by LOU HOLLY
“I told you, I don’t play those kind of games,” Trick shot back, already annoyed with Bob, who kept staring at his splint-covered nose and black eyes.
Bob pushed back his sweat-stained pork pie hat revealing the thinning, cropped hair in the front area of his black, stringy mullet. “Break ‘em, free bird.”
Trick slammed the cue ball into the triangle of balls with a loud crack and watched the striped 13 ball roll into a corner pocket.
“I’d have thought you had enough stripes for a while.”
“You don’t wear stripes in prison anymore. That went out with black and white James Cagney movies.” Trick looked around and lowered his voice. “You still in business?”
“Does Hugh Hefner like big tits?” Bob smirked at Trick. “Whadda you think?”
Glancing around the room at the other pool players and the owner to make sure no one was watching, Trick knelt down, pulled a sealed envelope from his sock and handed it to Bob before standing back up. “I could use your help moving this stuff. Most of my old customers are out of the biz. I need to sell a lot of shit in a short time.”
“How much we talkin’?” Bob asked without looking up from his shot, sending the yellow 1 ball on a slow roll into the side pocket.
“Tell you what … I can front you ounces at $1,600. This stuff’s fifty percent pure. You can whack the shit out of it and still sell ounces for $2,000 … grams for eighty-five, ninety. You know the rundown.”
“You didn’t waste any time. Hit the bricks runnin’.” Bob shook his head and smirked. “Make that $1,500 and we deal. If it’s as good as you say, I’ll start with twenty O-Zs.”
“OK, but keep this quiet. Cops’d love to put me away again. I copped a six-ball first time; it was a Class X felony. You do a little less than half if it’s state time. Second time, for the same offense, they give you at least twelve. Means I wouldn’t get out in less than five-and-a-half. That’s with good behavior. So don’t mention my name to anyone.” Trick stopped lining up his next shot and turned to face Bob. “Got it?”
“You know me,” Bob answered in a stage whisper.
“One more thing. Don’t front it out. Cash only with your people. I can’t be fucking around.”
Bob shrugged, looked at Trick with mock sincerity and said, “Yeah, yeah. No problem. But look, I gotta ask. What did happen to your snout, she shut her legs too quick?”
CHAPTER 17
Pulling away from Fast Break, Trick looked at the dashboard clock. It wasn’t quite 4:00 so he started heading toward Collette’s house, figuring her father was probably still at work. Steering into the tree-lined parking lot of Jack Gibbons’ restaurant along the way, he examined his face. Trick carefully peeled the white tape away from his cheeks and removed the splint from his nose. It had been three days since his nose was broken and most of the swelling had subsided. But his black eyes were in full bloom with deep shades of purple, tinged with yellow.
Running a conversation with Collette in his head, Trick drove the rest of the way to the older, modest home section of Orland Park. Seeing Collette’s car in the driveway, he pulled to the curb, debating whether or not he should go to the door. He took another look at his face and remembered he still had an old pair of black Wayfarer Ray-Bans in his glove compartment. He didn’t have the luxury of time so he put the sunglasses on, walked up and rang Collette’s doorbell.
He waited several moments, realizing that coming there without calling was a bad idea. As he turned to walk away, the door opened. When he pivoted and faced Collette, she said, “Oh my God, Trick. What happened to your face?”
“That’s … nothing. Just bumped my nose.” Trick leaned closer, taken in with Collette’s perfume. “It’ll be fine in a few days.”
“Did the police do that to you?”
“No, of course not. It’s nothing, really, just ran into an open door in the middle of the night.” Trick’s eyes ran up and down Collette’s smooth, tanned legs, as she stood with her bare feet apart in her tight, baby-blue jogging shorts. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“No, I better not,” Collette said, looking everywhere except Trick’s eyes. “Not a good idea.”
“OK, what is it? Something’s wrong.”
“I’ve been dreading this the last couple days.” Collette looked down and ran her toe back and forth across the door sill. “We can’t see each other anymore.”
“Why?” Trick watched a handful of leaves in the front yard get swept up in a swirl of wind like a mini tornado. “Is it something I said or did?”
