“It’s not,” Tricia said. “That has nothing to do with any horse race.”
“That would be most reassuring to hear,” Guercio said, “if only I believed it.”
“What are you saying?” Erin said. “That you won’t pay off on the bet? Because none of the rest of this matters. You accepted Charley’s wager, he won, now you have to pay off. That’s the way it works.”
“Don’t lecture me on how my business works,” Guercio snapped. He got control of himself again and when he spoke next his voice was measured and careful once more. “A bookmaker is an honorable man and has certain obligations, it’s true—but only insofar as he is himself dealing with other honorable men. There is no obligation to pay a man who cheats. There is also, I might add, no obligation to pay a dead man.”
“He isn’t dead yet,” Erin said. “Maybe he will be tomorrow or maybe not—but tomorrow’s not today, and today’s when you owe him his money. You want word to get out that you welsh on your bets?”
“No,” Guercio said, “that would be both unfortunate and false—and doubly unfortunate for being false. Perhaps I can suggest an accommodation.”
“Such as?”
“We will hold Mr. Borden’s money for now—in escrow, if you will. Safe under lock and key. Should he return, alive and well, from his captors tomorrow, that will be evidence enough for us that he didn’t cheat and we will release the money. With a day’s interest, of course. We are looking to harm no one.”
“That’s not good enough,” Erin said.
“I’m afraid it’s the best I can do. These decisions go even higher up in our organization than I.”
Tricia thought of Reynaldo’s words: We all answer to someone. “How much higher?”
“Enough,” Guercio said.
“Then we want to talk to whoever’s higher,” Erin said. “Whoever’s got the power to hand over the money we’re owed.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Guercio said. “All you’ll do is make him angry.”
“Look,” Erin said—and as she said it she reached one arm up under her dress and Tricia heard the sound of tape ripping off skin. When her hand emerged, Tricia’s gun was in it. “Somebody owes me money,” she said, “and somebody’s going to pay.”
44.
Somebody Owes Me Money
Reynaldo’s mouth fell open and Tricia felt her own drop as well. When—? How—?
Erin must have taken the gun after Tricia put it down on the bar at Mike’s, she figured. Erin had gone to the bathroom before they left. That must have been when she’d taped it to...what, the inside of her leg?
In any event, she had it in her hand now.
Behind them, Tricia heard the guard grunt and, turning, she saw the man drawing a gun of his own out of a holster beneath his sport coat.
Erin sighted quickly and pulled the trigger, and the man’s hand shot back, his gun flying out of his fist. With an expression of pain on his face, he jammed his hand under his other arm. Tricia saw blood slowly soak into his sleeve, turning it an even darker shade of rust.
“Toss the other gun,” Erin commanded, and when the guard failed to respond, she repeated it. “Otherwise my next shot goes between your eyes,” she said.
Her next shot—
There would be no next shot, Tricia knew; Erin had just used up the only bullet in the gun.
“Erin,” she said.
“Not now,” Erin said. As the guard threw Reynaldo’s derringer away from him and, following Erin’s gestures, moved over to the narrow end of the room, Erin swung the gun to cover Guercio, whose hands dutifully rose.
“Erin,” Tricia said.
“Not now!”
“It’s important,” Tricia said.
But Erin ignored her. “Mr. Guercio, we need this money—without it, Charley is going to die. What’s more, it’s ours. You owe it to us. So let’s skip to the finish here. Who do I need to see to make this happen?”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe so,” Erin said. “It won’t be my first or my last.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Guercio said.
“The money...?” Erin said.
Guercio took the top slip of paper from a stack on his desk, uncapped a fountain pen, and scratched out a few words, paused for a moment, then scratched out a few more. He screwed the cap back on the pen, laid it down, folded the note in half. Held it out to her. “You can take this to the Satellite Club on Union Square, ask for Mr. Magliocco. If he wants to give you the money, it’s up to him.”
Erin snatched the paper from his hand.
