by LOU HOLLY
“Who is it?” His ex-wife’s dim, metallic-sounding voice crackled from the speaker.
“Oh, good God,” Trick said into the intercom. “Are you looking out the window? Who else do you know that drives a burgundy 1979 Continental?”
“Well, you can’t be too careful.” Trick didn’t appreciate her sarcastic tone, especially at this moment. The buzzer unlatched the front door of the apartment building and he climbed the steps feeling woozy. Ginger’s door was open with no one in sight. He walked through the living room and down the hall to find Ginger standing in front of the medicine cabinet mirror touching up her eyeliner, a lit cigarette dangling from her lipstick coated lips.
“Don’t you love my new LeBaron?” Ginger didn’t take her eyes off her reflection. “I think it’s sexy.”
“I was praying you didn’t pull the trigger. When did you buy it?”
“I just got back a few minutes ago.” The tip of her cigarette bobbed up and down with every syllable. “Why?”
“I kept calling you.” Trick squinted and waved smoke away from his face. “I was hoping to stop you.”
Ginger finally looked at Trick and exclaimed, “Holy bejesus. What happened? Did Starnes and Moogie do that to you?”
“No. Never mind my face. I need you to take the Chrysler back. I need that money.”
“What?” Ginger threw her cigarette into the toilet making a hissing sound like a snake lying in wait. “No one is taking my convertible away. I finally get a new car and you want me to take it right back? Are you bananas?”
“Tell them you changed your mind. Tell them anything. Say the IRS came by demanding money.”
“No!” Ginger threw her head back and stomped her foot which always reminded Trick of a spoiled little girl.
“Is any of the money left?”
“No. It cost more than $15,000. Petros kicked in the rest.”
“He went with you?”
“Yeah. Why? What’s wrong with that? He knows people. Got me a good deal.”
Trick slumped against the wall. He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips and moaned, “Never mind … never mind. Forget it.”
“Does getting beat up have anything to do with you wanting the money back?”
Without saying another word, Trick turned and walked away. He knew what he had to do. The last thing in the world he wanted.
CHAPTER 14
Officer Perkins knocked on Detective Homer Johnston’s open office door at the Orland Park Police Station. “Hey, Boss. Got something I think you wanna hear.”
Johnston looked up from the file in his big paws and barked, “Get in here.”
“I been keeping an eye out for your daughter like you told me. I happened to be at Fat Sam’s the night before last and saw Collette with some guy. Looked older, rougher than the boys she usually runs around with.”
“What do you mean, runs around with? What’re you implying?”
“No … no, I mean … y-you know.”
“Quit stammering, Perkins,” Johnston growled with an unlit, half-smoked cigar situated in the side of his mouth. “What about this guy?”
“He looked familiar so I tailed him to his car and got his plate number.”
Johnston dropped the paperwork onto his desk. “Well, whadaya got for me?”
Perkins stepped closer to Johnston’s desk, handed him a sheet of paper and backed away saying, “I ran the plate. It belongs to Patrick Halloran. You know … Trick Halloran, the drug dealer. The guy in the big shootout in Oak Forest a few years back.”
Johnston held the paper up to read it. By the time he set it down, his face had turned red. Perkins slowly inched backward toward the door.
“Goddamn it!” Johnston picked up his glass ashtray and threw it in the general direction of Perkins where it sailed dangerously close over his head, smashing in countless pieces against the wall.
“Whoa, Boss!” Perkins pleaded as he flew out the door. “Don’t kill the messenger.”
Johnston mulled the situation over and took his pulse. He removed a pill bottle from the inside pocket of his polyester suit coat, shook out a couple tablets and swallowed them dry. Opening the leather bound address book on his desk, Johnston dialed his phone.
“Hello, this is Detective Frank Murray,” the voice over the phone answered.
“Murray, this is Detective Homer Johnston over at Orland Park. Heard you’re part of the new drug taskforce they put together. How many suburbs that take in?”
“Eight of them here in the southwest suburbs. Something I can do for you?”
