SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense (2 page)

CHAPTER 1

The fragrance of the red maple leaves swirling lightly around Trick in the Indian summer breeze overwhelmed him and triggered something in his 31-year-old mind. Youthful nostalgia and lost innocence competed with the sadness that became his unwelcomed everyday companion. It was great to be a free man again but he still had serious problems to deal with.

Walking up the sidewalk to his ex-wife’s apartment, Trick wondered how his five-and-a-half-year-old son would react to seeing him again. November 3, 1982, a date he hated remembering. The look on little Pat’s face when Trick told his son he wouldn’t be seeing him for a long time haunted him every day he was away. Once a week, Ginger allowed him a two-minute collect call with Pat while he was locked up. It had been two years, eleven months and four days since they last saw one another. He thought he had it all back then, a pretty wife, a beautiful little boy and a legitimate business. Attempting to phase out of drug dealing and into the straight world. Straight downhill is what it was. Why was it he always did so well breaking the law but fell flat on his face in the legit world?

After getting buzzed in, Trick bound up the steps to the second-story apartment. The heavy wooden door opened slowly. “Well, look at this. The absentee father’s returned,” Ginger said as he walked in. “I want Patrick home by 8:00. That gives you less than three hours.”

“After all this time, that’s what you want to say to me?”

With little Pat standing behind his mother, clinging to her leg, Ginger rolled her eyes. “Don’t get on my case.”

Trick self-consciously ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, how do I look?”

“You fishing for compliments? OK, you look good … lost that boyish look. Prison agrees with you.”

“Ixnay on the isonpray,” Trick said, shooting Ginger a stern look.

“Oh, that’s right. You were in college,” Ginger fired back in a sarcastic tone.

Pat peeked around to look at his father, then retreated from view. Trick got down on one knee and said, “Hi, Pat. Let me get a good look at you.”

“Go on. Say hi to your father,” Ginger coaxed flatly.

“Hi, Daddy.” Little Pat looked at the floor, rocking from one foot to another as he held his cloth Spiderman doll tight to his chest.

“Want to go to Bengtson’s Farm and pick out a pumpkin for Mommy?”

Pat looked to his mother with questioning eyes, then hesitantly asked Trick, “Can I bring Spidey?”

“Yeah, you can bring Spiderman. He can help us find a good one.” Trick reached out and pulled his blond, blue-eyed boy into his arms and felt the child’s body stiffen. “I missed you so much, Pat. I thought about you every day.”

“Well?” With one hand on her hip, Ginger cocked her head with an impatient look on her pretty but overly made up face. “Money? That $5,000 you gave me before you went away didn’t last that long, you know.”

Trick looked Pat in the eye and said, “Why don’t you go wash your hands … or something. We’ll get going in a minute.” As Pat scampered off, Trick stood and turned his attention back to Ginger. “I hope you know that five grand was the last of my cash.” Trick reached in his pocket. “Look, I’ve only got $125 on me right now but Reggie owes me and he’s good for it. I’ll have more in a couple days.” He studied Ginger’s face in the late afternoon sun that filtered through the swaying branches from the picture window. “You look tired.”

“Well, thanks to you, I’m back at the Tinley Teacup. Never thought I’d still be waitressing at 29. You can pick Pat up there Thursday if you have my money.”

Trick glanced around the living room trying to locate the aroma that kept pulling him back in time a few years, then spotted the bowl of potpourri on Ginger’s coffee table. “I’ve got something big in the works. If my ship comes in, you can get off your feet again. Maybe set you up in your own place … a little coffee shop or something.”

“Oh God, here we go again.” Ginger shook her head. Bleach blonde hair danced on her shoulders as she smirked. “You and your big plans. Now that you’re out, why don’t you just get a job like everyone else and quit hustling?”

“Yeah, doing what? I don’t have any practical experience. I’m used to being my own boss and not everyone wants to hire an ex-con.”

Ginger sighed as she turned to look out the living room window at the fading leaves on the trees.