While she was doing this, Reynaldo stepped forward. He gave the knob at the end of his walking stick a counterclockwise twist and drew out a slim foot-long blade. He dropped the stick itself and swung the blade up to within an inch of Erin’s neck. “Not so fast, my dear.”
“Put that thing down,” Guercio said. “You’re going to get yourself shot.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t shoot me,” Reynaldo said. “We’ve known each other a long time. Isn’t that right, my dear? I’m sorry to do this—but you can’t walk in here with a gun and start threatening people. You are my guest, and I’ll have to answer for your behavior.”
“I’m sorry, too, Reynaldo,” Erin said. “I liked you.” She turned the gun to face him and pulled the trigger.
He flinched as the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
She pulled the trigger twice more with the same result. After a moment of confusion, a smile spread across Reynaldo’s face. Another appeared on Guercio’s, tinged less with relief and more with malice. The guard had no smile on his face at all—just the malice.
“Ah,” Reynaldo said. “My dear.”
The derringer bucked in Tricia’s hand then as she fired it from just two feet away. The blade spun from Reynaldo’s grip to clatter against the wall.
Reynaldo howled in pain, wincing and clutching his hand.
Tricia dropped the little single-barreled gun on the carpet. It, too, only held one shot—but at least she knew it. And fortunately, she’d picked up the guard’s gun from the floor as well.
She transferred the bigger gun from her left hand to her right, brandished it aggressively.
Erin backed up without crossing Tricia’s line of fire. “Only one bullet,” she said. “That what you were trying to tell me?”
“Just go call the elevator,” Tricia said.
“What did you do with them?” Erin asked as they rode their second cab of the evening to the north end of Union Square. “Tie them up?”
“There wasn’t time,” Tricia said. “Or anything to tie them up with.”
“So, what, you knocked them out?”
“Do I look strong enough to knock out three men, all of them bigger than me?”
“So what did you do?” Erin said. “You didn’t shoot them, did you?”
“Of course not,” Tricia said. “What do you think I am?”
“Then what did you do?”
“I apologized to them for what we’d done,” Tricia said.
“You...apologized.”
“I explained to them that with their help we might be able not only to free Charley but also do some harm to Nicolazzo—Guercio didn’t seem to have much love for him. And I asked them please to not interfere with our getting the money we’re owed from Mr. Magliocco.”
“You asked them please...? They’re probably on the phone with Magliocco right now!”
“I don’t think so,” Tricia said.
“Why not?”
“Because I also ripped the phone out of the wall,” Tricia said. “And made them take off all their clothes.”
“All their clothes,” Erin said.
“And get in the closet,” Tricia said. “I locked them in. Then I locked their clothes in the filing cabinet. The phone, too.” She opened her palm, where two keys lay, one longer, one shorter.
Erin smiled.
“That’s more like it,” she said.
&n
bsp; “I try,” Tricia said.
They showed Guercio’s note to the bruiser at the door, who patted them down at length before letting them pass, and then to a crew-cut maitre d’ who handed the note back with an expression of surprise. Maybe he was used to the women who came bearing notes from Guercio looking more impressive, less run-down. Or perhaps it was the note’s second sentence that surprised him.
The note said, These women wish to collect Charley Borden’s winnings—show them every courtesy. But frisk them carefully first. It was signed just with initials, V.G.
The maitre d’ bent to his appointed task, giving Tricia her fourth frisking in 24 hours, and her most thorough yet. Uncomfortable as it was, Tricia submitted to the search with good grace. The guard’s pistol was sitting comfortably in a garbage can down the block, so she knew there was nothing for the maitre d’ to find.
He didn’t find anything on Erin, either, though he worked his way up her body slowly and with obvious relish.
“Touch ‘em again and I’ll have to charge you five bucks,” Erin said.
“I’ve got my orders,” he said.
When he was satisfied they had nothing dangerous on them, he led them through a dark and empty lounge to a leather-upholstered door, where he pulled a braided cord dangling from the ceiling. Somewhere behind the door, Tricia heard a bell chime. Footsteps approached, and the maitre d’ said, “It’s me—Joey,” when they’d stopped.
