“You won’t regret this,” he said. “It’s much better here than at the Sun. A much better class of customer.”
“I can see that,” Tricia said.
The side door opened then and Reenie came through it, pulled it shut quietly behind her. She’d changed out of the dress and was wearing slacks and a blouse under a blue raincoat. In one hand she held a cardboard suitcase.
“What the hell’s that?” Magliocco said.
“I’m leavin’,” she said. “I’ve had enough of you.”
“Like hell,” Magliocco said. “You don’t leave till I say you leave. You signed a contract.”
She came over, buttoning her raincoat as she came. “Here’s your contract,” she said, reaching into the pocket of the coat. At first Tricia couldn’t see what she pulled out. Then it went thump into his massive chest and she could see half of it, the half that was sticking out. It looked like the wooden handle of a chef’s knife.
Magliocco staggered forward, groping for the knife, spraying blood. Most of it went on the raincoat, which Tricia realized she’d probably worn for that very reason.
“It’s like you said, Al,” Reenie said. “Every girl’s got to draw the line somewhere. Well, this is where I’m drawing it.”
The big man went down on his knees. He was gasping for breath, trying to say something. Whatever it was, it didn’t come out. The only sound he made was the impact when he hit the floor, driving the knife in deeper.
“Everything okay in there?” came a voice from outside.
With one fist, Magliocco was pounding against the floor. But after the first couple of blows, his fist fell slower, then slower still, and then stopped altogether.
Reenie unbuttoned the raincoat, stripped it off, and held it by the collar, careful not to get any blood on her clothes.
“Hey, you,” she said. “Here. Catch.”
She flung the bloody raincoat at Tricia and, while it was flying toward her, screamed.
46.
Baby Moll
“She killed him!” Reenie wailed. “She’s killed Al!”
While a scrambling began on the other side of the door, Tricia watched the raincoat loft toward her. If she caught it, she’d have Magliocco’s blood all over her—her hands, her clothes. Of course, it wasn’t her raincoat and she could prove it; they’d all seen her come in without it on, and it’s not as though she could’ve been hiding it somewhere while being frisked to within an inch of her life. But seeing the big man’s blood on her might be enough to set them off without thinking—his lieutenants might not pause before whipping out their guns and blasting away.
So Tricia hurled herself to one side and let the coat land in a ruinous heap on the rug. She regained her feet as the door banged open, slamming against the wall, and two men rushed in, the pepperpot and another she hadn’t seen before. “My god!” Reenie screamed. “He’s dead!”
“I didn’t do it,” Tricia said, her hands going up as they trained their guns on her. “She did. Look at her, she’s got some in her hair, it’s all over her coat. Look—see her suitcase, she said she was leaving him and he tried to stop her. Honest to god, it wasn’t me. Take her fingerprints—they’ll be all over the knife. I mean, assuming wood takes fingerprints, I don’t know if it does—”
“Quiet,” the new man said. He unclipped a radio from his belt and spoke into it: “Joey, Joey, you there? Lock the place down, don’t let anyone leave. You hear me? No one in or out.”
After a second’s delay, Joey’s voice crackled out of the radio: “You’re too late, that woman just left, with Borden’s money. Should I go after her?”
“No, stay here, I need you to lock the place down.”
“Roger,” Joey said, sounding for the first time like his military haircut might once have suited him.
“Roman,” the new man said, “go get the doc.”
“But if he’s dead—” the pepperpot said.
“If he’s dead it won’t matter, but if he’s not it will. Go.”
Roman darted off.
“Now, you.” He went up to Reenie, shook her by the shoulders till she stopped wailing. “What happened?”
“That little bitch,” she said, her chest heaving, “she pulled out a knife and stabbed him right in the chest.”
“Where’d she get the knife?”
“I don’t know, ask her.”
“I did ask her. She said you did it.”
“Who’re you gonna believe, her or me?” The guy didn’t answer quickly enough. “Tony! I loved him!”
“Sure—the true love of a woman for a pile of dough.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? You pocketed plenty.”
“Of course he took care of me, Tony. I was his woman.”
“You were his moll, baby—not even, you were just some teenage tail he kept on hand for when there were no grown-up women around.”
She slapped him, hard, the crack ringing in the air. “Don’t you ever say that,” she said.
“That one’s going to cost you,” Tony said. “Later. First we’ve got to—hold on, where’d...?”
Tricia, who could only hear his voice faintly at this point, figured he must have noticed now that she was gone and begun searching the room for her. She hastened along the passageway on the other side of the door Reenie had used for her earlier exit and entrance. She’d snuck through it while Tony was occupied with Reenie, and she heard it swing open behind her now.
“Hey!” he shouted.
Fortunately she was already at the end of the corridor and was able to make a turn before the pair of gunshots he fired reached the spot where she’d been standing.
