SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense

by LOU HOLLY

  Trick sat with pen and William Buick letterhead and thought about the words that would get people in the door without humbling himself too badly. He jotted down notes while watching other salesmen greet enthusiastic looking customers. About fifteen minutes later, Trick finally felt he had just the right combination of words and sentiments that would have everyone he knew rushing up to see him with money in hand. He brought it back to Wickerstock as he heard one of the walk-in customers say, “OK, you got a deal,” to Jimmy, who started the same day he did.

  “Here, I’m done,” Trick said, holding the piece of paper up.

  Wickerstock snatched it out of Trick’s hand and read it. He gave Trick a distasteful look and said, “Go back and work on this some more. You’re on the right track but it could be better. Go on, get going.”

  Trick sat back down and looked his sales letter over. While he doodled on the large calendar desk mat, a cream colored Audi pulled onto the lot as three salesmen chased it down. Jamile, who had the longest legs of the trio, got to it first. A shapely young lady in a business suit emerged to find an outstretched hand ready to pump hers.

  “What do you think of this one?” Trick asked, handing Wickerstock the same exact letter he had ten minutes earlier.

  Wickerstock looked it over and answered back, “There, that’s better. See? Go ahead and bring it to the office and have one of the girls make as many copies as you need. They’ll give you envelopes. Address ‘em, fold ‘em and stuff ‘em.”

  “Pompous ass,” Trick muttered under his breath as he headed to the business office with his letter.

  ***

  “Anita!” Trick was happy to see a familiar face. “Good to see you.”

  “I heard you were working here. I’m looking for a good used car. I know you won’t cheat me.”

  “I’d never screw a friend. How’s your family?”

  “Everyone’s doing good. Jodi just started high school.”

  “Damn. Little Jodi?” Trick felt the harsh stare of Wickerstock burning down his good mood. “What kind of car you looking for?”

  Trick put a gentle hand on Anita’s back and led her out the door to the used car lot and showed her around. After an hour of running back and forth, retrieving car keys, going on test drives and getting the trade-in appraised, Trick brought a signed deal into Wickerstock’s office and said, “Sold.”

  “What’ve we got?” Ralphie walked in right after Trick and picked up the sales sheet. “Hey, good one, nice profit. Oh, trade-in too, fuckin’ A.” He smiled and dropped the sheet back on the desk.

  Wickerstock looked it over, initialed it, handed it back to Ralphie and said, “Go ahead and deliver it.”

  “Hey, that’s my sale. I worked that all by myself.”

  “What’d I tell you? You’re in intensive training. You split all deals with Ralphie.”

  “This lady’s a friend of mine.” Trick began wondering what was worse, prison or selling cars. “She wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me.”

  “Put it on the board, Ralphie, your name over Halloran’s. Pull it up next to her old car and have one of the porters switch the plates. Get it on the road.”

  “You got to be fucking kidding. This is bullshit!” Trick asserted, “that’s it, I’m through.”

  “I didn’t think you could take it. Nick told me you were a drug dealer. Too used to that easy money. Different when you have to work for it, isn’t it?”

  “What the hell makes you think you know what I can handle? I worked all my life, doing odd jobs as a kid, cutting grass, delivering papers before school. When I left high school I worked my ass off in a lot of hell-hole factories. You think you know what I can take? I’ll tell you what you can’t take, you spoiled mama’s boy. You wouldn’t last a day in some of the places I lived through, Cook County, Joliet, Statesville. They’d pass your sissy ass around like they owned you.”

  “I’ll see that you never work for another dealership in Illinois again!” Wickerstock screamed red faced, “you’re blackballed, jailbird!”

  “You think I give a rat’s ass?” Trick’s voice became raspy as he stepped closer to Wickerstock and looked him dead in the eye. “I’d never do this again in my life. I’d rather go back to selling drugs. There’s more honor among drug dealers than you thieves. The only way you can make any money in this business is if you cheat people. I never cheated anyone in my life. Anyone who ever dealt with me got a square deal, got what they paid for. I don’t know how you people can feel good about yourself, how you sleep at night, you fucking crooks.”