“Remember a guy you put away a few years ago,” Johnston asked, removing a blood pressure kit from a drawer, placing it on his desk and slipping his arm in the cuff, “a Trick Halloran?”
“Oh yeah, of course. What’s up?”
“Well, I have reason to believe this Halloran is dealing again. You might want to keep an eye on him.”
“You got something tangible?”
“It’s from my informant,” Johnston lied sincerely, “that’s all I can say.”
“OK, thanks for the heads up.”
“It’s my pleasure, trust me.” Johnston hung up the phone and smiled his crooked smile.
***
“Collette, get your little ass down here!”
Bouncing down the stairs, Collette became embarrassingly aware that her braless breasts were wiggling like two bowls of Jell-O and put her arm across her chest. “What’s the matter, Daddy?”
“Who you been going out with?”
“What? Who?”
“Don’t play stupider than you already are. You know goddamn well who.”
“You mean Patrick?”
“What’s Patrick’s last name?”
“Uh … O’Connor. Why, what’s wrong?”
“Is that what he told you his name is, or is that what he told you to tell me?”
Collette stood with her mouth open and stared wide-eyed. “W-well … he said his name was Pat O’Connor.”
“I can always tell when you or your mother are trying to pull some shit. Don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not, Daddy. He said his name was O’Connor. Why?”
“Never mind why. Next time he calls, give him the air. No debates. Don’t ever see him again.”
CHAPTER 15
Trick dialed the payphone and heard the last voice he wanted to hear. “Starnes Towing. What can I do you for?”
“Hey, it’s me. I want to see you.” Trick thought how that statement didn’t really convey his true feelings. He didn’t want to see Starnes at all. He needed to see him.
“Oh, now you want to see me, huh?” Trick hated Starnes’ nasal, condescending tone. It was like nails on a chalkboard to him. “What happened to, ‘you and I don’t have anything else to talk about’?”
“Yeah, OK, I know what I said … can I meet you somewhere? It’s important.”
***
As Trick walked over to the 1953 Chevy pickup, Starnes cackled out of the driver’s window. “So, Trick, you come crawlin’ back. Hey, what happened to your beak? You owe someone else money too?”
“Forget about my nose, that’s not important. Can I get those kilos back?”
“Are you fuckin’ crazy? Two of them are practically sold and the third one’s been cut, broken down and put on the street.”
“I need to get as much of it back as I can; just the way I gave it to you, right away.”
“I smell a rat here.” Starnes studied Trick’s face. “You win the lotto? Got the cash to buy three kilos all of a sudden?”
“What I’m proposing is, you let me sell them and pay you back with the profits.”
“For argument’s sake, let’s say I still got the stuff just the way you gave it to me. Why would I take the chance of handin’ it back to you? You could get busted, then I’m out the dough. You’re back in the pokey and I’m waitin’ another three years or more to get paid again. This is the stupidest conversation I’ve ever had. No way in hell.”
<
br /> “Well …” Trick looked sideways at Starnes. “Could you front me one ki?”
“Front you? You made a big deal about how you were out of the business; didn’t want to take a chance of gettin’ busted, goin’ back to the joint again. There’s somethin’ else goin’ on here. I didn’t get to be where I’m at by playin’ the patsy.”
“Circumstances have changed. Can’t say much more than that. I need to come up with a lot of dough, quick.”
“Tell you what.” Starnes rubbed his prematurely graying stubbles and smirked. “Let’s say I took a chance and fronted you one. I’d have to charge you $40,000.”
“Oh, come on. What the fuck? I just gave you those kis at $20,000 apiece three days ago. Give me a break here.”
“You know the only breaks I give are arms and legs. No. The price is $40,000. Take it or leave it. I don’t give a rat’s ass. I can sell that shit to anyone. I don’t need you.”
“All right, I’ll take it.”
“You realize that ki is spoken for, all but sold. That means I gotta disappoint someone I do business with, a valued customer. If you fuck up, I don’t think I have to tell you, we’re gonna be like a snake and a crab in a bucket and I’m the one with the pinchers.”