“I don’t know how my dad found out about you but he knows your name’s not O’Connor. He must have run a check on you. When he found out I was seeing a guy who’s been in prison, he flipped.”
“You want me to walk away, just like that, without a fight?” Trick gazed at Collette’s cleavage pouring out the top of her tube top as she folded her arms across her chest. “I haven’t had these kind of feelings for someone in a long time.”
“You don’t understand. He’d kill you if he caught us together. If he came home right now … you don’t know. I’ve heard stories. He blew a guy’s heart right out of his back with his police revolver in a barroom brawl when he was off duty. The cops showed up and protected him. He wasn’t even charged. They called it self-defense.”
“Damn.” Trick shook his head. “Let’s forget about daddy law for a minute. I want to know how you feel.”
“I never met anyone like you … the way you carry yourself. You know people watch you when you go by?” Collette flashed an uneasy smile. “I had so much fun when we went out. You made me laugh.”
“Yeah.” Trick’s face dropped. “A lot of laughs.”
“I’m sorry, Trick. You better go now.”
Trick looked over at a white Trans Am pulling into Collette’s driveway. “Who’s this?”
“He’s … a friend.”
“We need to talk. Meet me at Petey’s on 159th.”
“I … I really can’t. It’s better we, you know, just say goodbye.”
“Can I call you?”
“No! Daddy would find out. Please go, don’t make this so hard.”
“Will you at least give me a call?” Trick said as he backed away from the front door. “Call me. OK?”
“Goodbye, Trick.”
Trick slowly walked past the Trans Am locking eyes with the young man behind the wheel. The pretty faced, college-age kid with a thick blond mullet and handful of pimples on his cheeks gave Trick a nervous smile and nodded to him. Trick got in his car, slammed the door and watched the kid strut up to the front door still held open by Collette. The guy stood on the porch, turned at the hip and motioned with his hand toward Trick. Collette’s expression changed when she saw Trick getting out of his car again. She pulled at the kid’s white Members Only jacket while he looked back defiantly. As Trick walked toward them, the young man allowed Collette to pull him in the door that she quickly shut behind them. Trick thought about the cocaine in his trunk, got back in his car and drove away.
CHAPTER 18
Trick sat in the dimly-lit condo massaging his black eyes with a mixture of warm water and vinegar to speed up the healing. He felt sick to his stomach, thinking about his financial problems. He was going to have to put off paying Starnes or stiff him altogether in order to come up with as much money as possible to appease the Mexicans. But if he didn’t pay Starnes for the kilo that was fronted him, he would have to find another source to get two more kilos in order to square up with the Mexicans, and hopefully Starnes too, at the end.
Trick remembered a jailhouse proverb: when your back is up against the wall, come out swinging and don’t stop. The ounces of coke weren’t moving fast enough. He hated to get down to the street level of drug dealing, it meant more exposure but he felt he didn’t have a choice and turned the lights on. He took an ounce of coke, added 14 grams of cut to it and turned 28 grams into 42 grams which he knew he could easily wholesale for $60 each and retail for $85 and u
p. After carefully weighing out the grams on Reggie’s Ohaus triple beam scale and packaging them, he headed out the door to make the rounds.
***
Trick walked into the haze of cigarette smoke at Fat Sam’s bar on LaGrange Road and recognized a couple faces from the early 80s through the dark tint of his Ray-Bans. He spotted a huge, beefy biker with a short mohawk, shaved on the sides, revealing FTW tattooed on the left side of his head. Joker, just the guy he was hoping to bump into. Trick walked up next to Joker as he was taking a big swig off a bottle of Miller High Life. Trick called out to the bartender, “Two more of these,” motioning with his thumb toward Joker’s bottle then setting his sunglasses on the bar.
“Trick! Tricky Trick … long time, dude.” Joker’s deep, hoarse voice broadcasted over Smuggler’s Blues by Glenn Frey blasting from the DJ’s speakers. “How’d ya get the black eyes? Someone ya want me to take care of?”
“Nah, that’s a situation I have to deal with personally. But hey, I appreciate it.”
