Read SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense Online
Authors: LOU HOLLY
After getting a message on his pager from Joker, Trick returned his call and drove to the Orland Square Mall parking lot and cruised around until he saw his 1968 El Camino parked along the outer edge near Marshall Fields. He pulled his Lincoln within a foot of Joker’s driver-side door, lowered his window and got a lungful of unfiltered Pall Mall. “Hey, give me a break with that, will you?”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch. You sound like my old lady,” Joker said, as he flipped his half smoked cigarette off his fingertip, sending it sailing over Trick’s car. “Did you bring me those thirty grams?”
Trick coughed and waved his hand in front of his face, then tossed Joker a stuffed, sealed business envelope. “You got the cash for the last twenty-two?”
“I’ll have everything wrapped up in a couple days. Square up with you then.”
“Very important that you do.” Trick tried reading Joker’s eyes behind his aviator sunglasses. “I don’t know about this other deal. You sure this guy’s OK?”
“Yeah, he’s good people.”
Squinting into the setting sun, Trick asked, “How much does he want?”
“Half-pound.”
“Whoa. That’s a lot of product,” Trick said, examining Joker’s typical smirking face. “You sure he’s not a cop?”
“Absolutely. What? I’m a jerkoff now?” Joker pointed a finger at himself. “I don’t know what I’m doin’?”
“All right, don’t get hot. What’s this guy’s name? Where you know him from?”
“Barker, we were in Nam together. I’d trust ‘im with my life. In fact, I have.”
“He’s got to understand, cash only.” Trick rubbed his thumb and first two fingertips together. “The price is $25,000.”
“Not gonna be a problem.”
“OK, go ahead and set it up for tonight.” Trick put his car in drive with the brake on. “Get back to me with the details.”
***
“Yeah, got it. I wrote it down,” Trick said, holding the payphone just close enough to hear Joker but not so close that he had to smell the years of saliva buildup on the black plastic mouthpiece. “But I’d feel better if you were going to be there too.”
“I can’t, man. It’s my daughter, Brandi’s, birthday. Otherwise …”
“What’s he look like, this Barker?” Trick read the gang graffiti scratched into the clear acrylic panes of the phone booth.
“‘Bout five-nine but he looks bigger. Heavy build, shaved head, fair. Kinda looks like a bulldog. Oh, and he’s got the devil tattooed on the side of his neck.”
“What the hell?” Trick got a bad feeling about the situation. “The devil?”
“He said meet him in the backyard of that address, on the patio, 11:00 tonight.”
***
Trick drove to the Homestead Bar at Central Avenue and Southwest Highway looking for Bob. Seeing Bob’s emerald green Eldorado in the parking lot, he went in and found him sitting on his usual stool.
“I want you to ride shotgun with me tonight,” Trick said, taking a seat next to Bob.
“What’re you talkin’ about … shotgun?”
“I’ll give you a grand for an hour’s work. Easiest money you’ll ever make.”
Bob swallowed the last of his Sambuca, then spit a coffee bean back into his snifter. “What do I gotta do?”
“Just come along. Watch my back. Make sure nothing goes wrong,” Trick said out of the side of his mouth as the bartender approached. “Bring your gun.”
“Look, let me ask you something.” Bob fooled with Trick’s power window button, raising and lowering it. “I got to know, what was it like in jail?”
“Prison. Jail and prison are two different things. Quit messing with my window.” Trick turned his eyes from the road and gave Bob a stern squint. “It’s a mind fuck. You don’t want to go there.”
“I always worried … well, wondered,” Bob said in his raspy, soprano voice, “how I’d do if, for some reason, I had to go to prison.”
“If, for some reason, you have to do time, don’t try to play the tough guy. Someone tougher will slap the shit out of you.”
“I heard you should go up to the baddest looking guy and lay into him with everything you’ve got.”
“Yeah, try that sometime, Bob.” Trick laughed. “It would be worth it to go back just to see you pull that one. You better make sure you don’t get busted for anything, that’s all I got to say.”
“What? You don’t think I can handle myself? I’m not as macho as you, tough guy?”
“Wait, that’s it, that’s the address. Let’s just drive by first.”
“This one here?” Bob craned his neck as they slowly drove past. “What’s with all the flags?”
“Must be a model house,” Trick said, checking out the colorful plastic triangles strung across the front yard blowing in the wind. “This isn’t what I expected. I thought someone lived here.”
Trick continued along the street till it curved around, took two rights and headed back again. He turned off his lights and pulled over to the curb so he could see the house on the cross-street ahead. “There’s no car in the driveway. Wonder if he’s there.” Trick glanced at his watch. “11:04. Wait here.” He got out of the car, opened the trunk and took out the half-pound of cocaine that was inside a Kleenex box wrapped like a birthday present. He looked around; most of the lights in the surrounding houses were off so he didn’t shut the trunk all the way, not wanting to make too much noise. He put the box into a plastic mailbox that looked like a tiny barn, then walked to the passenger side and motioned for Bob to lower his window. “Wait here, I’m going back there.”
