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The Old Neighborhood. Bill Hillmann
Читать онлайн.Название The Old Neighborhood
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781940430089
Автор произведения Bill Hillmann
Жанр Зарубежная классика
Издательство Ingram
The name stirred uproarious approval through the entire courtroom, and the gang forever changed the official name to the Thorndale Avenue Jag Offs.
The older TJOs had slightly biker-ish leanings and at times called themselves “Thieves Junkies and Outlaws.” Eventually, they garnered the attention of Sonny Barger and his crew, and the Hell’s Angels would sporadically stop by and pay the neighborhood a visit while on their countrywide tours of wreaking havoc. It was around then that the TJOs began dealing heroin. Some say it was the Angels that biked it in, concealing it in their fuel tanks, but others say it was the Mob, who Ganci and Kellas started doing low-level hits for. Those hits eventually got the both of them pinched on a murder rap, but during the months-long trial, they both miraculously escaped from Cook County Jail in a week that saw seven inmates escape, including one who was in the county hospital for a stab wound and just walked out of the front door in broad daylight. Needless to say, it was a bad week for those friendly confines that the regulars lovingly called “California” due to its location on California Ave. Both men were caught within weeks. Ganci took the plunge and got natural life, and Kellas got ten on conspiracy to commit murder.
Mickey’s big brother and Ryan’s dad, Rick Reid, took charge and brought the TJOs into the ’80s until he got in a traffic dispute on Clark, ripped a guy out of his car window, and beat him to death in front of his wife and child. In the process, he nearly exposed the long-running extortion ring the TJOs had going with the businesses on Broadway and Clark, between Thorndale Ave. and Foster Ave. Word was that Rick went into a bar across the street while the ambulance hauled the guy away, and the police began to question people on the sidewalk right in front of him. The entire neighborhood claimed they didn’t see anything. Mind you, the assault occurred in the middle of a busy Saturday afternoon on Clark. All the press brought on a big two-year investigation in an attempt to link heroin, extortion, murder-for-hire, and all-around Chi-town All-Star thuggery. The smart-ass TJOs decided to sue the City of Chicago and the Chicago Police on charges of harassment, and it actually got before a judge before being thrown out for its utter ridiculousness.
In the mid-’80s, Kellas was released from prison and regained the reins from an up-and-comer nicknamed Wacker. Word was that Wacker headed the murder-for-hire division of the gang. The TJOs enjoyed a short reign in the North Side heroin distribution ranks through newly acquired friends Kellas made during his stay in Joliet Correctional Institution. Then, a nobody buyer approaches him wanting to purchase two kilos of heroin for $40,000 dollars. Now, the TJOs were top dogs at this point for a long stretch of real estate—from Uptown to Howard Street—so it wasn’t out of their reach and reputation, but sensing that there were no Mob ties or muscle involved, Kellas and Wacker get greedy. They set up a deal in the Carson’s Ribs parking lot at 2:30 p.m. on a Friday—the same time school lets out at Senn High School, which is across Clark and down a block.
They decided to bring a newly acquired MAC 10 UZI with an extended clip in place of the two keys of H and figured they’d negotiate from there. Afterwards, they’d head over to pick up their girlfriends at Senn and see how the young bucks were holding down the courtyard, 40 stacks the richer.