“Change your mind, let me know. I haven’t fucked anyone up in a while and I’m getting twitchy.” Joker took an Erik cigar from behind his ear and lit it with a Zippo he pulled from his leather motorcycle jacket. “When did ya get out?”
“Week-and-a-half ago.” Trick looked up at Joker and smiled. “Same old Joker. How’s things?”
“Wrecked my knucklehead a couple years ago. Busted my right leg up real good. Got a rod holdin’ it all together. That Softail parked right out front’s my new ride.” Joker threw his head back and laughed loudly over the blaring music. “I can’t complain. Makin’ money, gettin’ laid, got kids all over the state. Life’s good, man. How ‘bout you?”
Trick leaned closer to Joker and under the music said, “I’m back in business.” Trick motioned with his eyes down to his hand. Joker looked down as Trick opened his hand then quickly closed it again. “The real deal. Top shelf.”
“Hey now. You always had the best shit.”
“You in the market?”
Joker watched two young ladies walk past in tight designer jeans and low cut tops. He wiggled his tongue at them, making guttural sounds. “Yeah, man, I’m always in the market for quality shit.”
“Circus clowns,” Trick said, shaking his head as he watched three guys in their early twenties on the dance floor breakdancing, surrounded by a circle of girls cheering them on. “How many you want?”
“How many ya got?”
“With me? These two and twenty more in the car.”
Joker slapped his leather chaps, howled like a wolf and growled, “I’ll take ‘em.”
Looking around, worried that Joker was attracting too much attention, Trick quietly responded, “All of them?”
Joker guzzled half a bottle of beer, slammed it on the bar and burped loudly. “Absofuckinlutely.”
“I’m going to need cash, sixty each.”
“Trick, who you talkin’ to? First of all, make that fifty. Second, this is me, man. You know I’m good for it. I ever screw you?”
“No, but I need all the money soon, real soon.”
CHAPTER 19
Arthur Patoremos looked up from the papers in his hand when Trick knocked on his open office door. “Come in, Halloran,” he said loudly, over the rattling window-unit air conditioner. “You’re three minutes late.” He motioned to the chair across the desk. “Take a seat.”
Trick navigated the narrow path through stacks of files piled on the floor in the tiny office. Easing onto the cold, steel chair and rubbing his goose-pimpled arms, he looked at the name plate that sat precariously close to the edge of the desk, competing for space. “What do I call you? Arthur, Art, Artie …?”
The heavyset, big-boned man behind the desk tilted his head back and scrunched up his nose that balanced the thickest glasses Trick had ever seen. The lenses made his eyes appear like goldfish swimming next to the edge of their small bowls. “You call me Mr. Patoremos. What are you, a wise guy? Is that how you got the black eyes?”
Trick kept detecting the smell of garlic and realized it was coming from a shriveled, half-eaten dill pickle sitting in an ashtray along with crumpled cigarette butts smoked down close to the filters. “No … to both questions, Mr. Patoremos,” Trick replied, dragging out Arthur’s surname. “Just trying to be friendly.”
“I’m your parole officer, not your buddy. Give me half an excuse and I’ll bounce your ass back to the joint. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s you drug dealers. So sit there, shut the fuck up and answer when I ask questions.” He handed Trick a few sheets of stapled paper, an unsharpened pencil and instructed Trick, “Go sit in the hall, fill these out and bring ‘em back. And don’t take all goddamned day. I haven’t had my lunch yet.”
Trick went back into the hallway and remembered there weren’t any chairs. He sat on the floor, leaned his back against the wall and filled out the questionnaire. Where are you currently living? When did you last use alcohol? When did you last use illegal drugs? Have you associated with known felons since your release from prison? Are you currently working? Several minutes later, he reentered the overly-chilled office and attempted to hand the paperwork to Patoremos.
“Put it down.” Patoremos looked at Trick challengingly. “Drop it.”
Looking around for a spot big enough to set them down, Trick settled on a short stack of files closest to his parole officer.
Patoremos snatched the paperwork off the pile and quickly scanned the information. “You’re not workin’? Gotta have a job if you don’t wanna go back to the joint.”