“Yeah?” came a voice. “What kind of wine we serving tonight?”
“Montepulciano.”
The door swung open.
Behind it, a roulette wheel spun at a table surrounded by bettors in wrinkled suits and young women in backless gowns. A croupier stood at a craps table, sweeping the dice along the felt to a waiting shooter’s hand. The maitre d’ threaded a path between the tables and Tricia and Erin followed close on his heels. A few men looked up as they passed but most remained focused on the money they were losing.
There were tables set up for poker and blackjack, but with no players at them so far—it was still early, Tricia supposed. Up on one wall she saw a blackboard listing the start times of upcoming horse races.
They kept going, past a small stage with a red velvet curtain and rows of plush seats empty before it, then down a hallway decorated with framed paintings of naked women. The door at the far end had no upholstery on it and no braided cord to pull. The maitre d’ knocked.
A voice said, “What’s the—”
“Montepulciano.”
Tricia watched the doorknob turn and the door swing to. The room inside was brightly lit and well appointed, with thick curtains hanging before a wide window and dark cherrywood furniture buffed to a high gloss. On one side of the room a low sofa supported the bulk of a black-haired man of at least three hundred pounds and a slender blonde coiled up on the seat beside him with a resentful look on her face. She looked to be about Tricia’s age; the man looked at least two decades older.
“What is it, Joey?” the man said in a voice as husky as a just-wakened drunk’s. “Who are these women?”
The maitre d’ passed the note to him. “They had this note from Vincent, Mr. Magliocco.”
He read it, passed it back. “You frisk them?”
“Absolutely.”
Magliocco sat forward with his hands on his knees. “I know you,” he said to Tricia. “Why do I know her?”
The man who had opened the door—a little pepperpot with a tangle of curly hair and a nose you could use to split logs—came over to them for a closer look. “She’s that dancer you liked, boss,” he said. “You remember, at the Sun. You had me give her your number. She never called,” he added accusingly.
“Oh, yes,” Magliocco rasped. “The dancer. I remember. ‘Begin the Beguine,’ right?”
Tricia nodded.
“And what are you here for now? Borden’s money? The man’s a cheat, and he’s about to become a dead cheat. Why should I pay anything?”
“Because you accepted his bet and it came in,” Erin said. “You owe—”
“Don’t tell me what I owe.”
“You’ve taken his money every time he’s lost, haven’t you?”
“A man wants to give me money, I’ll take it.”
“Well, then you’ve got to pay out when he wins!”
“Ah, get her out of here,” Magliocco said.
“Both of them?” the pepperpot asked.
“No, just the loud one,” Magliocco said. He licked his lips. “Maybe the dancer and I can work something out.”
45.
No House Limit
Magliocco sprang to his feet with more alacrity than his size had led Tricia to expect. He kicked the door shut behind the two men. They’d walked Erin out with a hand on each elbow, and at the last moment she’d looked back at Tricia with more than a little concern in her eyes. Tricia had said, “It’s okay, I’ll be fine,” but it had been a reflex. She wasn’t at all sure she was going to be fine.
“So,” Magliocco said. “What would you like to drink?”
“I’m okay, thanks. I don’t need a drink.”
“Who ever needs a drink? A glass of water, maybe, if you’re in the Sahara Desert. Other than that, it’s for pleasure. So what’s your pleasure?”
“A glass of water sounds fine,” Tricia said.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re gonna be a pain in my ass, aren’t you?” He said it with some amusement, though. “You’re cute, you know. Not what I’d call gorgeous, and maybe you don’t got knockers like your friend or like Reenie here, but you’ve got something, kid.”
Reenie was staring daggers at her. Tricia wanted to say to her, Don’t worry, he’s all yours, I don’t want him. But she kept her mouth shut.
“Make us a couple gin tonics, will you?” he said, and since he didn’t turn his head when he said it, Tricia briefly thought he was asking her to do it. But Reenie must have been used to this and got up and made her way to a little bar set up in the corner.