“If I get back on my feet, I’d like to take you out to dinner,” Trick continued. “Circumstances could change overnight.”

“I don’t think Petros would like me going to dinner with my ex-husband,” Ginger said, walking to the living room closet to get Pat’s jacket.

“You kidding me? Pickle Nose? You can’t be serious.”

“At least he has a successful business … a legal one.”

“He also has two ex-wives.” Trick stepped closer and tilted his head to catch her gaze. “I’d like to talk about getting back together. I never wanted a divorce and I sure don’t want to be a weekend father. If I wasn’t locked up at the time …”

Pat eased back into the living room like a cat creeping along the back of a sofa. Ginger waved Pat closer and helped him on with his cowboy jacket, “Getting back together just so you can see your son more often is not on my agenda. Your three hours with Patrick is now two hours and forty-three minutes. I suggest you get going.”

Trick surprised his son when he scooped him up in his arms. He started for the door, hesitated and turned to Ginger. “You lost a lot of weight. What are you on, the Karen Carpenter diet?”

“I’m fine … just working too much. I need a good long rest. Just get going, please.”

As Trick drove the twelve miles to the pumpkin farm with Pat, an uneasy feeling hung in the car like a heavy fog stalled over Lake Michigan. Trick turned off the radio when he heard Paul Young singing,
I’m Gonna Tear Your Playhouse Down
. “How are you, Pat?”

Pat sat silent for a moment, then held his Spiderman doll out in front of him and seemed to speak to it. “I don’t remember you.”

“Pat, we talked on the phone every week.”

“I looked at your pictures in Mommy’s album. But I don’t remember you being my daddy.”

“We’ll change that.” Trick slowed down when he noticed a young doe standing by the side of the road. “We’re going to get to know each other all over again.”

“My friend Will has a daddy. He reads him a story every night.”

Trick put his window up as the warmth of October seventh cooled into early evening. “I might not be able to read you bedtime stories but you’re going to see a lot of me from now on.”

Pat finally turned to look at his father and shrugged. “How do I know you’re not going to leave me again?”

Trick reached over, took Pat’s hand and was taken aback by the softness of his skin, the delicacy in his care. He thought of when he was Pat’s age, how he grew up being bounced from one foster home to another, not receiving much that could pass for love and caring. “That little shit will eat you out of house and home,” he recalled one of his foster fathers telling his wife. He remembered the way the older biological sons of another family tormented him mercilessly behind their parents’ back.

Trick gently rubbed Pat’s hand and said, “I promise I’ll never leave you again. You can trust me, Pat. I love you more than anything in the whole world … anything.” He pulled a folded white handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to Pat. “Here, dry your eyes. We’re going to have fun tonight. No more tears. OK?”

“OK, Daddy.” Pat broke into an unexpected giggle and more tears streamed down his face.

***

While walking through the pumpkin patch and going on a hayride with Pat, Trick struggled to make conversation. His son, whom he treasured more than anything else in life, was solemn and quiet the whole evening. On the way back home, Trick realized it would take more time than he thought to re-establish a close relationship with his son. He dropped Pat off at Ginger’s living room door with the large pumpkin they picked out together along with a small one just for him.

Getting back in his car with that final clang of steel gates still echoing in his mind from earlier that day, he had the urge to hit a bar, have a drink and talk to a pretty lady on his first night of freedom. But knew he had better get going to his destination before it got too late.

CHAPTER 2

Trick pulled into the parking lot of Reggie’s condo. He nosed into a spot under an ancient cottonwood tree, got out and looked up to see a crow fly across the moon.

“Trick,” a gravelly, nasal voice called out making him flinch. “You duckin’ me?”

He turned to see Eddie Starnes walking up with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand, his muscle, Moogie, right beside him.

“No, of course not,” Trick replied, backing up against his driver’s side door to keep Moogie from circling behind. “I had every intention of coming to see you. Just got out today … wanted to get my ducks in a row first.”