  Trick stepped back, took his William Buick jacket off, rolled it in a ball and threw it in Wickerstock’s face. Wickerstock grabbed the jacket, tossed it to the floor and hunched forward. Trick stood his ground and said, “Go ahead, I dare you to talk to me in that tone again.” Wickerstock stood with his fists clenched, snorting like a bull but didn’t say a word. Trick stood with his eyes locked on Wickerstock’s for a few moments, then added, “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Trick turned, walked out the door and remembered all those sales letters that went out with that day’s mail.

  ***

  As Trick walked into Ginger’s apartment, she put a finger to her heart shaped lips and whispered, “Shhh, Pat’s sleeping. He conked out about an hour ago. He ought to be up soon. C’mon, back here.”

  Trick followed her back to the kitchen in the wake of her Dior’s Poison perfume, watching her ass as she walked, throbbing memories haunting him with every step. She suddenly stopped, pivoted and folded her arms across her chest. “OK, why the hangdog look? Wait, don’t tell me. You got fired.”

  “I quit.” Trick recognized that look. “OK, here comes the I told you sos.”

  “Big man with big ideas.” Ginger smirked and shook her head. “Couldn’t hack it, huh?”

  “No real man would have put up with that bullshit.”

  Ginger toyed with the emerald pendant that hung from an 18 karat rope chain he bought for her birthday four years earlier. It was just another reminder of how much he had then and how little he had now. The precious stone, that was easily affordable to him then, picked up the green in her hazel eyes. Those eyes that had a way of looking down at him, even though she was five-foot-five and he was six inches taller. “I thought a real man can put up with things weaker men can’t.”

  “You weren’t there. You don’t know.” Trick looked away and studied the crude finger-painting of a man, woman and little boy holding hands that was secured to the refrigerator with black and white Scottie dog magnets. “I’ll find another way.”

  “You’re thinking about it,” Ginger said, arching her left eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

  “No. I mean, of course it crossed my mind. That doesn’t mean I’m seriously considering it. There’s a difference.”

  “You’re going to fold,” Ginger taunted, waving a finger at him, “go back to it.”

  “You’re wrong. I wouldn’t do anything that would take me away from Pat again.”

  Ginger tapped a Virginia Slim out of a tight pack and put it between her full, red painted lips. “Well, if not drug dealing, what are you going to do? I need that child support coming in every month.”

  “Don’t worry.” Trick ran his fingertips over the lumpy texture of little Pat’s finger paint. The humming vibration of the refrigerator seemed to breathe life into the idealized, two dimensional family. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Don’t give me that false bravado, Mr. Pessimism. Where are you going to find a good job? You hardly have any experience.” Ginger took a stick match from an open box and ran it up the zipper of her jeans. She lit her cigarette with the tiny bluish flame and blew smoke out the side of her mouth. “It’s not like you’re going to get an executive job somewhere.”

  “I’ll tell you something I’ve learned. Sometimes you don’t know if a situation is good or bad until some time has passed.”

  “Oh, boy.” Ginger rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner. “I feel one of your
speeches coming on.”

  “Give you an example. Before I met you, I was coming back from Baltimore. Just wrapped up some business out there and needed to get back quick to make another buy before my connect left town. I was driving to the airport and missed my turn on the highway. It was a while before I realized I had gone out of my way. So, I’m racing to get to the airport but when I got to the terminal it was too late, saw my plane pulling away from the gate.” Trick’s serious expression changed to a whimsical one. “Well, turned out that Southwest Airlines had another flight going to Midway an hour later. So, no big deal after all. Went to the bar, relaxed and had a drink.” Trick motioned with both hands. “Here’s the thing, the flight that I missed had mechanical problems and got diverted to Milwaukee. Turns out I got in a lot earlier than I would have if I made the first flight. Taught me something.”

  Ginger tapped a gray ash into the kitchen sink and asked, “So, what do airplanes have to do with you getting a job?”

