by LOU HOLLY
“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.”
CHAPTER 6
Trick glanced at the dashboard clock, 8:29 AM. He fumbled with his tie, got out of his Lincoln and looked down. He tied it too short but there was no time to adjust it so he buttoned the top button of his old Armani sport coat and hustled to the back door of the dealership in the fog and cool morning drizzle. He cut through the service department, stepping over oil patches.
Nick Notara shot a stern look toward Trick, who walked in trying to look inconspicuous and blend in with the other salesmen seated at desks and standing around. He continued talking to the sales team, “One thing I do not tolerate is tardiness. If I say to be here at 8:30, I expect you to be here at 8:15, get your coffee and be ready to learn something,” Nick continued, glancing at Trick. “Anyone here think they know everything there is about selling cars? Anyone think they know more than me?”
Trick kept his mouth shut as he stood in the back, nowhere to sit, and watched the other salesmen glancing at each other uncomfortably. While Nick continued berating the group of sixteen men who ranged from their early 20s to their late 50s, Trick leaned against a 1986 Park Avenue, surrounded by the smell of new cars, fresh tires and cheap carpeting. He tried his best to absorb the non-stop diatribe of the general manager but his mind kept wandering back to the early 1980s, when he had “fuck you” money. When he was married and would come home to a hot meal and play with baby Pat. The spell was broken after the sales meeting when a pudgy, fair skinned, rosy cheeked guy about his age appeared in front of him. “Hi my name’s Steve Zajaczkowski. Most people can’t pronounce it.” He extended his hand and gave Trick an enthusiastic salesman handshake. “Just call me Stevie Z.”
“Name’s Patrick Halloran. People call me Trick. Round here, probably better if we stick with Pat.”
“Follow me, Pat.” Steve walked ahead and motioned with his hand. “Looks like we’ll be sharing a desk. I’ll squeeze the rest of my stuff into these two drawers and you can have these two. OK?”
Trick watched as Steve knelt down and began moving an extensive filing system from one drawer to another. “You’re gonna need copies of all this stuff for your own system. You don’t want to go around looking for paperwork when you got a customer hot to sign. Don’t want to give them a chance to think about what they’re doing. Might change their mind, just like that.” Steve snapped his fingers for emphasis. “Car sales have a lot more to do with impulse and emotions than logic.”
“I’ll remember that.” Trick sat on the edge of the desk. “How long you been here?”
“Just started last week. I’ve made the rounds. This is my seventh dealership in the last few years.” Steve’s expression changed from his polished salesman smile to one of dread. “Oh shit, here comes Wickerstock. He’s our sales manager. Seems I’m his whipping boy around here.”
Todd Wickerstock walked up and looked down on Steve with an expression that was a cross between amusement and disgust. “Z, get up off your knees. What are you doing down there?”
“I … I’m making room for Patrick. You said we had to share this desk.”
“You look like you want to blow someone. Stand up like a man and put these flyers under the windshields of all the new Buicks out there.”
“Well … yeah but, if I’m out doing that I’ll be missing ups. I can’t sell anything if I’m fiddling with those things.”
“Oh, you’re too good for this? Everyone’s got to pitch in around here. You want to handle the flyers or pack your shit up and hit the road?”
“Well, I mean, if everyone has to do it … I guess I don’t mind.”
Wickerstock held out a stack of pink flyers with black lettering and said, “Right now would be good.”
“Guess I’ll finish organizing later.” Steve’s pale face turned red with embarrassment as Wickerstock walked out of earshot. “Wish I had the balls to flatten that asshole.” Steve looked at the floor and shook his head. “Who am I kidding? He’d whip my ass. Heard he played left guard at Purdue.”
***
Trick hesitantly knocked on the aluminum screen door a second time. A petite Filipino woman with straight, black hair, opened the faded, wood-paneled door.
“What you wanted?” Her facial expression looked as though she had just sucked a lemon.
“I’m looking for Charles Brummerstedt. Does he still live here?”
“Yes.” She spoke as though Trick might be half-deaf. “Mr. Charlie listen to radio program.”
“Could you tell him Patrick Halloran is here to see him?”
“OK, wait on porch, you,” she said, then slammed the door.
Trick turned to look at the towering, cottonwood tree in the front yard. The rope he tied to a high bran
ch his first summer there when he was thirteen was weather-worn but still hanging there. The same rope he would climb up and down over his teen years, hand over hand, attempting to develop his physique.
The door opened again and the round faced woman said, “You no stand on porch now, you walk in door.”
She led Trick to the family room at the rear of the house where he was surprised to find his former foster father in a wheelchair, shocked at how Charles had aged since he last saw him. “Hi, Pop.” Trick breathed in stale air that seemed to have aged with the house.
After adjusting false teeth that were too big for his shrinking gums, Charles replied. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
The Filipino woman pointed a finger at her chest and said, “No. Me no drag cat.”
Charles gave her that look, the one Trick used to hate being on the receiving end of. “Why don’t you go clean something and give me time to talk to this prodigal son-of-a-gun.”
Trick smiled. “See you haven’t lost your charm.”
“You come here to be a wise acre?” Charles aimed a crooked finger from a hand that shook with palsy. “I don’t need none of that sass talk.”
“No. Just kidding, really.” Trick sat on a doily covered arm of a vintage Herculon sofa. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“Well, how does it look like I’m doing? I’m 79 years old and stuck in this wheelchair.”
“How is Martha?” Trick’s words caught in his throat. “Is she …?”