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Patsy
by
Dave Hinrichs
ISBN: 978-0-7443-1854-8
Cover art by Dan Saunders
Copyright 2013 by Dave Hinrichs
All Rights Reserved
Published by SynergEbooks
www.synergebooks.com
DEDICATION
To
Marina Oswald Porter,
nee Prusakova
CHAPTER 1
Roy Parisi pulled off East Grand Avenue into the driveway of the Sympatico Motel. The
prostitutes in the parking lot were as thick as the moths flitting about the canister lights above the
entrance to the front desk. He parked the car in the first space, and before he could put his foot
on the macadam, a prostitute in stiletto heels with a red bandanna tied around her neck
propositioned him. He brushed past her without a word, opened the car trunk, and pulled out a
suitcase.
“You a shy one, handsome?” the woman cooed. She was wearing a yellow blouse with a
plunging neckline. He slammed shut the trunk lid and stepped around the woman. “Or maybe
that ain’t your problem at all, honey,” she said, following him.
Parisi turned, put the flat of his hand against her chest, and shoved her to the macadam. As he
went into the motel, she got to her feet sputtering, “You gonna get yourself sliced, boy.” Her
words were cut off by the door closing behind him.
“I have a reservation through the 22
nd
,” he told the desk clerk, a beefy middle-aged man with
beady eyes and a pockmarked face. “John Wilson.”
“You in town for business or pleasure, Mr. Wilson?” the clerk asked as he thumbed through a
metal file box full of index cards.
“Both,” Parisi answered. “Kinda like those whores out there.”
“Sorry about that,” the clerk said sheepishly. “The cops haul them away, and they’re right
back the next night.” He took an index card from the file. “Here we are – tonight through Friday
the 22
nd
. We have you in room 128 – first floor at the end of the unit, young man.”
“You got a bug problem here?”
“The exterminators were here two weeks ago.”
“So you had a bug problem?”
“Not anymore,” the man said. “The owner took care of it.”
“What kind of bugs did you have?” Parisi asked. “I don’t like bugs.”
“I can’t rightly say, young man, but like I said, the owner took care of it.” The clerk took a
key off a pegboard on the wall behind the front desk. “That’ll be $52.40 with tax.”
Parisi gave him three twenties and the clerk put the key and the change in his hand. He put the
key in his jacket pocket and picked up his suitcase. “If those bugs bounce back like those whores
out there,” he told the clerk, “I’m gonna be back at this desk asking for my money back,
understand?”
“Absolutely,” the clerk said with complete assurance. “You have a nice stay, young man.”
Room number 128 was the last room in the unit. When Parisi opened the door, the smell of
disinfectant was like a slap in the face. He searched for the light switch, found it, and surveyed
the cheaply furnished room. He threw his suitcase on the bed. Then he went into the bathroom
and splashed some water on his face. He stared at himself in the mirror. He was a tall raw-boned
kid with a dark complexion, pronounced cheekbones, square jaw, and a tight-lipped mouth.
Everyone said he was the image of his father, except for the eyes. He had blue eyes – his
mother’s eyes – so everyone said. He did not remember his mother. She had run off with a
Cadillac salesman when Parisi was very young. His father had been forced to raise him; his
father had dark eyes that turned icy cold when he lost his temper which was often and the reason
for his current stay in Huntsville on two counts of aggravated robbery.
1
When Parisi had visited his father last month and told him he was going to be the driver on
the Texas National job, the old man had swelled with pride as any father would at his son’s
college graduation or upon learning that his son had secured a position with a prestigious
company. Roy Parisi had graduated to the big leagues – bank robbery.
His father had heard through one of Sam Triolo’s inside contacts that he was looking for a
driver, and the old man put in a good word for his son. Normally, references from relatives do
not carry much weight but this one did because the old man had been part of Triolo’s crew
before he got sent up for a job Triolo had planned.
That is why Parisi was in town; that is why he was staying at the Sympatico Motel, a little
over a mile from the bank. He was getting a flat guarantee – no percentage of the take – a flat
guarantee – half down and half when the job was done, twenty grand in all. Small potatoes to
Triolo, but more money than Parisi had ever seen in his young life.
He unpacked his suitcase, got undressed and took a long shower. Afterwards, he lay on top
of the bed covers, just to be on the safe side, and smoked a cigarette. He imagined Triolo in a
suite on the top floor of The Adolphus Hotel, surrounded by luxury, lounging in a silk robe, the
lights of downtown Dallas spread out before him.
Sam Triolo was the man – the man with the money, the connections, the brains, the muscle –
the man with the plan, the man who had never been tapped on the shoulder by the long arm of
the law. Plenty of other men had taken the fall for him, including Parisi’s father, but he always
took care of them when they were on the other side. He took care of their needs; he took care of
their families. There was hard time and there was easy time, and Triolo did everything in his
power to make sure their time was easy. Of course, it was in his best interests to do so. Parisi had
never met Triolo; but he felt like he knew him. His father had spoken about him often.
He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and turned on his side. He was very tired. He knew he
would fall asleep in a matter of seconds, but before he did, he remembered when his father had
taken him to the circus many years ago. Parisi was seven or eight at the time. The memories of
the event were hazy, but one memory was crystal clear – the tightrope walker in silver slippers
making his way across a swaying rope holding the balance pole in front of him, making minute
corrections in his weight distribution with each step, leaning one way, then the other, as he made
his way ever so slowly across the high wire to the other side which seemed miles away to Parisi
at the time. It was an exhilarating, amazing feat. Sam Triolo reminded Parisi of that tightrope
walker; sooner or later, he had to take a fall.
****
Someone was pounding on the door in his dream; the pounding continued until he awoke with
a start. He thought he had been dreaming until the banging on the motel door resumed. He
rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. It was 2:45 a.m. “Who the hell is it?” he shouted. It
couldn’t be the cops, he thought. Why would the cops be banging on my door in the middle of
the night? It certainly was not because of that little set-to with the whore earlier. No, it wasn’t the
cops; he knew who it was.
“Open up,” someone yelled from the other side of the door.
Parisi looked through the peephole and saw a colored guy with a goatee wearing a wide-
brimmed purple hat and matching shirt. He opened the door and saw the skintight pants and
white cowboy boots. “Do you know what time it is?”
2

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