“That okay with you?” Magliocco said, and this time he was talking to Tricia, so she nodded.
“Good. Good. So listen, here’s the pitch: I want you to come work for me. Dance for me. Ditch that bastard Nicolazzo, forget the Sun, come work here. I’ll double your salary and you’ll make the same again in tips. More, maybe. Depends what you’re willing to do.”
“He means will you lay for it,” Reenie said. She had a queer high-pitched voice, like a boy who’d swallowed the helium from a toy balloon.
“Tschah,” Magliocco said, or something to that effect. “Just make the drinks.” And to Tricia: “It’s up to each girl what she’s willing to do. There’s no house limit here, each girl sets her own limits. So, you know, whatever you’re comfortable doing, where you draw the line, that says how much money you can make. We got rooms in the back, you want to use them—but a good dancer like you, you could make decent dough without even taking none of your clothes off, probably.”
“Mr. Magliocco,” Tricia said, straining to keep her tone civil, “I appreciate the offer, and I’ll seriously consider it—I mean that. Truth is, I can’t go back to work at the Sun and I’ve got to work somewhere. But right now I just can’t think about myself. Charley Borden’s in deep, deep trouble and I’m the one that landed him there. I’ve got to get him out, and we have a plan, but for the plan to work we need money, and the money Charley won on that horse race is the money we need. Can’t you just pay what he won and then we can talk about the job later?”
“No,” Magliocco said. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. You sign a contract saying you’ll come to work for me and I’ll pay off that bet the next minute. It’s what they call a quid pro quo—you know what that means? It’s French for you scratch my back, I scratch yours.”
Reenie had come over with the drinks—just two of them, one for Tricia and one for Magliocco—and she said, “That ain’t French, dummy, it’s Latin.”
He took one of the glasses from her hand, dashed its content
s in her face. “And that ain’t a drink no more, now it’s war paint. Make me another and keep your yap shut.”
Tricia could see the slow burn the poor girl was doing as the liquor ran down her cheeks and dripped onto her décolletage. She waited with dread for the second glass to go flying. But Reenie turned to her politely and held it out for her to take. What could she do? Tricia took it.
“Excuse me,” Reenie said, with great dignity. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Then she was gone, through a side door.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Mr. Magliocco,” Tricia said. “It was cruel.”
“She shouldn’t have mouthed off.”
“Still.”
“Don’t feel bad for her,” Magliocco said. “She’s a spoiled little brat. I’d have tossed her out on her can a year ago if she wasn’t so damn good in the rack.” He made a drinking motion with one hand and Tricia reluctantly took a sip. It tasted like licking paperclips. “So, what’s it gonna be—you want to come work for me?”
There were probably things Tricia would have wanted to do less, but they weren’t coming to mind.
What she said, though, was, “I’ll do it—but only if you pay that money out to Erin right now. And I mean now.”
“Eager,” Magliocco said, “I like that.” He snatched up the receiver of a telephone by the sofa. “Joey?” he said. “Yah, it’s me. The redhead still there? Good, good. Hold on.” He waved Tricia over to a desk on the far side of the room, beneath the window. “There’s paper and pens there.” There were. “Sit down. Write. ‘I—,’ whatever your name is, ‘—being of sound mind and body, do hereby solemnly swear to come work for Alessandro Magliocco starting tomorrow and continuing for as long as Mr. Magliocco says I should. Yours truly, et setra, et setra. You got that? Read it back.”
“I didn’t get it all,” Tricia said.
“That’s all right, just sign the bottom, I’ll fill it in later.”
She signed. It wasn’t her name that she signed—not even her fake name—but ink went on the paper, and that seemed to be good enough for Magliocco. As far as he was concerned, a deal had been made. He returned to his phone call. “All right,” he said, “give her the money. What? Yes, the money. Borden’s money. Yes, all of it. What? I don’t care, hundreds, fifties, whatever you’ve got. What’s that? Yeah. Yeah, she did.” He hung up.
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