They show up rolling in a souped-up, dark-green Mustang convertible with racing slicks. The guy is there just like they talked about. They all exit on the side of the Carson’s. They ask to see the green, and he asks to see the brown. They show the MAC 10, and the guy starts stuttering. Then, Wacker sprays the side of the guy’s Cutlass with a short burst from the MAC 10. A briefcase is handed over. They jump in the Mustang, and off Kellas and Wacker roll, already counting the money. Suddenly, a U-Haul truck flies out of nowhere and T-bones their Mustang. Thirteen DEA agents pour out with their guns drawn and firing. Wacker crawls out of the mangled muscle car and empties out what’s left in the extended clip. One of the DEA agents shoots him in the head. The bullet strikes his skull at an angle above his left eye, scorches through the flesh between his scalp and skull, ricochets off his hard Irish bone, and exits the back of his head. He passes out but survives, scarred for life. A giant wave of kids vacating the school walk past, astonished at the sight. The co-leader of the TJOs lies there presumably dead with a bullet hole in his head. A mob forms. The Chicago Police also arrive. There are more arrests, but finally it simmers down. Both of them go away for assault on federal agents and conspiracy to distribute heroin, which, when it’s all settled, leaves Kellas with a thirty-year sentence. Since it’s Wacker’s first felony offense, he gets ten years. Now, we’re getting into the mid-’80s and the rise of Mickey Reid, Fat Buck, and my big bro, Pistol Pat.
CHAPTER 2
DA
I USED TO WALK MY NEIGHBORHOOD a lot as a little kid. We called it Edgewater back then, but nowadays most people call it Andersonville. At first, I walked with my grandfather. His nickname was Da, which was my mom’s first word. Some babies say, “Dada,” but Ma just said, “Da,” and it stuck. We never called him anything else. All us kids walked with him over the years, running his weekend errands, getting ice cream and then early lunch at McDonald’s until we aged-out. It was our own little familial tradition, precious in its simplicity. Da was a sharp, good-looking old man who dressed well in collared shirts and slicked back his thick, black hair in immaculate columns. He worked the streetlight truck for the city and was the precinct captain in the neighborhood. He was a milkman before operating the streetlight truck, and to this day, I can’t come in contact with either without thinking of him. After Da got sick and couldn’t walk anymore, I started to walk the neighborhood collecting envelopes for Lil Pat.
It was an easy job: walk down Clark, step into a shop, and say “Collection” to the person at the register. They’d hand over an envelope, and I’d walk to the next one. I’d finish it in about an hour. Lil Pat would cruise the neighborhood around then and check in on me once in a while. He’d slowly ease past with a grin, and I’d give a nod if everything was fine and all the envelopes had been handed over. If not, I’d shake my head and he’d stop to chat. He’d keep track and go back and talk with the shop manager himself. I’d finish right by Hollywood. He’d pull up, I’d jump in and hand over the envelopes, and he’d give me twenty bucks. It was like a second allowance, and it kept me stocked up on comic books, baseball cards, and candy. I loved it. A few months after I’d started collecting, I began to figure out what was happening.
My walk shadowed the walk we did with Da. We’d walk south down Ashland to Foster and turn left past the funeral home where Da’s wake would be held and I’d crack jokes in a side room with my cousin J, then cry uncontrollably as the priest said the final words.
Then, we’d turn north down Clark. Da’s Cocker Spaniel, Sheba, led the way, cutting through the busy mass of old ladies with the little bells jingling on her collar. It was busy as ever on Clark. I passed the crazy Middle Eastern shops with neon-green statues of Buddha glowing in the windows, as well as other strange knick knacks and herbs and candles. I stepped into the ice cream shop where I used to order a Green River Float every time with Da, and my sisters would tease me and try to trick me into ordering something else. The old man in the white smock behind the counter looked down at me, sad, and handed me the envelope. He must have missed Da, too. Da wasn’t the same since he got cancer—he was sad and cried a lot. Even then, I kept hope that he could beat the cancer and that he’d be back making his walk like nothing ever happened in no time flat.
I walked to Almo’s Shoes, where Almo himself would blow up a balloon for any kid who entered the store, whether his parents were buying or browsing. I didn’t get balloons anymore, just the envelopes and the same sad face.
“How is your grandfather?” Almo asked as he placed his hand on my shoulder.
“He’s OK,” I said. “He’s doing real good.” I thought that if I said it enough it could turn true. It wasn’t true though; he got sicker every day.
I knew the people on the walk worried about Da because he was a good man. They couldn’t have really known half of it though—I didn’t even know then. When Lil Pat was young, Dad