“What are you doing back there?” Borden said, glancing in the mirror again.
“We need to go to...15th Street and Avenue C,” she said, reading off the little disk. “But not in this car. Pull over somewhere and we’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”
“What’s there?”
“Other cars,” Tricia said, “less conspicuous than this one. Maybe even one we won’t have to steal.”
“Oh, yeah? Whose?”
“Coral’s,” Tricia said. “Now just pull over somewhere. And I hope that uniform you grabbed has a pair of handcuff keys on it.”
Borden made a hard right onto a side street, swerved over to the curb, left the car parked in front of a fire hydrant. He came around to the back, opened the door and helped Tricia out. Her dress was twisted and crumpled and the two top buttons were gone, leaving a fair expanse showing of what would have been cleavage on a bigger woman. Borden politely pretended not to notice. He had a pair of stubby metal keys ready in his fist and used one to release her from the cuffs Lenahan had cinched on her. She rotated her wrists to get the blood flowing again while Borden tossed the cuffs and keys and his cap and jacket through the car window and onto the front seat.
He left the engine running. “Maybe someone else will steal it and drive it away,” he said optimistically, and Tricia breathed a silent prayer that someone would. They needed all the help they could get.
They ran. A couple of blocks east, they spotted the sign for Royal’s. It rose, illuminated, above a fenced-in compound filled end-to-end with automobiles. As they got closer, it became increasingly obvious that the garage doubled as a used car lot. The cars were not, for the most part, in good condition—some had visible dents in their hoods or side doors, some were missing hubcaps or headlights, one had a spiderweb of cracks radiating out from a hole in the windshield. But at least the cardboard signs propped on the hoods asked for commensurately modest prices.
And true to the “24 HOURS” claim, the place was open. Tricia waved to catch the eye of the sullen, pear-shaped man stationed by the gate.
“Can you help us find a car?” Tricia asked him, struggling to catch her breath. Glancing back over her shoulder she didn’t see anyone in pursuit. Not yet, anyway.
The man unplugged the earpiece of a little transistor Sony from his ear. “What kind you thinking about?”
“Sorry—we’re not here to buy. It’s my sister’s car. I’m just picking it up.”
The minimal light of interest that had kindled in his eyes went out. “Keys,” he said.
Tricia handed them over. The guy pointed with one pinky at a tiny number impressed into the top rim of each key. “Nineteen H,” he said, and Tricia thought, like Horse. “That’s in the garage.” He stretched an arm toward a long, low bunker at the far end of the lot.
“Thank you,” Tricia said, but he’d already returned to listening to his program on the radio.
The garage door was open. Just inside, a man with a cap of black hair and a pencil moustache sat behind a wooden desk, flipping pages in this week’s issue of Look and listening to Norman Vincent Peale on a little Sony of his own. He flicked it off when he saw them approach.
“Ah, the happy couple,” the man said, springing to his feet. “Sir, madam. Looking for a starter, a budget or economy car, to get you through that tough first year? Then you’re in the right place, let me tell you.”
“We’re not—” Tricia said, but he waved away her objection before she could even finish uttering it, a habit you got the sense he’d formed long ago, as a sort of survival instinct.
“Please, allow me. I won’t try to sell you anything, you needn’t worry. Consider me a friend. I’ll show you some of the options you have and then if you decide to buy elsewhere, well, you’ll have my blessing.” He nudged Charley with a companionable elbow. “I don’t say it will happen—you won’t find a lower price at Schultz’s or Greenpoint Ford or, well, anywhere else—but if you decide you prefer to pay more for less, well, that’s every man’s privilege.”
Somewhere in the distance—but not far enough in the distance—a police siren wailed.
“Friend,” Charley said, “it’s a fine spiel, but save it for the rubes. We’re just picking up. Give him the keys, Trixie.”
Tricia handed them over, pointed at the little 19-H.
