretty as my Ginger.” Dropping the magazine back onto the coffee table that had silvery duct tape wrapped around one leg, he turned on the cassette player as he had over and over his last three days of incarceration in the drafty safe house.
“Thank you,” the pleasant sounding female voice emitted from the speaker, “Grazie.” “Pardon me … Mi scusi,” Trick repeated along. “I don’t speak Italian very well … Non parlo molto bene italiano.”
Trick jumped when he heard a loud rap on the wooden door. He crept toward the peephole, then changed his mind and stood with his back to the wall. He flinched when he heard, “Let me in, it’s me.”
Realizing it was Frank, Trick breathed again. He unlocked the deadbolt, unlatched the chain and opened the door of the weather-worn frame house.
“Thought you might like some real food.” Frank stepped through the door. “I stopped at Mickey’s. Got some beef sandwiches, ribs, fries … none of that healthy bullshit.”
“Great.” Trick took the paper sack from Frank and set it on the coffee table. “I was getting tired of Campbell’s soup and crackers.”
“Didn’t know how you took your coffee.”
“Black is fine,” Trick said as Frank handed him the hot paper cup from the cardboard tray. “You sure it’s only going to be a month or so till I see my son again? I was away from him so long already.”
“Three or four weeks, tops. I’ll try to get out there before you.” Frank pulled something from the pocket of his white dress shirt. “Here’s your passport, Patrizio.”
Trick sat on the couch and examined the document. “Patrizio Siciliano … my gramma’s maiden name. Nice. Hey, this is my last arrest photo. I’ll be damned.”
Frank set his coffee down, plopped on the couch next to Trick and opened the bag of warm food. “Thought you’d appreciate the irony.”
“I’ll appreciate it if we pull this off and I’m safe in Italy. I keep getting this bad feeling.”
“Don’t worry.” Frank popped a French fry in his mouth. “It’s not going to help anything.”
Trick picked up the cassette recorder from the coffee table. “Thanks for leaving this book and these tapes about learning Italian. I’ve been studying night and day.”
“I see. Come va?”
“Bene.”
“Stupendo.” Frank laughed and waved his fingers like a fruit vendor on the streets of Rome.
“So, you don’t think anyone will come looking for you out there?”
“Nobody knows nothing. Going to say I’m heading to Florida to bartend. If I cross paths with anyone I know in Italy, which isn’t very likely, I’ll just say I work there, not own the place.”
“Makes sense.” Trick brought his fingertips to his chest. “What if someone recognizes me there?”
“This isn’t a destination spot. It’s a tiny little town, a cittadina. You can only get to it by boat. Non ti preoccupare.”
“What? Speak English. I’m just learning.”
“I said, quit fuckin’ worrying.” Frank leaned forward, closed his eyes and breathed in the aroma from the open bag of food. “Tomorrow’s the big day. I’ll be by to pick you up at 10:00 in the morning. There’s a cabin cruiser, the Topless Betty, at Burnham Harbor that’ll take you out to a cargo ship going straight to Italy. We need to be at the lake, no later than 11:00.” Frank handed Trick an envelope with cash and directions. “Here. Everything you need to know is written down. You’ll be working six days a week as a deck hand. Keep to yourself as much as possible, avoid answering personal questions.”
Trick rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “Can’t shake this feeling. Like something’s going to go wrong.”
“I told you. Everything’s set. Settle down. You worry about something too much, you make it a self-fulfilling prophecy.” Frank pulled an Italian beef sandwich wrapped in foil out of the sack. “Come on, let’s eat.”
CHAPTER 53
“Had a bad dream last night. Hardly slept after that.” Trick got in the passenger side of Frank’s police car.
“In less than two hours, you’re going to be on that ship.” Frank patted Trick’s shoulder. “It’s all going to work out. Trust me.”
Frank headed toward Lake Michigan, nodding and glancing over at Trick, who ta
lked out of nervousness for several miles. He turned on his police radio and heard Owl’s excited voice, “Frank, where you at?”
Frank picked up his hand-held speaker and pressed the button. “Yeah, I’m here. What’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem? You didn’t hear? A perp grabbed a little boy, blond kid, as he was walkin’ into Nathan Hale, the grade school on 135th Street.”
“Nathan Hale?” Trick’s face turned white. “Little Pat goes there!”
