by LOU HOLLY
“Martha died a year-and-a-half ago, while you were in the hoosegow.”
Trick’s face dropped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You should be sorry. She washed your clothes, cooked your meals, treated you like her own flesh and blood. Only to have you take off once you turned 18, with hardly a word.”
“I appreciated everything she did for me. I just couldn’t stay here any longer.” Trick noticed the cocky, smirking photo of himself when he was 15 on the mantel over the fireplace, still sitting in the same spot. It seemed to mock him, reminding him that he thought he knew it all back then. Maybe he didn’t know as much as he thought he did now at 31. “This is your house. Always felt like I was living in your house, eating your food, breathing your air.”
Charles wrung his veiny hands. “Being a foster parent wasn’t what I thought it would be.”
“Why did you take me in?” Trick stood, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked a small circle on a worn area rug. “Never could figure it out.”
Charles looked out the rear bay window at a gnarled tree with a few stubborn leaves that clung to the branches. He seemed to drop his hands on soup-stained, gray work pants in defeat. “Martha couldn’t have any more children after Joanne was born. And then she grows up and goes off to that fancy college where they filled her head with a bunch of communist notions. That’s when we brought you into our home. I always wanted a son. But you were so damn bullheaded. Mister Independent, didn’t trust no one. Always hated authority.”
“I give you and Martha credit for your efforts, but I never asked for much. I was always working.”
“Yeah, and always getting fired. Wouldn’t listen to no one. Always knew better, so you thought.” Charles shook his head. “Even got kicked out of the Marines.”
“Well, I’m working again … wanted to wait until I had a good job before I came to see you.”
“That won’t last long,” Charles said. “Probably get mad and punch your boss on the nose.”
“No. I’m trying real hard, for my son.”
“Did you ever think maybe me and Martha would have liked to see your boy? No. You were too busy running round with that waitress you married. Too busy to come by and see us old people. Maybe thought you got too good for us. Big shot with a lot of blood money.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know … didn’t think.”
“See you still got that gold watch I gave you on your eighteenth birthday, right before you disappeared. That’s not plated you know, it’s the real thing. Railroad gave it to me after 44 years of dedicated service. Never did like wearing no watch no how.”
Trick looked at the wristwatch. It always amazed him that Charles gave him something so nice. He never bought Trick new clothes, only passable ones from the second hand store. The bicycle he gave Trick on his fourteenth birthday was an old one that someone in the neighborhood left out on the curb for the garbage truck to pick up. He thought of the inscription Charles added on the back plate of the watch. To Patrick, May you always obey the Golden Rule, Pop.
“What can I bring you next time I come? You still like those butter pecan coffee cakes?”
“You don’t have to bring me nothing. It would be better if you didn’t come back at all. You know how embarrassing it is to have all the neighbors know you’re a jailbird? All looking at me. I know what they’re thinking … I didn’t do a good enough job raising you. No, boy. Just stay away. Let this old man shrivel up and die. Can’t come soon enough for me. Just want to go be with my Martha again.” Charles looked away.
“OK, Pop. I won’t bother you again. Just want to say thank you … for everything.” Trick walked closer and extended his hand but Charles didn’t seem to notice. A tear slowly made its way down one of the deep lines in Charles’ gaunt face. Trick pulled his hand back, then walked slowly through the old house one more time, drinking in as much as possible.
CHAPTER 7
Within earshot of the desk he shared with Steve, Trick rested against a brand new LeSabre that reflected the high overhead lighting on the red enamel. He could tell by the body language of Todd Wickerstock walking toward Steve Z that something was up.
“Z,” Wickerstock blurted out, looking down on Steve, who was sitting at his desk working on his follow-up list. “William Buick has decided that it would be best served if we had a parting of the ways. Pack up your things and be out of here as quick as you can.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. I’m a good salesman,” Steve pleaded. “I’ve got deals in the works. Customers are coming back to see me.”
“Oh, that’s no problem.” Wickerstock smirked in his annoying smug way. “We’ll take care of your people.”