The man’s face fell. “Are you quite sure? Even if it’s not why you came, while you’re here, why not give a thought to—”
“No,” Borden said. “Just the car.”
“All right. I can see you’re a serious man who knows what he wants. I’ll bring you the car. But while I’m gone I’ll leave you with this thought: In the modern marriage, one car just isn’t enough. The lady needs her own—”
“I’m sorry,” Borden said, “we’re in a bit of a hurry here.”
“Well, then, why don’t you walk with me? It’ll save you some time, and who knows what might catch the lady’s eye along the way?”
He placed a feather-light hand at the small of Tricia’s back and steered them down a narrow aisle between two tightly packed rows of cars, junkers one and all.
“Now there’s a nice Pontiac Streamliner, only ten years old, fewer miles on her than you might think,” he said as they passed a decrepit hulk with rust stains the size of dinner plates and a crooked rear bumper.
“No,” Borden said.
“Perhaps madam would enjoy the freedom of a fine Ford coupe, like this one with its Flathead V8 engine,” the man said, waving at a ragtop whose top literally was in rags.
“No,” Borden said.
“Madam,” the man said, turning to Tricia, “couldn’t you see yourself behind the wheel of—”
“No,” Borden said. He pointed to a sign on the wall that said ‘D’. “Which way is ‘H’?”
The man heaved a deep sigh. Positive thinking only went so far, apparently. “This way,” he said.
Tricia couldn’t avoid a growing feeling of despair. Seeing all these terrible cars filled her with dread as to what they’d find when they finally got to Coral’s. Of course Coral wouldn’t have been able to afford anything better—no surprise there. But there were limits. Would the thing even run?
“I see a look of concern in your eyes, madam,” the man said, launching one last desperate sally. “Is it perhaps that you fear you’re missing out on a great opportunity?”
“Honestly, mister,” Tricia said, “meaning no offence, I’m just trying to understand why every car here is in such awful condition.”
“Madam,” the man said, pulling himself up to his not-too-impressive full height and smoothing back his hair with one hand. “Anyone can sell you a car that looks clean and new and pristine—there’s nothing to it. But what does the outer surface tell you about how a machine will run, about what’s going on under the hood? Absolutely nothing. Many a fine-looking automobile hides flaws you won’t discover till you get it home, and then, well, it’s too late, isn’t it? We are honest dealers, madam: we put all our cards on the table. Our cars may not look like much and they won’t win races—they’re more lemons than Le Mans, if you will. But at least with us you know what you’re getting, and at a fair price, too.” He shook his head ruefully. “Appearances may deceive, madam. Lemons never lie.”
“That’s...that’s absurd,” Tricia sputtered. “You’re saying your cars are better because they look just as lousy as they run...?”
By this point Borden had gone ahead and they heard a low whistle from the next row over. “Now that’s my kind of lemon,” he called. “Kid, get over here.”
Rounding the corner, Tricia saw him standing next to a sleek, shiny, new Mark III Lincoln Continental. Not a mark on it.
The salesman followed and when he saw the car his face drained of all color. “Let me see those keys.” He read off the number on the keys and grimaced as if making a connection for the first time. “No. No no no. This can’t be. That’s Miss King’s car.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Tricia said b
rightly, “Colleen King. That’s my sister. I’m picking it up for her.”
“But—but—” the man said. “Royal gave it to her. He’s very particular. He wouldn’t want us to let it out into anyone else’s hands.”
“Royal?” Tricia said.
“The owner here. The boss. It used to be his personal car—he drove it every day.”
“But you’re saying he gave it to her,” Tricia said. “It’s hers now.”
“Yes, but—”
“And she asked me to bring it to her. She gave me the keys,” Tricia said. The man was shaking his head. “Why don’t we ask Royal? I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“We can’t do that,” he said. “He’s not here. Royal’s been away the past month—I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Well, how’s he going to feel,” Tricia said, “when he does come back, if he finds out you stopped me from doing what Colleen asked?”
