SOUTHSIDE HUSTLE: a gripping action thriller full of suspense by LOU HOLLY Page B

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