After Wickerstock was back in his office, Trick approached Steve. “Hey, man. That’s a bum deal. You’re so knowledgeable about car sales. You don’t deserve this.”
“That chicken fucking egg sucker just doesn’t like me. I have no idea why.”
“If they’d treat you like this,” Trick ran his fingers through his full wavy hair and sighed, “what’s in store for me?”
Steve fumbled with his paperwork, his already rosy cheeks now red as wild strawberries. “This is the way a lot of dealerships work it. You haven’t been here long enough to notice but they bring in two new guys every week and fire two guys every week. The managers browbeat the salesmen, treat them like shit. They give the good deals to their top earners like Coleman to keep them happy. Then they purposely make it hard for you to sell so you get desperate. That’s when they lean on you to bring in friends and family members. After they’ve exhausted all your connections, they boot your ass out the door.”
Wickerstock walked back to the desk as Steve was putting his car sales paperwork in his brief case. “What are you still doing here? I told you to get the fuck out. What do I have to do, throw you out of here bodily?”
“I’m going,” Steve said as he stood with briefcase in hand.
“And you better have left all your William Buick deals in your drawer.” Wickerstock poked Steve directly on his polyester tie, just below his slight double chin. “Otherwise, I’ll call every dealership on the south side and have you blackballed.”
Steve sidestepped Wickerstock, turned to Trick and shook his hand. “Good luck, Pat. Watch your back.”
“It was brief, but it’s been good knowing you.” Trick watched Steve walk out the door appearing to muster as much dignity as possible.
With Steve gone, Wickerstock turned his full attention to Trick. “Halloran, don’t just stand around waiting for someone to pull up. Get on the phone and call all those ups you let leave without buying.”
***
“OK, go ahead and write it up,” Wickerstock said, tossing the sales proposal sheet back across the desk. “You got lucky today. This is a laydown, an easy one. Don’t go thinking that’ll happen every day.”
Trick spent the next four hours running back and forth, doing paperwork, getting his customer through the finance department, having the new Buick Century prepped by one of the porters and attending to all the other various duties that go along with selling a new car.
Waving goodbye to his customer as she drove off in her shiny new car, Trick excitedly asked the more experienced salesman, Ralphie, “How much do you think I’ll make on this one?”
“Let me see your deal.” Ralphie grabbed Trick’s paperwork from his hand. “Looks like they weren’t able to rape her in financing, credit’s too good. You didn’t sell her any extras, not good. No spiffs or spins. After taxes, maybe twenty-seven bucks.”
“That’s all? I’ve been hiking back and forth, working up a sweat for less than seven bucks an hour?”
“You gotta tip the kid who prepped the car too. You know that, right?”
“Tip him?” Trick became annoyed when he heard a few salesmen laugh. “How much?”
“Couple bucks,” Ralphie replied, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.
“Damn,” Trick said, walking away wit
h his paperwork.
“You wanna make any money, you gotta sell a few used ones every week along with the new ones,” Ralphie called after Trick. “Only way you’ll be able to eat.”
***
Ginger opened her door as Trick knocked a third time. “What are you doing here? How’d you get in?”
“Someone left the door open downstairs.” Trick loosened his silk tie, a leftover from his clothes shopping days when the cash was rolling in. “Today’s an early day. I was hoping to spend some time with Pat.”
“You making any money over there?”
“Well, not really. But I will. Things are starting to come together for me. I’m learning the ropes.” Trick rubbed his light brown stubble. “Do I smell cherry popovers?”
Holding a pot holder in one hand and the other on her hip, she snapped back, “Never mind what you smell. Pat needs a new winter coat and a Halloween costume.”
“Sure, no problem. Don’t worry. I’ll have some cash next time.” Trick smiled at his son, who sat cross-legged on outdated shag carpet, playing Frogger on his Atari. “Has Pat eaten yet? Thought I’d take him to McDonalds.”
Pat dropped his joystick and jumped on the couch, bouncing up and down, chanting, “McDonalds, McDonalds, McDonalds!”