He twitched like an animal caught in a trap.
Finally he threw up his hands, slapped the keys into Tricia’s waiting palm. “It’s your neck, lady,” he said. “You’ve got the keys, you do what you want. But let me tell you something. You do not want to mess with Royal Barrone.”
“Barrone?” Tricia said.
“It’s your neck,” the man repeated and hightailed it out of sight.
23.
The Last Quarry
While Borden drove, first onto the F.D.R. and then north along the rim of Manhattan, Tricia straightened her hair in the lighted fold-down mirror on the passenger side. The ride was smooth and silent, the seats plush and supple. It hardly felt like they were moving, yet outside the windows the world swept past in a blur.
“Where are we going?” she said, touching a fingertip to the corner of her mouth to fix a spot where her rouge had smeared.
“Who cares?” Borden said. “Anywhere’s better than where we were.”
“You know how to get us back to Nicolazzo’s place?”
“Sure, corner of Van Dam and Greenpoint, near the cemetery. But why would we go there?”
“My sister’s there,” Tricia said. “So’s Erin. You want to get them out, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Borden said, with all the conviction of a soldier told to exit the nice, comfortable foxhole he’s been cowering in. “But driving up to the front door with no plan and no resources is not a way to get them out. It’s just a way to get us captured, too.”
“Fine. So where are we going?”
“How about finding this Barrone? He obviously likes your sister, if he gave her this car; and the way that guy acted back there, Barrone must pull some weight. Maybe he’ll help us.”
“Yeah, but, see, that makes no sense,” Tricia said. “If he’s who I think he is, he’d have no reason to like Coral, and every reason to like Nicolazzo.”
“Why’s that? Who is he?”
“Nicolazzo’s brother-in-law.”
Borden drove on in silence for a while.
“His brother-in-law,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Nicolazzo’s—”
“Brother-in-law. His sister married a man named Barrone. Who else could it be?”
“There’s probably more than one Barrone in New York City,” Borden said.
“Probably.”
“But you think this one’s the same one...”
“Don’t you?”
Borden reluctantly nodded. “So what’s Barrone’s connection with...what’s your sister’s name anyway, Coral or Colleen?”
“What’s your name, Carter or Charley?”
“Touché,” Borden said. “Let’s just call her Colleen, then. What’s Colleen’s connection to Barrone?”
“I’d have said there isn’t one,” Tricia said, “except that when I went to her apartment, the neighbor who watches her son accused me of working for Mrs. Barrone. Made it pretty clear that Mrs. Barrone, at least, is no friend of Colleen’s.”
“Aha,” Borden said. “The mister is, the missus isn’t—classic case of hot pants in the Barrone household?”
Tricia considered this. “Wouldn’t be the first one. Robbie Monge was married to the Barrones’ daughter, and he was unfaithful—that’s what Nicolazzo said, anyway. Before he killed him.”
“Runs in the family, then. Like father, like son-in-law.”
“But why my sister? How would Barrone even have known her?”
“You said she worked at Nicolazzo’s clubs,” Borden said. “If Barrone’s part of the family, he’d probably have shown up from time to time—maybe he even has some sort of role in them, owns a piece or something. Not hard to imagine them meeting.”
“And then...”
“Exactly. And then. Like Cole Porter wrote. Birds do it, bees do it.”
Tricia shuddered. “He must be sixty years old!”
“What, you think you won’t want company in bed any more when you’re sixty?” Borden looked over at her, and she hoped that in the darkness he couldn’t see she was blushing. She was grateful when he turned back to the road.
“I see,” he said. “There hasn’t been a Mister Trixie yet, has there.”
“I’ve had plenty of boyfriends,” Tricia said. “Back home.”
“I’m sure—to share malteds with at the soda shoppe, hold hands at the drive-in. It’s okay. I understand. Things don’t move quite as fast in South Dakota.”
