Read SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense Online
Authors: LOU HOLLY
Trick brought a steak knife, thumbtacks and Super Glue into the condo bedroom and knelt in front of the smoke-mirror covered wall. With each mirror being one foot square, he carefully worked the blade under a corner mirror on the lowest row. He cautiously maneuvered the knife further under and side to side. After removing the mirror, he glued a thumbtack onto each corner on the backside. He then used the serrated knife to cut a hole in the drywall about eight inches around, giving the glue time to dry. Next to him sat the $50,000 he robbed from the drug deal between Rebel and Beasley. He took stacks of rubber-banded cash and put them through the hole, reaching in and piling them up behind the wall. After he was through, he pushed the mirror back using the thumbtacks to hold it in place, then cleaned up the telltale drywall residue. Trick grabbed a light jacket and headed out the door into the warm Indian summer weather, driving the short distance to Ginger’s apartment.
“You’re early,” Ginger said, opening her door. “Pat doesn’t get home for another ten minutes.”
“I wanted to talk to you first,” Trick said, brushing past her, “about something important.”
“I already told you; forget about us getting back together.” Ginger lit a cigarette, then coughed.
“No,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “It’s about something else.” The calming scent of a lit vanilla candle took Trick back to earlier days with Ginger and he absentmindedly removed his left hand from his jacket pocket. “I don’t have anyone else to talk to.”
“Oh my God!” Ginger exclaimed, dropping her lit cigarette on the carpet. “What the hell happened to your finger?”
“Oh, that.” Trick looked at his bandaged finger, trying to act nonchalant. “It was an accident. I was walking down the street, minding my own business when this huge Doberman attacked me.” He slid his hand back into his pocket. “He only bit off a little bit.”
“What? Oh no.” She picked up her cigarette, rubbed her bare foot over the scorch mark and studied Trick’s face. “First it’s your nose, now it’s your finger. What’s going on with you … really?”
“Nothing.” Trick looked out the picture window and studied the multicolored leaves, avoiding eye contact. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Well, trouble seems to follow you around and I don’t want it touching Pat.”
“I would never let anyone or anything hurt our boy. I’d give my life to protect him.” Trick expelled a lungful of air. “I got to tell you about something. I met a guy in a bar. He claims to be my father.”
“No! What’s his name? What’s he look like?”
“Name’s Stanley Krupnik. A little taller than me, about six foot. Thick, dark graying hair. Good looking, kind of. I don’t know, late forties maybe. Blue eyes like me. Otherwise, I don’t see any resemblance.”
“Did he say anything about your birth mother?”
“Yeah.” Trick wrinkled his brow. “Said she died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all really weird.” Trick shook his head. “Don’t know what to think. I need to see some kind of proof.”
“Well, yeah, of course.” Ginger looked around the room then tapped cigarette ash into her open palm. “But how do you feel about it?”
“I’m not sure. I got mixed feelings. On one hand, I always wanted to meet my parents but something about this … I don’t know, doesn’t sit well with me.”
“So, you’re saying you don’t trust this guy. No surprise. You don’t trust anyone.” Ginger took a drag and exhaled smoke from round, pursed lips. “I don’t know what to tell you. Something you’ll have to figure out for yourself.” She paused and pointed at Trick, raising an eyebrow. “But don’t let him meet Pat unless you’re one-hundred percent positive.”
“Of course. Wait, that sounds like him now.” Trick heard footsteps coming up the apartment stairs and opened the door for Pat. “Hey, pal. Good to see you.”
Pat read his mother’s serious expression and frowned, sensing the heavy mood in the room. “Are you and Mommy fighting again?”
“No. Mommy and me were just talking about how much we love you.” Trick called to Ginger as she doused her cigarette and ashes in the toilet. “Right, Mommy?”
“Righty right.” Ginger walked up to Pat and knelt on one knee, pulling him close. “Daddy’s going to take you to Chuck E Cheese.” She kissed Pat, then stood facing Trick. “Well, good luck with that thing.”