“Well, now that you’ve opened your big mouth, what else can I say?” Ginger’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks. I’ll have him back in a couple hours.” Looking around for signs of Starnes and Moogie lurking around, Trick led Pat down to his car. He buckled him in the front passenger seat, then headed east on the Midlothian Turnpike. “Pat,” Trick said to his boy, who was looking out the open window of his Lincoln, watching the world go by. “What are you thinking about? I want you to know you can ask me anything.”
“I was thinking about outer space.” Pat pointed in the air. “How far does it go?”
“That’s what you’re thinking about? Infinity? Well … gee … let’s see. Umm, that’s a tough one. When I said you could ask me anything, I didn’t think …”
“How does God remember everyone’s names?”
“Oh, boy. Well, Pat, that’s another … hey, that’s what goes on in your five-year-old head? When I was your age I was thinking about frogs and yo-yos.” Trick let out a big sigh and continued. “Men have been pondering those questions for centuries. Outer space just keeps going, on and on. It doesn’t stop, far as I know. And, only God knows how he does things. He’s a lot smarter than us. He has infinite wisdom.”
“What’s infinite?” Pat shrugged his shoulders up and down.
“Uh, it means … it means Mommy will look it up for you in the dictionary when I drop you off.”
“Hmmm.” Pat sounded disappointed and waved his hand up and down through the open window as though trying to catch the wind.
“Did you know I love you more than anything in the whole world?”
“I guess so.” Pat folded his hands on his lap and hung his head.
“I do.” Trick turned to study Pat’s face. “I would do anything in the world for you.”
Pat finally looked Trick in the eye. “Why did you go away?”
“I didn’t want to go away.” The smell of burning leaves from a nearby backyard swirled in the breeze, triggering autumn memories of years ago. “I had to.”
Pat spread his upturned palms outward. “Where did you have to go?”
“I had to go to college. Needed to learn a few lessons.”
“Was it more important than being with me?”
“No, it wasn’t. I know that now,” Trick said as he turned left onto Cicero Avenue. “I’ll never do anything that will take me away from you again. See, I got smarter in college.”
Trick drove north a few miles and pulled into the parking lot of McDonalds and unbuckled Pat’s seatbelt.
The boy got on his knees and leaned forward, putting his nose to Trick’s cardboard air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror. “How come this thing looks like a skunk but it smells good?”
“Things aren’t always as they appear, remember that. Life is full of contradictions. You’ll find that out as you get older.”
Pat scrunched up his nose. “What’s a contradiction?”
“Well … hmm … a contradiction. See, It’s kind of like when something opposes something else. No wait, it’s like a conflict or inconsistency … I think.”
Pat just stared at him.
“Pat, I’m not too good at this. I don’t have much experience talking to five-year-olds.” Trick raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “They didn’t teach me that in college.”
“I’m hungry,” Pat said, sighing. “Can we eat?”
“Yeah. Good idea.”
CHAPTER 8
“You blew another one?” Wickerstock berated Trick, as spittle stretched between his lips while he spoke. “You need intense sales training, green pea. You’ll be shadowing Ralphie. He’s going to be on every deal with you and get half of your commissions.”
“Half?” Trick’s temper rose. He thought about the last guy who talked down to him in prison and how it ended in a fist fight. “For how long?”
“Until I say different.”
“Oh, fuck.” Trick realized he had just vocalized his thoughts when he saw an orange 1953 Chevy pickup pull between two fading yellow lines in the customer parking area. He walked away from Wickerstock and headed toward the front entrance as two formidable figures exited the restored, polished truck.
“Hey, I’m not through with you,” Wickerstock barked.
Trick ignored Wickerstock, walked out the door and up to the two. “What are you guys doing here?”
“This is your plan? This is how you plan to pay me back? Sellin’ cars?” Starnes bitched in his nasal tone. Moogie slouched behind him with the noon day sun shining off his freshly-shaved scalp.
