SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense (3 page)

CHAPTER 3

Trick felt a chill as he walked into the Tinley Teacup restaurant at 159th and Harlem to pick up his son. He spotted little Pat sitting in a booth, drawing on the back of a paper placemat with an orange crayon.

“Mommy’s mad at you again. She said you were supposed to be here a half hour ago.”

Ginger shot Trick a perturbed look as she stood next to a table taking a late lunch order. He took a seat across from Pat and asked, “What’re you drawing, buddy?”

“This is Rambo. He’s beating up the bully at my school who makes fun of me. His daddy said you’re a bad egg.” Pat looked up. “Are you?”

“I’m trying, I’m trying. Don’t pay any attention to guys like that. Inside they’re not happy, so they want to make you unhappy too. Pat …”

Petros, the owner of the family style restaurant, strutted up and interrupted Trick’s train of thought when he blurted out, “So, how does it feel to be a free man again?”

“What does he mean, Daddy?” Pat stopped drawing and tilted his head. “Free?”

Trick looked up at Petros and shot back, “I’d appreciate a little discretion there,
malaka
.”

“You should leave Ginger alone. She don’t love you no more. You’re a good looking guy. Go find another girl.”

Trick fished a quarter out of his pocket and handed it to Pat. “Why don’t you go get yourself a prize?”

Pat took the coin, gave Trick a funny look, and walked to the hostess station where three vending machines stood; one with salted peanuts, one with gumballs, and one with little toys in clear plastic egg-like containers.

With Pat out of earshot, Trick turned his attention back to Petros, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’d do anything for my son. Even remarry Ginger and put up with her immature, selfish bullshit. As long as I’m with my boy … that’s all that matters to me.”

Stroking his thick black moustache with his thumb, Petros rebuked, “Look, my friend. After I marry Ginger, we let you see him a couple days, on weekends, so I can take Ginger to Greektown and show her off. Give her the things a lady like her deserves. I’m going to be raising Pat. I’ll see he gets everything he needs. Don’t worry, if you go back to prison, I’ll be there for him.”

“You know what I don’t like about you guys? You get set up in a restaurant by the Greek Syndicate and think the waitresses are your playthings. You think American girls are a bunch of whores you can impress with your little restaurants.” Trick laughed. “Big shots in a tiny little corner of the world.”

“You American men are so jealous of our success.” Petros smiled smugly. “Get used to it. Me and Ginger are going to have lots of kids, give Pat some brothers and sisters.”

“Yeah, well, let’s hope they don’t end up with your schnozzola.”

Ginger finished setting plates of Reuben, French Dip and Monte Cristo sandwiches in front of customers, then stomped up to Trick and Petros. She put her hands on her hips and demanded, “What’s going on over here?”

Standing and taking four hundred dollars from an inside pocket of his calfskin jacket, Trick tossed the folded bills on the table. “Here, this is for child support.”

“Where’d you get this?” With customers looking at each other, trying to hide their amusement, Ginger picked up the money and waved it in the air. “What’re you up to now? Huh?”

“Don’t worry about it. Damn … you complain if I don’t have it and complain if I do.”

Pat crept up unnoticed and asked, “How come everyone’s yelling?”

“We’re not yelling, Pat,” Trick said, taking his hand. “This is what’s known as a spirited discussion.”

Walking toward the entrance with Pat in tow and bumping shoulders with a Tinley Park Police officer entering the restaurant, Trick looked back at Petros. “You want her, you got her. She’s your problem now.”

Petros grabbed the officer by the arm as they both watched Trick storm out. “He’s a drug dealer. You should keep an eye on this one, my friend.”

CHAPTER 4

Trick had a bad feeling walking into Concord Nursing Home. Was Richie really here? It didn’t seem right.

“Can I help you?” asked the chubby young lady, seated behind the open sliding glass window.

“Yeah, Richard Caponigro. He here?”

“Let’s see.” Her long purple fingernails flipped through a large notebook. “Room 218 West.”

The expansive day room, trimmed in log cabin motif, was sparsely filled with bouquets of silver hair scattered here and there. A young man, dressed in a barbershop quartet outfit, jubilantly played the piano in a corner, singing
Oklahoma!
to the few that noticed. One octogenarian gentleman with a pencil thin moustache and a white, well-worn navy hat tapped his foot in time. As Trick turned the corner and proceeded to the west wing, he felt nauseous from the smell of urine and feces while patients cried mournfully for help. Through open doors he viewed the living dead, on their backs, waiting to go on to their husbands and wives who already left the material world. Some not even aware of where they were or who they were, with open mouths and thin skin barely covering ancient bones that looked as though they were trying to make a break for it. Others sat in wheelchairs in the hallway nodding and saying hello, studying, as though they knew you somehow.