Starnes walked up nearly toe to toe with Trick. “Well, you got my $60,000?”

“I’m working on it,” Trick said, feeling a cold breeze sting the back of his neck. “I’ve got a couple of irons in the fire. Just need a little time.”

“Time? I been waitin’ for three years. You’re lucky I’m not chargin’ interest.”

“Hey, come on,” Trick said, pulling his face back from Starnes’ whiskey breath. “I was locked up. What the hell do you expect?”

“I expect you to come up with my money. I don’t care how you do it. Go rob a fuckin’ bank. But you will cough up some coin. Otherwise you’ll find your son’s head on the front porch with the mornin’ paper.”

Trick grabbed Starnes by the lapels of his motorcycle jacket. “You mother fucker, don’t ever threaten my son’s life again.” His voice raspy from dryness, Trick managed, “If anything ever happens to him I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

Trick heard Moogie’s .45 caliber revolver click next to his head. “Just come up with the dough.” Starnes shoved a fist into Trick’s chest. “I could hurt you in ways you couldn’t imagine. Never see it comin’, boy.”

With the exception of Moogie’s asthmatic breathing, they stood in silence, glaring at one another. After a few moments, Moogie tailed Starnes back to his pickup truck and they drove away. Leaning against his 1979 Lincoln Continental, Trick took a few deep breaths in an effort to compose himself. It was one of those times when an unfiltered Old Gold would taste great again.

He walked to the entrance he remembered so well and pushed the lighted button next to the name LeChat. A hand pulled a curtain aside and a familiar ebony face peered at him. The annoying sound of the buzzer unlocked the door, giving Trick entrance to days gone by.

“Look atcha, man. Put on some size while you were in da house. Been hittin’ dat iron, boy. Face looks different too … became a man while you were gone.”

“Hey, Junebug, it’s been a while. Yeah, I’m not the same person.” Trick shook Reggie’s hand and glanced around the first floor condo. “I appreciate you letting me bum here.”

“S’ok, man.” Reggie’s tone changed as he dropped the street dialect. “It’ll be good havin’ someone here keepin’ an eye on things while I’m gone.”

“Yeah,” Trick said, changing the subject. “I just had a run in with Starnes and that neanderthal, Moogie, out in your parking lot. Got any idea how he knew I’d be here?”

“Who me? No. How would I know? Must have heard you were out, I guess. Maybe tailin’ you.”

Trick tried to lock eyes with Reggie, who looked away with a wave of his arms and said, “Well, what do you think?”

“Place looks good … new couch, bigger TV.” Trick breathed in a combination of incense and lemon-scented Pledge. “A fishing boat, huh?”

“Yep, north to Alaska. Ten Gs for three months. Can’t spend any of it either. You’re on a boat the whole time. Work your ass off. Come back with some of that mean green. You know what they say, money talks.”

With deadpan delivery, Trick answered back, “Well, all it ever said to me was goodbye.”

Reggie chuckled and shook his head. “Why doncha sign up for the fishin’ boat? They’re always lookin’ for guys.”

“I’ve been away from my son way too long. I need to make up for lost time.” Trick looked at his gold Omega watch, wondering what it would bring at a pawnshop. “Ten grand wouldn’t solve my problems anyway.”

“Gotcha. Sit down, make yourself at home.” Reggie spread his palms out. “It will be for the next few months. Wanna beer?”

“Hell yeah, I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in almost three years. Well, except for some homemade hooch over in Cook County on Thanksgiving a couple years ago.”

Reggie walked into the kitchen and returned with two open bottles of beer. He handed one to Trick, and said, “Gentlemen, start your livers,” before settling into a velour recliner.

Trick took a big gulp of cold Michelob, wiped his sandy-brown moustache with his thumb and said, “Damn that tastes good.” He let out a long sigh. “I’m going to give my parole officer your address as my residence.”

“Why not? S’ok with me.”