“Yeah, I know … I know.” Trick waved him off. “When can I get it?”
“Meet Moogie in the Willowbrook Ballroom parkin’ lot on Archer at midnight.”
***
Arriving a little early, Trick waited in the ballroom parking lot with his window down smoking a Cohiba. Listening to the hoot of an owl hidden somewhere in the treetops, he waited for Moogie to bring him one of the three kilos of cocaine that was in his possession just a few days earlier. Blending in with the other cars, he sat facing the entrance, scanning each vehicle that pulled in. A few minutes after midnight, a black Ford F-350, sitting high off the ground, turned in off Archer Avenue. Trick flashed his lights and the pickup truck slowed to a stop in front of him. Getting a better look, he recognized Moogie behind the wheel from the silhouette of his shaved head and long full beard. When Moogie revved his engine and continued on to the dimly-lit rear area of the huge parking lot, Trick pitched his cigar, started his car and followed him.
Trick pulled up next to Moogie’s truck, got out and walked to the passenger side. He tried to open the door but it was locked. He stood holding the handle, looking into Moogie’s scowling face. The lock finally popped up and Trick climbed in. He squinted at Moogie, who just glared back at him.
Putting some bass in his voice, Trick asked, “Well, you got it with you?”
Trick sat waiting for an answer and after a few moments of silence, Moogie, with a revolver in his left hand, said, “I never did like your monkey-time ass. Was up to me, I’d put a bullet in your head right now and leave you in a ditch somewhere.”
“Don’t try to sell me any wolf tickets. I faced guys badder than you every day I was in the can,” Trick said, looking Moogie straight in the eye. He knew the worst thing he could do was show the fear he felt. Guys like Moogie sniffed it out like a dog. “Just give me the kilo.”
“Ya walk around thinkin’ you’re better’n people. Fuckin’ pretty boy,” Moogie wheezed, then took a long pull from his asthma inhaler. “What’d ya do, get a nose job to look cuter?”
Looking at the third eye in a triangle tattooed on Moogie’s low forehead, red beard with strands of gray covering the chest of his bibbed overalls and teeth the color of moldy bread, Trick thought that almost anyone sitting next to Moogie would look good. “I don’t have all night.” Trick grabbed the door handle. “If you got it, give it to me or I’m walking. Tell your boss man to make his own deliveries next time.”
Moogie reached under his seat and tossed Trick a brown paper bag. “Here, ya fuckin’ pussy. Go home and pull your prick while ya stare at yourself in the mirror, probably your favorite pastime.”
Trick hopped to the ground, but before he slammed the door, said, “Go ahead, get a good look. I know you’ll be thinking about me when you turn off the lights tonight.”
Moogie slammed it into low gear and the big Ford fishtailed, laying two patches of rubber as Trick jumped out of the way to avoid being knocked over. The smell of burning tires overtook the aroma of damp leaves as Trick felt a chill from the northerly wind. Opening his car door, Trick stopped when he spotted a red fox hobble through the trees with the lower portion of one of its rear legs missing. With his head hung low, the fox moved silently through the shadows and disappeared into the brush surrounding the I&M Canal just to the west. He wondered if the fox lost its leg in a trap.
CHAPTER 16
Trick spent the next afternoon with his son and assured him that he had just bumped his nose and it would be all better the next time he saw him. He went on to explain to little Pat that the movie they were about to see was just that, a movie, a make-believe where no one really gets hurt. They watched Commando, an Arnold Schwarzenegger film, where the hero has to rescue his kidnapped daughter. Then later, after an hour of climbing on the monkey bars and swinging on the tall swing set at Walker Park, a pizza and RC Colas hit the spot at Vito & Nick’s Pizzeria. But his mind was distracted, thinking about what he had to do after dropping Pat off.