  “Nothing. What I’m trying to say is, you don’t always know about things. Time tells the story.”

  “So, you’re trying to put a positive spin on getting shit-canned?”

  “Forget it. I’m casting pearls …”

  “Pearls? What do pearls have to do with anything?” Ginger took a deep drag, blew smoke out of her nostrils and extended her palms out upward like she was checking for rain. “I’m not giving you back those pearls you got me.”

  “Oh, my God. Are you really that …” Trick hesitated and turned to see little Pat stumbling toward them rubbing his eyes.

  Pat stopped and looked up at his father. “Are you fighting?”

  Trick knelt down and patted his son’s shoulders. “No, no. Me and Mommy were just having an intelligent conversation.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Kind of.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Pulling away from Ginger’s apartment, Trick didn’t know where to turn and started driving aimlessly. He knew he had to do something to get out of the mess he was in.

  He traveled all the way to the Village of Willowbrook before getting on Interstate 55 and starting back. Heading east and passing a sign that read Historic Route 66, he looked in his rearview mirror to catch the last remnants of the sun disappearing behind massive purple clouds that reminded him of the Rocky Mountains. He contemplated Ginger’s weight loss as he drove along in the middle lane listening to the radio. Putting his headlights on, he took another look in his mirror to see the clouds already changing colors, losing their brilliance when something else caught his eye. A blood-red Dodge Charger was flying up from behind, darting in and out of lanes dangerously close to the other vehicles. Trick turned to see a white Chevy Blazer in the right-hand lane quickly move onto the shoulder to avoid getting clipped. After making its way past a number of vehicles driving in a pack, the Charger had room to run and flew past the First Avenue exit.

  Trick then spotted a black unmarked police vehicle, with alternate flashing headlights, speeding up from behind on the right shoulder. The police car swerved, with screeching brakes, stopping just short of slamming into the Blazer, still on the side of the road. He looked ahead in the distance to see someone in the front passenger seat of the Charger throw a large dark bag out the window. The bag landed somewhere among the high weeds and cattails of the sloping ditch next to the expressway. After the bag was thrown, the unmarked car maneuvered around the Blazer and continued pursuit of the Charger.

  Trick thought, “Did people in the other vehicles not realize what just happened?” He was in the business long enough to know what this might mean. Changing lanes, he quickly decelerated and pulled onto the shoulder. The two speeding cars were now out of sight and he carefully exited his Lincoln. He walked back about thirty yards and began looking through the tall growth and dry cracked mud that was at the bottom of the ditch. The sound of vehicles going past came in loud waves as he continued searching. Then he saw it, a fully stuffed black leather bag lying between an empty bottle of Gordon’s gin and a faded McDonald’s wrapper. Trick grabbed the zipper bag by both handles, climbed the incline and hurried back to his car with surges of wind from semitrailer trucks nearly rocking him off his feet. He threw the bag onto the passenger seat as he hopped in behind the wheel.

  Trick made his way into the right-hand lane and drove cautiously, breathing heavily with excitement. He looked over at the bag and pulled it closer, running his hand over the cracked leather. Toying with the zipper, he was unable to pull it open with one hand. He passed a sign indicating one mile to the Harlem exit. Steering with his knees, he made a quick move using both hands and finally got the zipper open a few inches. His heart started pounding when he caught a glimpse of cash.

  Turning onto the southbound Harlem Avenue exit, Trick steered into a Shell station a short distance ahead on the street’s west side. He pulled up on the far right in the parking lot and slammed it into park. After looking around, he opened the bag all the way. Paper-banded stacks of 100s, 50s and 20s practically jumped from the open bag.

  “Son of a fuckin’ whore,” Trick said out loud and turned the radio off. Removing wads of bills, he saw something at the bottom of the bag. Pushing the remaining money aside, he pulled out what appeared to be a kilo of cocaine. He’d seen enough of them to know what they looked like and counted a total of three identically packaged kilos. Taking a pocket knife from his glove compartment, he cut into the taped surface of the solid rectangular package. He pulled out a small amount onto the flat surface of the blade and examined it, taking the small iridescent, flaky rock between his fingertips, breaking down the luminous layers and feeling the texture. Bringing it to his nose, he smelled the combination of bubblegum and cat piss fragrance that told him it was the real deal.