“You said you were going to take me out for steak and a glass of whiskey.” A frail black female patient with wiry white hair chastised him. “Come back here, Joe,” she called after Trick, who just smiled and winked.

Locating the even numbers to his left, Trick counted them off in his head, “212 … 214 … 216 …” The wide wooden door to 218 was partially closed so he slowly swung it open. On the first of the two small beds lay an obese man who seemed to be staring past the ceiling to a land above. The second bed was empty but in a wheelchair looking out the window sat another elderly looking man. As Trick moved closer, he could make out the profile of someone from his near past. Was this Richie’s father, Angie?

“Richie?”

The unshaven, thick-skinned man turned from the light of late afternoon sun and looked Trick in the eye. “Hey, man. I know you.”

The voice was raspy like Richie’s dad, a low level Outfit guy whose specialty was break and entry jobs, but it was unmistakably Richie.

“How you doing? I thought it was your father sitting there for a minute.”

“Trick, man. These fuckheads round here don’t know their ass from apple shit. You remember I was on the moon?”

“The moon?”

“Yeah, that orderly, Tyrone, just left here. Tellin’ me I’m crazy. He’s fuckin’ crazy.”

“What’s this about the moon?”

“Yeah, they sent me up there in a rocket. You don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that?”

Trick just looked at Richie incredulously while he continued, “You know the moon doesn’t spin around. You should see the Earth from up there … beautiful … clouds and shit.”

Trick sat on the edge of Richie’s bed and spun the wheelchair around so they were face to face. “Who sent you to the moon?”

“The Marines.”

“You were never in the service. What year did they send you to the moon?”

Richie’s eyes glassed over.

Trick leaned forward on the bed. “What happened to my money? I gave you thirty grand for a kilo, then they revoked my bond. You got the kilo or the cash stashed somewhere?”

“When they sent me to the moon it was top secret shit. That’s why it isn’t in the record books.”

“Richie … my dough. You owe me thirty Gs. What did you do with it?”

“Oh wow, man. That’s right, you’re undercover … FBI. I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout that shit. Remember I was heavyweight champ? Only one I couldn’t beat was Ali. He broke my nose so bad the doctors said I couldn’t fight anymore. Might kill me.”

“You goofy goombah, I only remember you getting in one fight in your life. We were in eighth grade and Pete Ryan kicked your ass. Yeah, bang zoom, to the moon. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I boxed under a different name. Look it up in the library.”

“Richie, look at me. You never did any of those things. You dropped out of high school in our sophomore year, the oldest one in our class. First time you got locked up was 1974. You’ve been a car thief and drug dealer all your miserable life. In and out of the hospital and rehab.”

“I beat George Foreman. His arms were so big he couldn’t hold ‘em up the last few rounds.”

“Look in the damn mirror.” Trick stood over Richie, raising his voice, “You’re five-foot-seven, never weighed more than one-sixty in your life.” Trick grabbed Richie by the lapels of his robe and shook him. “Tell me where my stuff is!”

“Let go of me.” Richie looked away and whimpered, “I want some ice cream.”

As Trick walked out of the room, Richie yelled after him, “I walked on the moon! I brought back rocks! They sent me up there when I was a detective with the Chicago Police!”

Trick walked to the nurse’s station and asked a doctor of Asian descent who didn’t look up when he asked, “What’s the matter with Richard Caponigro? He faking it?”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, then looked up from her paperwork. “Mr. Caponigro has been diagnosed with the early onset of dementia. Usually doesn’t know what year it is or even how old he is. He struggles to remember his brothers’ names, although he usually recognizes people when he sees them.”

“He was talking goofy, about being on the moon and stuff.”

“It’s not unusual for patients with dementia to have false memories, to imagine their lives more interesting than the ones they’ve lived.”

“He’s only 33 … what happened to him?”

“It could be one thing or many things, drugs and alcohol … particularly cocaine … staying up for days on end without sleep. Chronic dehydration can do irreparable harm to the brain. There is so much we don’t know about the human mind. He might have been genetically predisposed to it.”

“Do any of these people with dementia ever get better, remember their real lives … important things?”

“They rarely, if ever, get better. It’s a downhill slide. Once in a while there might be a small flash of cognizance.”

“You never know when though?”

“Exactly.”

“Thanks for your help,” Trick said as he turned to leave. Under his breath remarking, “Time to get a job.”

CHAPTER 5

“Patrick,” General Manager Nick Notara called out, motioning with his hand. “Have a seat.” He looked up from Trick’s application. “So, you know Jay. He told me you’d be by.”

“Yeah, we go back a long way.” Trick folded and unfolded his hands. “Said you could use a salesman.”

“You sell cars before?”

Trick shifted on the hard, molded-plastic chair, searching for a comfortable position. “No, I haven’t.”

“Good, I don’t like unteaching bad sales habits. Ever done sales at all?”