The wind whipped through Trick’s dark blond hair as he walked up the driveway and into the backyard of the model house. He took note that there was vacant land for about a half mile behind the house, nothing but tall grass and weeds all the way to busy 159th Street to the north. Then he saw the orange ember of a cigarette bobbing in the dark.
A gruff voice called out, “You Trick?”
“Yeah.” Trick saw moonlight shining off a shaved scalp. “You must be Barker.”
“You got the shit with you?”
“You want to get right to it, don’t you?”
“That’s why we’re here.” Barker flipped his cigarette into the backyard.
“It’s close by. You got the cash? $25,000.”
Barker pulled a paper bag from his back pocket and waved it in the air with a leather gloved hand. “Got it all, right here. Where’s the shit, in your car?”
“Yeah,” Trick lied. “I’ll be right back.”
Trick walked back to the car and jumped in behind the wheel. “I’m half tempted to just take off. Leave the stuff in the mailbox and come back for it later.”
Bob fidgeted with a Rubik’s Cube he had produced from his coat pocket. “Is he alone?”
“Yeah.” Trick ran his fingers through his hair and let out a deep breath. “An old customer vouched for this guy but I got a funny feeling.”
“Want me to come back there with ya?” Bob tried in vain to put some bass in his voice. “Earn my dough?”
“Tell you what. Wait a minute after I leave, then go up the sidewalk and come around the far side of the house. He’ll have his back to you.” Trick turned the car off and put the keys in his jacket pocket. “I don’t have to tell you to bring the gun, do I?”
Time seemed to slow down as he retrieved the half-pound of cocaine from the mailbox and put it inside his half-zipped jacket. He breathed in the cool air that was laced with manure fertilizer from farmlands to the southwest and looked around at the houses. A few doors back a television set flickered in the living room window. The rest of the households looked as though everyone had gone to bed. “Working stiffs,” Trick whispered as he walked up the sidewalk. A gust of wind blew through the small trees in the new housing development, drowning out the sounds of a barking dog and traffic from 159th Street.
Barker flipped another cigarette into the backyard when he saw Trick round the corner of the house and walk onto the concrete patio. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” he growled.
Trick didn’t like the tone of Barker’s voice. He walked up close enough to see the whites of Barker’s eyes, or the lack of. His eyes were more red than white.
Barker, about four feet away, stood with his feet set far apart and his shoulders hunched forward. “Well, what the fuck? You got my stuff?”
“Yeah, right here.” Trick pulled the box containing the cocaine out of his jacket and held it up.
“Joker said your stuff’s top flight. But how about I take a look?”
Trick tossed the package to Barker and answered back, “Let’s see the color of your green.”
“Cute. Happy fuckin’ birthday to me.” Barker tore off the wrapping, ripped the box open, pulled out the drugs and threw the packaging to the ground. He set the Ziploc filled with cocaine on a wrought iron patio table and opened the bag. He took a deep whiff, zipped the bag closed and stood looking at Trick.
“Well?” Trick stared at Barker, looking for a reaction.
“Here.” Barker pulled the paper bag out of his back pocket and tossed it to Trick.
Trick opened the bag and pulled out a stack of index cards held together with a rubber band. “What the fuck …?” He looked up at Barker, who was now holding the Ziploc full of cocaine in his right hand and an automatic pistol in his left.
“Shakedown, breakdown, mutha fucka,” Barker laughed.
Trick looked behind Barker at the corner of the house. Bob was nowhere in sight. Realizing he should have been there by now, Trick sized up the situation. Not knowing what Barker was capable of, he knew he had to decide that second whether he was going to chance getting shot. He slipped the rubber band off the index cards and flipped them in Barker’s face. Trick dove for the gun, which went off as he grabbed it. With the sound of gunshot ringing in his ears, Trick was stung in the face by bits of concrete that flew up from the patio. Barker dropped the Ziploc when Trick dug his thumb into his wrist. Trick grabbed for the bag while holding onto the hot barrel of the gun but it slipped through his fingers. A powerful blow to the back of Trick’s head dropped him to his knees. Everything went black and white. Barker yelled something that Trick couldn’t make out. His voice was muffled and seemed to be playing at a lower speed.
In those short seconds Trick thought this was the end. This is how he was to die. Fear shot him to his feet, knocking Barker on his back. With the half-pound of cocaine in hand, Trick took off through the high weeds toward 159th Street as the June bug buzz of a bullet whistled past his right ear. He was suddenly hit with the worst headache he ever felt, starting at the base of his skull and traveling to his temples. With a thud, he fell on his stomach when he tripped over the uneven ground causing him to drop the bag of cocaine. Trick tried to remember how many shots were fired and lurched to his feet. Putting the plastic bag in his coat pocket, he continued running, glancing over his shoulder through the tall growth searching for Barker. Finally making it to 159th out of breath, he put out his thumb and stumbled backward in a daze.