“Kid’s name is Patrick Halloran,” Owl continued, “same as the guy you busted that time.”
“Oh, no.” Trick covered his face with his hands. “Oh, fuck, no.”
Frank switched on his overhead emergency lights and siren. “Where are they?”
“There’s a high-speed pursuit goin’ on,” Owl’s voice crackled over the speaker. “They’re chasin’ the perps on Southwest Highway right now. Headin’ northeast.”
Frank turned to Trick. “Don’t say anything while I got the transmission button down.” He pressed the button and flew through a red light. “Owl, what’s the make and model?”
“Late 70s Oldsmobile, dark brown,” Owl answered. “Mexican flag sticker on the back bumper.”
“That’s them.” Trick slammed his hand on the dashboard. “The guys I was telling you about. They got my boy!”
“Another report came in,” Owl barked. “The vehicle was seen drivin’ northeast on Columbus Avenue, over 90 miles an hour.”
Frank pushed the transmission button down again. “I’m not that far away.”
“Oh, no,” Owl shouted, “they lost ‘em. Went flyin’ over the railroad crossin’ at 82nd Place, just before a freight train came by. Chicago’s involved now. High priority.”
“Please, no, please,” Trick repeated, his eyes glazing over.
“They lost ‘em again,” Owl reported, “somewhere on Kedzie, cut right through a funeral procession.”
“Try to calm down,” Frank told Trick, who was punching the roof of the car, every blow giving off a muffled, metallic thud. “Kedzie’s right up ahead.” Frank made a left and accelerated over the long Kedzie bridge with the clanging of train cars coupling below, past Nabisco bakery with its heavy aromas filling the neighborhood air, past the modest brick bungalows lining the street ahead.
“I’m only a couple miles behind these guys,” Frank spoke into his speaker again. “I see the Chicago squads up ahead. I grew up around here, know a shortcut.” Frank slammed on his brakes, skidding sideways as a little girl in a checkered coat ran out from between parked cars chasing a cat into the street. “Mother of God,” Frank yelled, breathing heavily. The girl stood frozen in the middle of the avenue, staring at Frank. When he laid on his horn, she ran off and Frank continued pursuit.
After several minutes, Owl said, “They jumped on 55 headin’ east, got a shitload of blue and whites on their tail.”
Frank continued stopping traffic with his emergency flashers, siren and loudspeaker, going through red lights. “They won’t get away,” Frank reassured Trick, “not with all those squads right behind them.”
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Owl yelled, “these fuckers sideswiped a Culligan truck, caused a big pileup on 55. Water bottles all over the road. Chicago Police cars stuck in the mess.”
“Oh, God, no,” Trick said, breathing heavily.
Owl continued, “They were last seen gettin’ off at the Damen exit.”
“I don’t know where these guys are heading,” Frank told Trick, “but they keep moving in the same direction, northeast.” He made a right onto Archer Avenue. “We can’t be that far from them.” He raced through the red light at Archer and Ashland Avenue, causing cars around them to skid to a stop.
“There they are!” Trick screamed. The Olds made a left off Archer and into an obsolete industrial area. “They’re heading toward the river.”
Frank made a left one block before the street the Mexicans turned on and floored it. “We’ll try to beat them to the bridge.” He cut a quick right and squealed around the corner.
“There they are again! Cut ‘em off!” Trick pleaded. “Cut ‘em off!”
“You sure?” Frank barreled ahead.
“Cut ‘em off!”
Frank pulled across the intersection, blocking the street. The brakes screeched and the nose dipped down sharply on the Olds as it fishtailed, then slammed into Frank’s police car. Trick tumbled around as the cop car rolled over three times before resting against a telephone pole, passenger side up. Trick was piled on top of Frank, who seemed unconscious, but then he moaned. Trick climbed out the window using the steering wheel to boost him, his healing fingertip bleeding again.
The Mexicans’ car was shrouded in a haze of steam from the busted radiator. Engulfed in the smell of skidding tires, coolant fluid, and gasoline, Trick staggered toward the Olds. The front end was smashed in, the bumper lying in the street. The brother in the driver’s seat looked lifeless, his head resting on the steering wheel. His brother next to him sat back with his mouth open, face covered in blood.