  He looked into his rearview mirror to see a car slowly pulling up behind him. He could see the look on the man’s large square face. It wasn’t a friendly one. Trick jumped when the man blew his horn and his heart pounded faster still when the man yelled though his open window.

  “Hey, kolo,” the man called out in a Polish accent. “Can you pull up? I want to get some air in my tire.”

  Trick turned around, smiled and waved. He drove around to the rear of the service station and hastily put the contents back into the bag. Continuing south on Harlem, past the Candlelight Dinner Playhouse, he spotted a payphone in the parking lot of Prince Castles Hamburgers. Getting out of his car, he fished some change out of his jacket pocket, stepped up to the payphone and dialed.

  He heard Starnes’ nasal voice mumble, “Yo, what’s up?”

  “Glad you’re home. I got good news for you. It’s Christmas, a white Christmas in October. Can I come by?”

  “Get your tinhorn shanty-Irish ass over here.”

  “I told you, I’m not Irish. I’m not sure. I mean … I might be.” But Trick realized the call was already disconnected.

  Trick took the bag to the back of the car, opened the trunk and carefully looked around. He unloaded the cash, covered it with an old plaid blanket, then drove the rest of the way to Starnes’ Palos Hills home cautiously, no more than five miles over the limit.

  Ringing Starnes’ doorbell, Trick waited a few seconds, then impatiently knocked. The red painted door flew open, followed by a gruff command, “Get in here, boy. We’ll go down to my bar in the basement.”

  Starnes carried his beefy frame around to the back of the bar and said, “Grab a stool.” He took two crystal rock glasses from a silver serving tray and set them on the bar. “What can I getcha? I’m havin’ my usual, Jack and Coke.”

  “I’ll have the same.” Trick couldn’t hold back a smile as he patted the black leather satchel sitting on his lap. “I suppose you’re wondering what I got in the bag.”

  “I’m kinda hopin’ for somethin’ old, green and wrinkled,” Starnes said, preparing two drinks. “That’s a big bag; I hope you don’t disappoint me.” He ran his grease-stained fingernails through his prematurely graying curls and locked eyes on Trick. “I wouldn’t like that
very much.”

  “I got something better than cash,” Trick said, setting the bag up on the bar. “I owe you sixty grand.” He opened the bag, took out a kilo of cocaine and set it down between them. “I got three kis. If you want to take these instead of the dough.”

  Starnes jumped back a step and yelled, “What the hell’s the matter with you!” Lowering his voice, he admonished, “I never bring drugs into my house. This is where I live with my wife and kids. You tryin’ to get me busted?”

  “You want me to leave or you want to listen to my proposal?”

  “You crazy gutterslag ass-monkey.” Starnes sat on a stool behind the bar. “Say what you gotta say and make it quick.”

  “This product is pure, you fucking butt slug,” Trick replied, holding his ground. “Open it up and try it.”

  Starnes looked at Trick like he could kill him and pulled a knife from behind the bar. He paused, then made an L-shaped cut into the tape-wrap of the sealed kilo. He scooped out a generous portion, dumped it on the bar and started chopping the soft rocks and flakes with the knife. “Where’d this shit come from?”

  “Columbia,” Trick said evasively and shrugged. “What do you think?”

  “No, funny guy.” Starnes separated the cocaine into two generous lines. “I mean, where did you get it?”

  “Look … that’s my business.” Trick put his hand on the kilo. “Either you want these three or you don’t. I know damn well you could wholesale them just the way they are for at least twenty-five G apiece. You’d be ahead like a bandit. I know you have those kind of connections.”

  “Yeah, but you owe me moolah not drugs. I still have the risk of sellin’ this shit to get my money back.” Starnes snorted a line up his right nostril and pinched the bottom of his nose. “Oh yeah, that’s money.”