“Hey, take a bath, you bum.” A young guy flying past in the passenger seat of a Mustang threw a Wendy’s drink cup, hitting Trick on his tan chinos. Crushed ice scattered and cola soaked his already dirty pants. The Mustang continued on its way and Trick inspected his appearance. He tried brushing himself off but it didn’t do much good. He looked back in the direction of the model house and continued walking backward with his thumb out.
Several cars honked and flew past before he heard the screech of tires. Trick spun around to see a car stopped in the right-hand lane with the rear passenger door open, so he ran up and jumped in.
“Hey, Cutie. Where ya going?” a young bleach blonde behind the wheel asked.
“Anywhere,” Trick managed between heavy breaths. He scanned the occupants of the vehicle to see three teenage girls with similar hair and makeup all chattering at once. The blonde in the backseat asked, “Are you bleeding?”
“I don’t know. Am I?” Trick put his hand on the back of his head, then held it in front of his face. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
The blonde in the front passenger seat opened the glove compartment and handed Trick a McDonald’s napkin which he placed on the back of his head. She asked, “What’s your name?”
“Jack,” Trick uttered the first thing that came to his mind, “Jack Paar.”
“What happened, Jack?” they chimed. “Did you get in a fight?” “Do you want us to take you to the hospital?”
“No … no. Tell you what.” Trick inspected the napkin which was already wet with blood. “Drive me to my car. Turn around up here, anywhere, and go back that way.” He motioned with his thumb and a nod of the head.
“I’m Kimmi,” the driver said making eye contact though the rearview mirror. “This is Jenni,” she said, motioning to the front passenger.
“I’m Kelli,” the girl in the backseat said, touching Trick’s leather clad arm. “How old are you?”
“About twice your age, kid.”
“We’re not kids. We’re sixteen,” Jenni said.
“I’ll be seventeen in December.” Kimmi turned her head from the road.
Jenni turned around and got on her knees facing Trick. “We’re like so bored, Jack. Got any suggestions?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Try bowling.”
“Boooring,” Kimmi complained.
Kelli leaned closer to Trick. “Let’s go somewhere and get you cleaned up. Whadda ya say, big boy?”
“Just better get me back to my car.”
“Which one of us is the cutest?” Jenni asked.
“I’ve got the biggest boobs.” Kelli opened her jacket and pushed her shoulders back.
“Jack.” Jenni rested her chin on the headrest and smiled. “What do you call a ménage à trois when it’s four people?”
Kimmi shook her head and said, “That’s an orgy, dummy.”
“We like to have fun.” Kelli’s hand moved from Trick’s arm to his thigh. “Do you like to have fun, Jack?”
“Whoa, kid.” Trick pulled Kelli’s advancing hand from the inside of his thigh.
“C’mon.” Kimmi’s blue eyes flashed in the rearview mirror. “No one’s home at my house all weekend.”
“Look, I got a headache and I think I might need stitches.”
“You can take a shower at my place and I can put a bandage on your cut.”
“Look, you ladies are just too young for me. I just got out of prison and I’m not looking to go back. OK?”
Kelli backed away. “You’re not a murderer, are you?”
“No. I never killed anyone. Jesus.” Trick leaned forward and pointed. “Here, this block coming up, turn left.”
When they were a block away from his car Trick scooted down in his seat. “Drive by slow up here and turn right,” he said, as they went past his car and the house where he was attacked. He noticed the black Buick that had been parked a few doors to the east of the model home was no longer there. “Go around, follow the curve up there and make the first two rights.” Trick looked at the paper napkin again, it was soaked with blood. “Slow down … slow down. Right here. Let me out,” he instructed through clenched teeth as they approached his car again. “Oh … thanks, girls. Stay out of trouble.”
“Here, Jack.” Kimmi quickly jotted her phone number on a small piece of paper and handed it to Trick. “Think about it,” she said with a wink.
Trick took the paper and stuffed it in his pocket as he slowly got out of the car looking around. He threw the bloody napkin on the street and took his keys from the pocket of his leather bomber. As the girls pulled away beeping, Trick heard pounding as he held his aching head. Muffled sounds of Bob’s voice were followed by more pounding.
“Bob,” Trick said, putting his hands on the trunk of his car. “Is that you?”
“Who the fuck else would be in here?”
Trick looked around, not seeing any sign of Barker. “What are you doing in there, Bob?”
“Open the God damn fuckin’ trunk,” Bob’s muffled voice yelled.
“What was that, Bob? I can’t hear you. Did you say open the trunk?”
The pounding got louder and Trick opened the trunk. He leaned over and put his hands on his knees as a bit of blood trickled down his forehead. “Good thing I had you come with me, Bob, keeping an eye on my trunk and all.”
“Real fuckin’ funny,” Bob said, as he climbed out of the trunk.
“Where’s your gun?” The porch light from the house they were parked in front of went on.
“I don’t know.” Bob straightened up, holding his back. “He took it.”
Trick walked around to the driver door and asked over the top of the car, “Who took it?”
“Santa Claus,” Bob said, getting back in the car. “Who do you think? The guy who put me in the trunk.”
Trick heard the blare of sirens to the north. “Did this guy happen to give you a name?”