“Yeah. I’ll figure it out.” Trick looked her up and down. “Thanks for having some clothes on today.”
“Oh, real funny.” She motioned with her thumb toward the door. “Scram.”
Driving west on woodsy 143rd Street, Trick admired the changing leaves. He wished for a change in himself but felt like he was in emotional limbo. He thought of the way so many men in prison are frozen in time emotionally, while girlfriends and wives on the outside go on with their lives and continue to change and evolve. And now that he was out, he was still in limbo, unable to move forward. He knew it was unrealistic to date or try to develop a new relationship while dealing with the dangerous situation he was in. He hoped he could pull off a miracle and get the Mexicans and Starnes paid off and get away from the drug business altogether. Then maybe, he could move on with his own life.
Trick dropped a quarter into the payphone at the Clark gas station on Ridgeland Avenue and Route 83. He punched in the numbers and heard, “Bob’s Butcher Shop, no one beats my meat.”
“Yeah, that thing we talked about.” Trick ignored Bob’s tired gag. “Meet me at Cattle Company.”
“Like when?”
“Like fifteen minutes or soon as you can.” Trick hung up the scuffed black phone without another word.
He headed north on Ridgeland and pulled into the Chicago Ridge Mall parking lot on the west side of Sears. He walked through the store and came out the east entrance. Continuing through the parking lot straight to the Cattle Company steakhouse, he took a seat at the sparsely filled bar and ordered a Perrier with a lemon wedge.
Bob strolled in several minutes later wearing a beat-up, pinstriped suit, a tight fitting Bruce Springsteen t-shirt barely covering his big belly, sandals and a Panama hat, hiding the top of his exaggerated mullet.
“That’s what I like about you, Bob, always inconspicuous.” Trick picked the lemon wedge off the napkin, squeezed it into his sparkling water and dropped it in.
“What’chu talkin’ ‘bout, Willis,” Bob chuckled, looking pleased with his own low-level wit. He pointed at Trick’s bandaged finger. “Talk about me bein’ conspicuous. What about you? Looks like you fingered a mummy.”
Trick swung his stool around and leaned back on his elbows. “So this guy, your other connection. You know him a long time?”
“Yeah, man. He’s big time. Doesn’t fool around with anything under a kilo.”
“I’m in the market for two kis.” Trick felt phantom pains from his missing fingertip and reached for his bottle of Vicodin. “Damn, I hate meeting new people. I need to know, one-hundred percent that this guy’s OK. Gotcha?”
The pretty, mid-twenties bartender put down the glass she was polishing, walked over to Bob and asked, “What can I get you?”
“Gimme a double Sambuca, neat, three beans. And bring me an order of mozzarella sticks, pronto. See this dollar?” Bob waved a bill in the air. “I got more of ‘em in my pocket for you little lady if you get that fried cheese out to me real quick.” Bob waited until she was out of range and continued, “This dude’s connected, man. That’s how he gets the deals.”
Trick turned around and poured the rest of his bottled water into the large glass of ice. “I especially don’t like getting too close to the Outfit.”
Bob stroked his scraggly black goatee. “Quit fuckin’ worryin’. He’s not a made-guy, he’s an associate. But in real tight with the big goombas.”
“What’s his name?” Trick washed down his first pain pill of the day.
The bartender placed a cocktail napkin in front of Bob and set his drink on it. “Your mozzarella sticks will be up soon. Anything else, guys?”
Bob shook his head and waited for the bartender to walk away. “Gene. I heard his real name’s Hale but he goes by Ciccone, Gene Ciccone. From around Midway.” He motioned northeast over his shoulder with his thumb. “Over by there.”
“Go ahead and get the ball rolling,” Trick said out of the side of his mouth, “then give me a call. Don’t say any more than you have to over the phone. Let’s set up the place to meet right now. Less said later the better.”
“He owns a piece of the Baccarat, you know, on 79th. Probably be OK if we meet there.”
