SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense (5 page)

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 friendly 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.

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.”