“I’ll have you know,” Tricia said, coldly, “things move plenty fast in South Dakota. Boys have more hands there than a wall of clocks. Coral had to—Colleen had to beat ‘em off with a stick.”
“Oh, is that what she used?” Borden said, and Tricia felt herself blushing again.
“There’s no need to be vulgar, Mr. Borden,” Tricia said.
“Charley,” Borden said. “Call me Charley. Everything we’ve been through together, we should be on a first-name basis.”
Tricia looked down at her hands. “Tricia,” she said.
“Tricia,” Charley said, as they tooled along the highway at a whisper. “Pleased to meet you.”
He reached out a hand and patted hers, and for the first time in a long time she felt a bit of relief, a trace—just a trace—of comfort. She wasn’t in this alone.
But the moment passed. Charley took his hand away and said, “So. Barrone. Where are we going to find him?”
“Don’t look at me,” Tricia said. “I don’t know.”
“Well, this is the man’s car. There’s got to be something in here that’ll give us an address. Check the glovebox, why don’t you. Maybe he’s got the papers for the car in there. Or something with his address on it.”
Tricia unlatched the glove compartment, swung it open, and a little light inside flickered on. She started sorting through the contents. “He does have some papers, let’s see...here’s a map...a brochure...two ballpoint pens...a writing tablet...a—”
“What?” Charley said, after she’d been silent for a bit. “What else?”
“Pull over,” Tricia said.
“What? Why? Here?”
“Pull over,” she said again, and when he turned to look she held up a slim leather box filled with photographs.
In the wan light from the dashboard, from the illuminated mirror, and from the glove compartment, the two of them flipped through the photos. There were somewhere between twenty and thirty of them—closer to thirty, Tricia thought. Each was a stark black-and-white image, and each showed a combination of people—some vertical, some horizontal; some living, some dead. Halfway down the stack she found two that included Mitch. In one he was holding a knife, maybe the very stiletto she’d seen him pocket earlier that night; if not, one much like it. The man at his feet had bled copiously, though in black and white you couldn’t quite tell where the blood ended and the dark tile floor began.
In one she saw Robbie, and though he wasn’t holding a weapon himself what he was holding was nearly as bad: He held another man’s arms behind his back, much as Mitch had held his, and the man he was
holding was coming to a similar bad end. The circle of life.
Each photo had a date inscribed by hand on the back, along with a location: Umberto’s, Central Park Boathouse, Corner Mulberry & Hester. Each had names: Monge, Mitchell, Paulie Lips. And on each, one of the names was crossed out. On one, two names were crossed out, and turning it over Tricia saw a pair of dead bodies on the front, a man and a woman caught naked in what looked like a basement rec room. She felt her stomach rebel, forced herself to fight her rising gorge.
Several of the photos had the name Barrone written on them, and in those the man holding a gun in the pictures was tall and chiseled, skin pockmarked, close-set eyes cold. In fairness, he didn’t look his age—even in the later-dated photos he looked like he could be forty, not sixty. But he didn’t look like a man you’d want your sister to take to bed all the same.
“Jesus,” Charley said, after Barrone had made his fifth fatal appearance. “This is not your average garage owner.”
“Maybe there’s an explanation—”
“Of course there’s an explanation. Your sister’s boyfriend is a hit man. That’s the explanation.”
They kept turning over the photos, one by one, images of bad men and worse, hunters and their prey.
Then they got to the end.
The last photo—the very last one—dated just a little over a month ago—showed the scene Coral had described: a dead man in a gutter, several live ones standing over him. One of them was Mitch. The tall man with the chiseled features was in this photo, too, and his name was on the back. But it had been the last hunt for him and he’d been the final quarry.
Because he was the man in the gutter, and on the back it said Barrone.
24.
The Guns of Heaven
“I guess we know why he’s been away for the past month,” Charley said.
Tricia put the photos back into the box, put the lid back on, and slid it into the pocket of her dress.
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