“I had a job … for three days but it didn’t work out.”
“Shit-canned you. Zat it?” Patoremos’ nostrils flared as his stomach growled noticeably.
“No, I quit. No man should have to put up with that kind of crap. I’m looking for a better job.”
“I want you back here in two weeks, November 1st … employed. I don’t care if you’re diggin’ ditches, shovelin’ shit or flippin’ burgers at Mickey D.”
“Two weeks?” Trick felt his face getting hot and did his best to contain his rage. There was no way he could hold a regular job and still be able to move the cocaine in time. “I thought I was supposed to come in once a month.”
Patoremos stood, knocking his chair backward and appeared much shorter than Trick would have guessed. “Don’t question me.” He raised his voice and pointed. “Look at the calendar. It’s Friday the 18th. If you’re not back with a paystub in your hand two weeks from today, I’m gonna recommend you go back. We’re through. Get the fuck out.”
***
Driving with his window down in the sixty-eight degree, mid-October weather, Trick could smell it from 87th Street, that wonderful aroma like no other. The red, white and green neon sign flashed in the late afternoon sun, Ronaldi’s Pizza. His old business acquaintance and restaurant owner, Ronnie Diamond, with his straight, blond hair and pale complexion, didn’t have a drop of Italian blood.
As Trick walked in, Ronnie, from behind the counter, waved his hands in the air and called out in a mock Italian accent, “Patrizio!” Ronnie wiped white powder onto his gravy stained apron, walked around the counter and stuck out his hand. “Well, how does it feel to be a free man again, paisan?”
“Not as good as I thought it would,” Trick said, shaking hands and removing his sunglasses.
“Whoa. What happened?” Ronnie asked. “They give you a blanket party before you left prison?”
Trick put his sunglasses back on. “Hell no. I was voted most likely to kick someone in the balls from my prison GED class,” Trick joked. “Look, I need to ask you something, in private.”
“Sure. C’mon back. There’s only me and one girl here right now and she doesn’t hear nothing,” Ronnie replied, waving his hand under his chin. “Wanna meatball sandwich?”
“No, I’m good.” Trick patted his flat stomach and followed Ronnie back to the kitchen. “I heard you got three joints like this now.”
“Yeah. Pizza business
is booming.”
Trick watched a short, bosomy teenage girl with headphones on, bobbing her head while spreading out pizza dough with a wooden rolling pin. “I’m proud of you, man,” Trick said. “You got away from it and you got away with it. Seems like just about everyone we were doing business with a few years ago either has a bad coke habit with holes in their septums, or they’re broke, in prison, or dead.”
“Forget about it,” Ronnie said, shrugging his shoulders and extending his fingers. “I still do a little tootskies once in a while but I quit selling the stuff altogether. If I got busted, they could confiscate everything … my pizza places, house, cars. I’m done with all that.”
Pizza girl nodded her head in time with a tune only she could hear as she ladled out pizza sauce with a large spoon, then flipped the spoon over and distributed the sauce to the edges of the raw dough. “I need a favor, Ron.”
“Done. Whatever it is. Done. I wouldn’t be where I’m at without you. The money we made together, ah Madone.” Ronnie waved his right hand like his fingertips were on fire. “Listen, if you need a job, I can put you on in one of my stores … making pizzas, deliveries. Hell, I could use a manager in my Evergreen Park location.”
“Uh … no. Thanks for the offer.” Trick paused and chose his words, watching the young lady toss handfuls of shredded mozzarella onto the sauce-covered dough. “I might take you up on that later but right now, I just need to show an income … pay stubs.”
“Oh, that. I don’t pay my people by check. Give ‘em all cash, keeps things simple. That way I don’t have to fool around with FICA, insurance or any of that mess. These kids come and go all the time.”
“I’m sure you have a company checkbook. How about I give you $300 a week in cash and you write me out a check for the same amount. Add forty hours on the memo line.”
“Oh, man. I don’t know. Something like that … could get sticky.”
“What happened to, ‘done, whatever it is’?”
“All right … all right, but give me $350 in cash and I hand you back a check for three bills. I’m sticking my neck out … got expenses.”