The back door flew open and out staggered the big guy in the Bulls jacket with blood streaming into his eyes from a gash on his forehead. He waved a pistol and shouted, “I can’t see!” Stumbling around, wiping blood away with the back of his hand, he fired three shots wildly, one coming dangerously close to Trick.
Trick picked up the front bumper of the Olds and swung it like a baseball bat, hitting the big guy on the side of his head, sending him to the street with a thud. The gun skidded across the old cobblestone bricks showing through the worn concrete.
Trick ran up to the rear passenger door to see Pat sitting in the middle of the back seat with a look of terror frozen on his face. The leader of the group, with his usually slicked back hair hanging in greasy locks on his forehead, had blood running from his nose. He sat on the other side of Pat holding a silver-handled razor against the boy’s soft neck.
“Daddy,” Pat cried. “Daddy.”
“Are you hurt, son?”
“I’m scared, Daddy,” Pat sobbed. A bump on his forehead seemed to grow before Trick’s eyes.
Trick leaned in. “Let him go and I’ll let you live.”
The gang leader wrapped his arm around Pat and answered back, “Chinga tu madre.” He looked dazed and pulled Pat tighter with the blade against the horrified child’s jugular vein.
While sirens blared in the distance, Trick hurried back to retrieve the big guy’s revolver. He opened the chamber and counted. Two bullets remained.
A beat-up tow truck slowly pulled up, driven by a burly looking female with short cropped hair and a blue bandana tied around her forehead. She tilted her sunglasses down and questioned Trick with wide eyes. He glared at her and waved her away with the pistol. She shook her head and drove off muttering something Trick couldn’t make out over the grinding of her gears.
Returning to the open door and pointing the gun at his nameless enemy, Trick said in a raspy voice, “I told you to let him go. Anything happens to him, I don’t care if I live or die. I’m giving you till the count of three to let him go.”
“I’ll cut him, send him to Jesus,” he growled, trying to duck his head down behind Pat’s.
“One. Don’t worry, Pat. Two. Close your eyes, Pat.” Trick fired, hitting the gang leader in the elbow. His hand flew open from the shock, dropping the knife. He looked at Trick and said, “Besa mi culo!”
Trick fired again, putting one right between the young gangster’s eyes. His head flew back against the window, mouth and eyes wide open as though he might say something, then slumped to the side leaving a smear of crimson on the window.
Trick reached in and pulled Pat close. His son, splattered in blood, was very still and quiet. Pat’s eyes were glazed and appeared to be staring at nothing. Trick shook him, then lightly slapped his face. Pat started screaming and Trick held him tight.
The sirens of Chicago Police vehicles got louder by the second. Trick stood, pulled his jacket open and
looked at the phony passport in his pocket. With pistol in hand he watched as three police cars sped toward the bridge. While Pat clung to his leg crying, Trick threw the pistol as hard as he could and watched it sail into the Chicago River. He got down on his knees and hugged Pat.
“I love you, Pat. I’ll always love you no matter what happens, no matter where I am.” He watched blue and white cars fly toward them across the bridge. “You’re going to be OK now, Pat. The good guys are coming. Just wait here. They’ll take care of you.”
As Trick stood and pulled away, Pat cried, “Don’t go, Daddy. Don’t leave me.”
“I’m sorry, son. But it has to be like this.” Trick ran as fast as he could toward a warehouse. Just before disappearing behind the corner of the deserted building, he looked over his shoulder to see the first squad car pull up.
EPILOGUE
Trick jogged barefoot on the warm sand as soft waves lapped the beach and chattering seagulls swooped around, looking for morsels. He stopped and stretched, admiring the five ancient small hotels huddled close to one another and the smattering of tiny whitewashed houses behind them. The flat wall of rock, that rose a couple hundred feet behind the houses, reflected sun onto the quiet little fishing village. The sun-bleached pastel paint of the eighteenth-century hotels was faded but still colorful enough to attract the eyes from passing boaters. One building was yellow, one green, one orange and one pink. But the robin egg blue hotel in the middle was the one he really loved. He had been working at his father’s stone and stucco albergo the last two days, doing everything from changing sheets to bartending.
Pat ran up, wet from playing in the water. “Dad, Dad, I love it here. And … Maria’s nice.” Trick scooped his son in his arms, feeling the wetness from the sea on his bare chest. Trick kissed Pat’s forehead, set him down and said, “Have fun playing.”