“I know the place.” Trick poked at the floating lemon wedge with his straw. “Greeks, right?”
“Yeah, but Ciccone owns a piece off the books. Havin’ a silent partner with mob ties is good for biz. Less problems with deliveries, or yahoos comin’ in to make trouble. And God forbid someone tries to rob the joint. They’d hunt ‘em down and torture ‘em.”
The bartender returned with Bob’s order. “Was that quick enough for you?”
“Perfect.” Bob pushed his hat back, licked a five-dollar bill and stuck it to his forehead. “Go ahead, sweet teats, that’s all yours.”
She rolled her eyes and started walking away.
Bob called to her with the five still on his forehead, “Do these things have cholesterol?”
“I don’t … I can check for you.”
“That’s all right. I love cholesterol.” Bob turned his attention to Trick. “You know they put that stuff in food to make it taste good?”
Trick just shook his head.
“Wait, little lady,” Bob said loudly as the bill dropped from his head onto the bar. She walked back and he asked, “Do you ever wear panties with little ducks on ‘em?”
She dropped the practiced smile and put her hands on her hips. “What? That’s none of your business.”
“I was just wonderin’.” Bob wiggled his tongue at her. “Do you ever pet the ducks?”
“You jagoff.” She spun around and walked away.
“Why the fuck do you pull that shit?” Trick looked at Bob incredulously.
“What?” Bob chuckled and straightened up. “I’m just being friendly. Makin’ with the jib-jab. I like to brighten people’s day.”
“Do me a favor, don’t brighten mine.” Trick reached for a cheese stick. “I’ll try one of those.”
“Uh uh, wait.” Bob put his hands together in prayer. “Gotta say grace first.” Bob cleared his throat and called out, “Oh, Jesus. I’m so damn hungry and this bounteous meal smells heavenly. Can’t wait ta dig in. So, without further ado … uh … say hi to your dad. Amen.”
“What the hell kind of grace was that? You didn’t thank anyone, or humble yourself to God in any way.” Trick frowned, looking at Bob sideways. “Say hi to your dad?”
“He knows what’s in my heart.” Bob grabbed a mozzarella stick and dipped it in the marinara sauce. “Go ahead, dig in.”
“No, that’s OK. Knock yourself out. I’m out of here.” Trick swirled the ice in his Perrier then took a long sip. He looked around and said quietly, “When you give me the day over the phone, say it’s for the day after. I’ll know. Make the time two hours after the real time. If I’m not home, leave it on my answering machine.”
“I know the drill,” Bob said with a mouthful of food.
“First, I need a price. Second, it has to be pure. See what you can find out.”
“I’ll put my ear to the ground.”
“Good, good.” Trick stood to leave.
“Then I’ll get up, wash my ear off and make a couple phone calls.”
“Yeah, right. You do that, Bob.” Trick left enough cash to cover his drink plus a healthy tip for the bartender’s trouble. He glanced over at her and smiled but she shot him a dirty look.
Trick headed toward the exit and didn’t look back as Bob called out, “Later, tater!”
After making his rounds for the night, dropping off premeasured amounts of cocaine and collecting cash, Trick stopped for a drink at the Godfather Lounge on 111th Street. Sitting at the bar, memories of better days with Ginger and Pat from 1981 came flooding back. He ordered a second Chivas Regal and saw something that jolted him.
Chevy, dressed in an expensive looking suit and tie, walked in the door and straight up to Trick with a big grin on his smoothly shaved face. “How are ya, son?”
Trick’s face tightened into a squint. “What are you doing here?” he asked over the music and loud conversations coming from all around. “You following me?”
“Naw. Saw your car in the parking lot.” Chevy plopped into the seat to Trick’s left. “Thought I’d stop in and say hi.”
“You know what kind of car I got?” Trick noticed not only Chevy’s freshly cut and styled hair but his ample ear hair was neatly trimmed away.
“Sure. I know a lot about you. Been doin’ my homework.” Chevy patted Trick’s shoulder. “That’s a good thing. Right?”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s a little creepy to tell you the truth,” Trick answered, looking straight ahead. “You come here much?”