“Well … I sold stuff but basically it sold itself.” Trick shifted again. “Just a matter of supply and demand.”

“Jay filled me in.” Nick peered at Trick over black, half-frame glasses. “When did you get out?”

“Two days ago.” Trick felt pained answering personal questions and realized it was the first time he applied for a job in close to eight years.

“I don’t need guys walking around here high. You have to be sharp, on your toes to do this kind of work.”

“Jay didn’t tell you? I never used drugs, just sold them.” Trick waved his hand to the side. “I’m through with all that. I lost three years of my life, even more when you consider the hell you go through fighting a case. Knowing that you’re probably going away, having that hanging over your head. It’s rough. I’m not going back to selling drugs or prison. Just want to work and get back on my feet.”

Nick leaned back in his chair, folded dark hairy knuckles over his ample belly and studied Trick. “Where do you see yourself five years from now?”

Trick looked away, studied one of the older salesmen sitting at a desk with his head resting on his hands, dozing. “Five years. I … I don’t know. I’m just worried about right now, making money, paying the bills. The things I need to accomplish have to happen sooner than five years. The only thing I really care about is my son Pat. I just want a normal life with him. I want to see him every day, watch him grow up. I heard that some guys make over a hundred grand a year selling cars.”

“Let’s hope you’re one of them.” Nick let out a long belch and patted his belly. “Got to cut down on those onion rings. Patrick, a lot of guys and gals come and go in this business. Not as easy as it appears. Maybe one in twenty make the big bucks.”

“I’ll be one of the money guys. I’ve got to.” Trick let out a nervous sigh and looked up at the ceiling. “Not sure where else to turn.”

“OK, Patrick, I’ll give you a chance. You’ll start out getting a draw against commissions. Come in tomorrow at 8:30. We go on the floor at 9:00 but we have a sales meeting every morning. Be on time. If you’re running late, don’t bother to come in at all.”

“Gotcha,” Trick said, jumping up from the chair and extending his hand.

“You don’t need to tell anyone you were incarcerated.” Nick looked at Trick’s hand and paused before shaking it. “Don’t need to offer any information that might reflect badly on William Buick.”

Trick walked out into the cool evening air and looked west to see the sun setting next to the Oak Lawn Water Tower. He got in his car and headed east on 95th Street, turning up the radio to drown out his stomach calling to be fed. He made his way through the multitude of traffic lights to Palermo’s restaurant. Finding a spot in the rear parking lot, Trick’s mouth watered from the aroma of freshly baking pizzas as he walked around to the front entrance. There were only a couple people at the bar so he took a stool and leaned back into the tufted leather, happy to see a familiar face.

“Trick. Oh my God. It’s good to see you.” Dotti, the bartender, reached across the bar grabbing his hand.

“Good to see you too.” Trick stared into Dotti’s eyes and smiled. “Still beautiful as ever.”

“Thank you, Sweetie. When did you get out?”

“Just a couple days ago.” Trick sighed and looked around. “You know, I came here the night before my sentencing. Got loaded on Bailey and Stoli. Knew it would be a long time before I had another drink.”

“I bet the first thing you did was go see your son. How is little Pat?”

“He’s great, but it’s awkward. When I left, he was two years old. I doubt that he can remember much, if anything, from that age. I’m this guy who called him on the phone once a week.”

“It’ll work out, give it time. Can I get you anything?”

“Johnnie Walker Black, on the rocks. Make it a double.”

Dotti set Trick’s Scotch on a cocktail napkin but couldn’t ignore the harsh stares she was getting from her manager, Tony. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” Trick turned to see Tony talking animatedly with his hands but couldn’t make out what was being said. She returned flustered. “Tony wants to know what you’re doing here.”

“I came to get dinner.” Trick put his palms out and shook his head. “Why don’t you put in an order of spaghetti and meatballs. I’m starving.”

Savoring his Scotch, Trick remarked, “You know, Cesar Romero sat in this very seat. He was performing down the street at Drury Lane. I was having lunch here about ten years ago and he was sitting right in this spot.”

After a little small talk, a waitress put a hand on Trick’s back and pressed her breasts into his arm as she set a steaming plate of spaghetti in front of him.

“That was quick. Thank you,” Trick said, as he slipped a five-dollar-bill into the waitress’ hand.

Trick was twirling his first forkful of spaghetti when Tony walked up next to him brandishing a butcher knife. “My nephew died from that poison you sell.”

“I don’t sell drugs anymore.” Trick put his fork down and turned in his seat to face Tony. “I did my time, paid my debt.”

Tony waved the knife toward Trick’s face. “You pushers should get life for bringing drugs into our neighborhoods.”

“I’m sorry,” Dotti said, as Tony stormed off red-faced.

Unable to eat, Trick pushed his plate away. “How much do I owe you?”

“This is on Tony. He told me to tell you not to come back. He doesn’t want your business.”