A hug from his little boy sent Trick on his way to the evils that lay ahead of him. After running around from store to store and buying enough baby laxative powder to cut the cocaine, Trick got to the Ace Hardware on Cicero just before closing. He pulled into the rear parking lot and got out of his car. It was his first time back there since his arrest. A cold wind blew across his face as the memories of New Year’s Eve 1981 came flooding back; icy rain assaulting his face, gunshots echoing in the night, the odor of his damp camel hair topcoat, and Detective Frank Murray’s voice booming from a loudspeaker.
“Here we go again,” Trick muttered, as he walked into the hardware store. Purchasing everything else he needed for the night, he headed straight to the condo. Once inside with the door locked and dead bolted, the drapes fully closed, Trick put on a dust mask and latex gloves. He proceeded to break the kilo up, pushing the soft rocks through a large flour sifter with a tablespoon, turning it into powder. Measuring out a little more than a kilo of the baby laxative, he added it to the nearly pure cocaine in an extra-large Ziploc bag. He turned the bag over and over for ten minutes to get the two powders completely mixed.
Trick then emptied the contents into eight white handkerchiefs folded into envelope-like containers. He set the envelopes into a big pot and drenched them with acetone. Next step was putting the cloth envelopes between two small, raw blocks of wood and squeezing the excess acetone out with the help of a vice he attached to Reggie’s kitchen counter. A pan on the floor collected the acetone drippings. When all eight were prepared, he placed them on a cookie sheet and baked them in the oven at a low temperature for twenty minutes. Once they cooled off, Trick broke the cocaine patties into stone size rocks.
With a little extra cut thrown in, the 35.3 ounces of coke were now 72 ounces, and still a much higher quality than almost anything else on the street. Trick got out a small calculator and figured an average of $1,650 an ounce times 72 ounces equaled $118,800. He knew he could sell some of the ounces for at least $1,800 but to move them faster, he would have to turn some of them through a middle man who would take multiple ounces. For those people, he would have to come down on that price some. Now if he could move that much stuff in the next five days with all the cash in hand, he felt he might be able to make a deal with the Mexicans and at least buy more time.
Move it all in time and not get busted again. It seemed an almost impossible task but he couldn’t think of another solution. He headed out the door with samples to get things going. Trick knew he didn’t have an hour to waste.
***
Trick spent that night and the next day contacting old customers. Some were out of the business, some were in prison, and one was dead, shot in the head from an impatient supplier. The handful left were a huge disappointment. He knew
what he had to do. It was his last resort.
“Bob’s Bondage, all of our operators are tied up,” came the high-pitched, scratchy voice over the phone.
Trick groaned. “Still pulling those tired gags.”
“Trick? Is that you?”
“Back from Hell.”
“Whenja get out?”
“Ten days ago. I want to get together and talk. When are you free?”
“Right now. Where do you wanna meet?”
“The old spot, last place you saw me. Half hour?” Trick touched his homemade splint. “One thing, do not ask me what happened to my nose. I’ve been answering that question night and day.”
***
Walking into Fast Break Billiards on 147th Street in Midlothian, Trick savored the aroma of grilling onions from the White Castle hamburger restaurant across the street. A breeze of unusually warm eighty-two-degree weather accompanied him into the pool hall as he looked around adjusting his eyes to the light. Spotting Bob in a back corner at a pool table, he made his way through the other tables and players and extended his hand.
“Wow, man. How long’s it been?” Bob looked at Trick over round, rose-colored shades and shook his hand. “Two … three years?”
“Almost three. Time is different on the inside, moves much slower. When you’re in there you know exactly how much time you got left. You start getting short; you count the hours.”
“Long time. Your pooper must be sore there, Trick.” Bob giggled and started placing the balls in the wooden rack.
“Real funny. No one takes my manhood from me.”
Bob’s round belly jiggled under a tight tie-dyed t-shirt as he racked the balls and retorted back, “OK, tough guy.” He pulled a quarter from his vintage pinstriped vest and flipped it off his thumb. “Call it.”
Before the coin landed on the green felt, Trick said, “Tails.”
“Tails it is. Speakin’ of tail, you get any in there?” Bob held out his cue stick and looked down the end toward the tip checking for straightness with Trick’s eyes in his line of vision.