“I stop in once in a while when I’m in town. Come here to give these horny old divorcées a thrill up their thighs,” he said, throwing his head back in an open-mouth guffaw.
“Yeah, I bet,” Trick said, straight-faced. “That’s a nice suit. I know quality.”
Chevy nodded and placed clean, manicured fingers on Trick’s cash and pulled it closer. “Put your money away. It’s no good when I’m around. I’m loaded, kid.”
“You’re loaded? Why the dirty work clothes the other day? Krupnik’s Service Station?”
Chevy removed a metal tube from his inside suit coat pocket and unscrewed the top. “Oh, that’s just a hobby. Love foolin’ around with cars, especially Chevys.” He tapped a cigar from the tube. “I don’t need to work, but I think every man should have a livelihood. Shows character.”
“You not only look different, you sound … I don’t know, more polished or something.” Trick pushed an ashtray toward Chevy. “Who’s the real you?”
“I’m like a chameleon, boy. I become whatever I touch.” Chevy took a cigar cutter from another pocket and snipped the tip. “When I’m in Monte Carlo at the roulette tables, you’d think it was Sean Connery sittin’ there.” He pulled a silver lighter from yet another pocket and lit his cigar, turning it as he held the blue flame under it.
Trick read H. Upmann on Chevy’s cigar band and remembered it was the same brand JFK used to smoke. “So, how’d you make your dough?”
“After I got outta the army, I took a real estate class on the G.I. Bill.” Chevy blew a smoke ring that spread out, becoming larger and uneven as it headed in Trick’s direction. “Struggled at it for a while, then began movin’ some houses. Later, started pickin’ up some fixer-uppers. Eventually, I became a general contractor and built a lot of apartment buildings. I’m retired now at forty-nine. Live off the income from my properties.”
“Sounds great.” Trick patted the bar. “But, what’s this proof you have that says you’re my real dad?”
“Got all the paperwork in a safe deposit box in Indianapolis. Drivin’ out there in the morning to pick it up. Be back with it tomorrow night.” Chevy’s demeanor turned authoritative. “That soon enough for you?”
“Sure, sure,” Trick said, letting down his guard and actually feeling good about the situation. “I don’t know what to say. Just want to be sure, that’s all. Know what I mean?”
“Of course I do. You should be careful, especially ‘bout somethin’ important as this. I wouldn’t expect anything less, not from any kid I brought into the world.”
“All right,” Trick responded. Cigarette smoke hung in the air as the bar became more crowded while they talked. “Glad you understand.”
“Hope I’m not bein’ too nosy.” Chevy motioned toward Trick’s left hand. “What happened to your finger?”
“That’s a private matter, rather not talk about it. Not right now anyway.” Trick moved his conspicuous looking hand to his leg under the bar. “Let’s keep it light.”
A burly guy with a black handlebar moustache pushed his way between the two of them, put his cigarette out in Chevy’s ashtray, then disappeared back into the crowd without a word.
“Sure. I understand. You need a little time to get to know me.” Chevy tossed his cigar in the ashtray. “Hey. Let’s say we get outa here and go somewhere more private we can talk.”
Trick sat silent for several moments, then replied, “I suppose we could go back to my place.”
“Perfect.” Chevy rubbed his hands together. “How ‘bout I follow you over there?”
***
After a couple more drinks and conversation, Chevy said, “Thanks for lettin’ me stay over. No sense in goin’ back to the hotel tonight. I’ll head out early for Indianapolis, turn around and come right back with all the paperwork.”
“Why don’t you take my bed?” Trick stood and motioned toward the bedroom. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No, no, I insist. You sleep in your own bed. I’ll be just fine right here.” Chevy sat deep in the sofa with his stocking feet on the coffee table. “Besides, I get up real early. Like to go out for coffee. Then I’ll hit the road.”