“So, you’re out of the business?” Trick picked up a copy of
Penthouse
from the coffee table and thumbed through a layout with nude photos of Madonna.

“Yeah. After you got popped, then Mossimo, then Herbie. I knew what time it was.”

“Don’t blame you,” Trick said, settling back on the couch. “It’s not the same out there. Guys rolling over on each other left and right. No honor left.”

“What was it like? I was only in jail once, for a few hours in Chicago lockup. I can’t imagine. What did you do, like, three years?”

“Just about,” Trick said, pulling at a loose edge of the gold Michelob label. “Prison is not what you think. Not like the movies, TV shows. Hollywood writers need to make their stories interesting so there’s all this shit about guys getting shanked or raped every day. It’s not like that. What it is … is boring. Every day’s like the last. Once in a while there’s a fight. No big deal.”

“Anybody ever try anything funny with you? You know.”

“No, man. No. You got to understand.” Trick paused, running his fingertips over the rough synthetic sofa fabric. “Men don’t suddenly turn queer because they have a set of bars in front of them. If a guy’s got a proclivity toward men on the outside, he’ll have it on the inside. The ones that do get reamed are usually just the punks, guys who want it. They get passed around. I don’t care if I was locked up for the rest of my life; I’m not going down that road.”

Reggie shook his head. “Hope I never have to find out.”

“You’d do OK.” Trick held his beer bottle up to the light, watching bubbles race to the top as he chose his words. “I didn’t have much trouble. A couple of little scrapes. Most of those thugs didn’t want to mess with me. They saw me jogging the yard in ninety-degree weather, hitting the weights every day, doing handstand pushups against the wall … Enough about prison, talking about it is almost as boring as being there. I’m out and I’m not going back. I’m through dealing too.”

“Gonna get a straight job? Won’t be easy for you. Gettin’ by from week to week. You were up there. How much were you makin’?”

“For a while there, for over a year, I was pulling in at least ten a week.”

Reggie’s eyes popped open, “G’s?”

“Yeah. It was a lot of fun. Taking Ginger to all the five-star restaurants downtown, shopping on the Magnificent Mile. I dropped over ten grand on clothes one week.”

“Yeah, but, where’s all that scratch now?”

“The money’s gone, all of it. What the cops didn’t confiscate I spent on lawyers and appeals. I’d have been better off just copping a plea. Would have got out sooner and saved a lot of dough.”

“Speakin’ of money. You got the run of my condo the next three months and we forget about the $2,500 I owe you. Right?”

“That’s a little steep. Let’s say we knock $1,800 off the balance for rent. I’m going to need a little operating capital. Ginger’s already leaning on me for child support.”

“I got a thousand. How ‘bout I give you half?” Reggie stood and opened his wallet. He flipped through a stack of bills, counted and held some out toward Trick. “I’m gonna need a little foldin’ money for the trip to Alaska in the mornin’.”

“Yeah, that’s cool … for now.” Trick took a swig of cold brew and asked, “What’s going on with Richie?”

“Rich Quigley?”

“No, man. You know, Richie C.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen that guy around in a couple years.”

Trick leaned forward, setting his empty beer bottle on a Year of the Ox coaster. “Ask around about him, will you? Me and Richie were doing a few things together before they revoked my bond. Gave him the last of my dough for a kilo. Expected that jamoke to get a hold of me. I’m not only broke, I’m deep in debt.”

“You just said you were through dealin’. What’s with that?”

“I am. But if I can get my hands on that one kilo and sell it, I can pay off Starnes and have enough cash to get back on my feet.”

“Let me make a couple calls.” Reggie stood and grabbed Trick’s empty bottle, “Want another beer?”

Trick nodded, then looked at the television that had the volume turned down. A big handsome lug with a full moustache grinned at the camera then pulled away in a red Ferrari. He listened as Reggie made calls from the kitchen telephone.

A few minutes later, Reggie walked back into the living room with another beer for Trick. “He’s in Concord.”

“Concord? On 95th? Son-of-a-bitch.”