Starnes grabbed Trick by the lapels of his navy blue William Buick sport coat. “Polyester? You’re comin’ down in the world, boy. Hey, I need you to start makin’ heavy payments to me, like yesterday. Don’t make me do bad things to you. I almost like you.”
“I’m going to do good here. Sold my first new car yesterday. Be reasonable.”
“Be reasonable?” Starnes let go of Trick’s jacket and poked his finger at him. “I don’t gotta be nothin’. You gotta be somethin’. You gotta be figurin’ out a way to pay me my dough real quick.”
Shadowing Starnes, Moogie stroked his chest-length copper-colored beard, grinning, showing off nubs of discolored teeth.
“Hey, Moogie,” Trick asked, in mock sincerity, “you ever say anything, or just stand around looking pretty?”
Moogie’s grin changed to an evil grimace in the blink of an eye as he put his hand on the box cutter he wore in an oxblood leather sheath on his belt.
Starnes slapped Trick lightly on his face, then gave an exaggerated, overly friendly wave to Wickerstock, who was standing on the other side of a showroom window surveying the interaction between the three. “Don’t get cute just ‘cause there’s witnesses around.”
Trick turned to see Wickerstock’s scrutinizing face, then returned his attention to Starnes and Moogie. “You guys are going to screw things up for me here. Then I won’t have any way of paying you.”
“OK, Trickmeister. Better start sellin’ a lot of cars real quick. I’ll be in touch.” As they got back in the pickup, Moogie gave Trick a mock pull of a trigger from a finger pistol.
Trick did his best to act nonchalant as they pulled away with a squeal, leaving two strips of noxious smelling rubber on the graying asphalt. He slowly walked back into the showroom knowing Wickerstock was watching his every move.
“What was that shit? You bringing drug dealers around here now?” Wickerstock stood with fists on his hips and a scowl on his broad square face. “Or did you muff another sale? Which is it?”
“Neither. It wasn’t a customer. Just an old friend … stopped by to say hi.”
“Friend? Didn’t look too fri
endly to me.” The gooey bit of spittle still on Wickerstock’s lips nauseated Trick. “I swear, if you’re using William Buick to move drugs, I’ll have you back in the slammer before you can take a crap.”
***
“Don’t argue with me, Halloran,” Wickerstock scolded Trick. “Everyone here has to send letters to their family members, friends, people you went to school with, anyone and everyone you can think of. You want them all to know you’re here and ready to give them a deal on a new or used car. Say whatever you have to. Just get them in the door. Understand?”
“Yeah. I got to tell you though; I don’t like the idea of leaning on people I know to make a buck.” Trick shifted from one foot to another. “Why can’t I just work on walk-in customers?”
“You’ve been here three days and only sold one car.” Wickerstock folded his arms across his chest.
“Yeah, but I have a few prospects,” Trick said, raising a finger in the air. “One guy said he’d call me tomorrow.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time. That guy was being polite. The minute he walked out the door he was heading to another dealership where a more experienced salesman sold him a car. You worked eight ups since you’ve been here that walked. That means you blew eight sales. It cost William Buick a lot of advertising dollars to get those customers in the door. So far, you’re costing us a lot of money to train you with no guarantee you won’t jump ship and go to another store.”
“But if I send out sales letters to everyone I know,” Trick squinted and continued, “I’m kind of stuck here.”
“No shit. Go to your desk, formulate a sales letter and bring it back to me. Either that or take off your team jacket and hit the bricks right now.”
Walking back to the desk he used to share with Stevie Z, Trick weighed his options and thought about what other work he might be qualified for. The only real experience he had was working in factories, mind-numbing work that he hated. The only success he had was selling drugs. His work record was spotty. Prospective employers always wanted to know why someone like him went so many years without holding a legitimate job. And then there was the prison thing. If they asked, he couldn’t lie. If they found out that you lied about being a convict, they had call to fire you. The problem was, he needed a job that paid a lot of money in order to get out of the financial trouble he was in; otherwise, just about anything would do.