“I’ve been running for a couple weeks with barely enough sleep. So, don’t wake me. Got a lot to do tomorrow.” Trick settled back on the lounger and finished his drink. “I can’t get over all this,” he said shaking his head. “Always wondered what my real dad would be like. And here you are sitting in my living room.”
“How ‘bout one more?” Chevy got up and took Trick’s glass from his hand. “You sit there and relax. I’ll get the next round.” Chevy returned from the kitchen a few minutes later and handed Trick a fresh drink and clinked glasses. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to get to know you. I want you to come out and visit me at my winter home in Malibu.”
Trick sipped his drink, listening to Chevy go on about a mint condition 1957 Bel Air he had back in California. His lids got heavy and Chevy’s face became dim as though dark clouds were rolling into his living room. Chevy’s mouth was moving but the words were muffled and seemed to be coming from a deep well. Trick fought to stay awake and tried to speak but couldn’t get his mouth to co-operate.
***
Trick shot up in bed from a bad dream, the same nightmare he had been having since he got out. In it, he was back in prison, in yet another confrontation or dangerous situation. He didn’t remember going to bed. His mind was foggy and he was fully dressed. Looking at his watch, 7:53 am, he realized he must have slept several hours straight, the most he had in the last couple weeks. Walking to the living room, he noticed the bathroom door was open. Chevy was already gone. He went back into the bedroom and pulled the mirror he rigged from the wall and put his hand through the hole, relieved to feel the pile of cash. He slid the bedroom closet door open and removed the shopping bag that contained his scale and cocaine. Everything seemed to be there, untouched.
Toweling off after his shower, Trick walked back into the bedroom to get dressed and noticed his keys and the watch his foster father gave him were gone from the nightstand next to his bed. His mind was still fuzzy and tried putting the pieces of the previous night together. Then he remembered the $33,000 he hid in the trunk of his car from last night’s collections. Zipping up his jeans, he felt the sting of cool, damp morning air on his bare chest as he hurried to his car, relieved at least to see the Lincoln still parked where he left it. The car was unlocked so he hit the trunk button and walked back to inspect it. Lifting the spare tire where he left the cash, he knew he had been had. Chevy wouldn’t be coming back; he got what he was looking for. The keys were in the trunk, the money was gone.
***
Trick removed the business card for Krupnik’s Service Station from his wallet, gulped some morning coffee and dialed the kitchen phone.
A bubbly female voice on the other end answered, “How can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for Stanley Krupnik. Chevy?”
“I can take a message.”
“Is this Krupnik’s?”
“No. This is his answering service.”
“Yeah, big fucking surprise.” Trick threw his coffee cup in the sink, shattering it. “Tell him Patrick Halloran called. Tell him … tell him I’ll see him.”
***
Trick drove to the Oak Forest address listed on the business card but noticed right away that the sign read Rizzo’s Service, not Krupnik’s. He got out of his car and started for the door when a lanky, Italian looking man walked out to meet him.
“I’m looking for Stanley Krupnik.” Trick approached across the gravel lot. “They call him Chevy?”
“Oh, that guy. If you’re looking for a car, he already pulled them off my lot.”
“He doesn’t own this place?” Trick held out the card Chevy had given him.
“Of course not. I let him park a few cars here on consignment.” The man scrunched up his face reading the card then pointed his thumb at his chest. “This is my place.”
Trick breathed in a combination of gasoline and decaying leaves from nearby Bachelor’s Grove Cemetery. “You know where I can find this thief?”
“Nope. He came by yesterday and pulled a Camaro off my lot, that was the last of them.” Rizzo motioned around the corner lot with a wrench in his hand.
“He leave you a number?”
“Sorry. Don’t really know much about the guy.” A customer pulled up to one of the Union 76 pumps. “Gotta get back to work, sport. If you need any service work done, let me know.”
“He give you a forwarding address, anything?”
“Nope.” Rizzo headed toward the pumps. “Can’t help you.”
Walking away, Trick crumbled the card in his fist. “First Joker, now Chevy,” he muttered.