He ran; she ran faster. Pulling open a heavy door, she found herself in the wings of the stage, behind the velvet curtain. On the other side of the curtain, she heard people milling about, a confused murmur of voices, Joey’s rising above them: “People! People! Calm down, I’m telling you, this is a routine security matter...” She didn’t stick around to hear the rest of his explanation, though she’d have been curious to. Did the maitre d’ even know his boss was dead?
Tricia dashed through the cluttered backstage area to a service exit, but Joey had gotten there first and the door was locked and barred. She rattled the bar briefly out of sheer frustration and moved on.
But to where? The front door was out, obviously; and she didn’t know enough about the layout of the place to guess where the other exits might be, never mind which one Joey’s lockdown would reach last.
She shot blindly past several doors, all of them internal ones, not ones that would lead to the outside. Then, struck by a momentary inspiration, she doubled back.
Where would Joey’s lockdown reach last? Probably this room. She pushed through a door marked LADIES.
A window, she told herself on the way in—that’s what she needed. She said a little prayer: Let there be a window. Please, any window. Even a small one.
And there was—a very small one. It was high enough up on the wall that she had to drag over a trash can to reach it, and then, once she had, it took all her strength to force it open even half a foot. Wriggling through a half-foot opening was a painful process and twice she thought she’d gotten irretrievably stuck. But a combination of inhaling deeply, straining like a woman in labor, and kicking like mad eventually deposited her headfirst in a litter-strewn alleyway behind the club. She didn’t bother dusting herself off, just hobbled to the mouth of the alley, looked this way and that, and ran out onto Park Avenue South. A taxi screeched to a halt inches from her shins. Apologizing profusely for nearly getting run over, she tumbled into its back seat.
“Where you going, lady?” the driver said, glancing in the rearview.
She gave him Mike’s address.
“You look like you left that place in a hurry,” the driver said. “Anything the matter?”
“Just some men trying to kill me,” she said. “It’s been like that a lot lately.”
“You want me to
take you to the police?” he asked.
“God, no,” Tricia said. Then, seeing his expression in the mirror, she said, “They’re so busy. I wouldn’t want to bother them.”
Ten minutes saw them to the door of Mike’s building. Tricia had just enough money to pay the fare with a few pennies left over for a tip.
“You sure you’re okay?” the driver said.
“I’m fine now,” Tricia said. “Just as long as no one followed us here.”
“Followed us?” the driver said. “The way I was going? Not a chance.”
It was true—he’d gone at top speed, weaving between cars and taking corners recklessly enough that more than one pedestrian had jumped back cursing. She’d certainly seen no sign of pursuit out the back window, despite checking repeatedly, and she saw none now. As the cab drove off, Tricia finally found herself breathing a little easier. With any luck, Erin and the money would already be upstairs, and Mike, too; they’d get everything ready for the morning and even have time to grab some sleep.
She climbed the stairs, knocked on the door, entered when it swung open.
And there was Mike, behind the bar, and Erin in front of it, a bulging paper grocery sack by her feet. There was the little leather box of photos sitting on the bar, where Tricia had left it. There was the footlocker, standing open, with its stacks of cut-up newspaper inside. There was only one thing wrong. If Mike and Erin were at the bar, who’d opened the door?
She turned to see. What she saw was the barrel of a revolver.
“Don’t even think of running,” O’Malley said. “You’re under arrest.”
47.
The Max
There they sat on the scarred wooden table in the drab little interrogation room: the bulging paper grocery sack, the leather box of photos, and the footlocker filled with stacks of cut-up newspaper. They looked lost there, and a little embarrassed. The tabletop was covered with random gouges and scratches, with cigarette burns, and with faintly shiny rings left by countless cups of coffee. A few hardy souls had tried scratching their initials into it. They mostly seemed to have been interrupted before they could finish. Beneath Tricia’s wrist was another vague cloud of scratches. She knew how these had gotten there: from the sharp edges of handcuffs like the ones she was wearing. Her mouth still seemed full of the paperclip taste of Magliocco’s gin. There seemed to be some kind of fine grit under her eyelids. It seemed to cover her skin. She touched her face lightly with her manacled hands; it was abnormally sensitive, as if she were sunburned. She wondered what time it was. She wanted another glass of water, but it seemed too much trouble to ask. She was very, very tired.
There were two men across the table from her, O’Malley and a very fit-looking young man in a pale gray suit. The man in the suit was looking at her attentively. O’Malley was ignoring her, riffling a stack of bills from the grocery sack with an abstracted air.
“My, my, my,” he said. He dropped the stack of bills into the bag and looked at Tricia. He still wore a thick cap of bandages on his head, and his nose and one eye were a few shades purpler than when she’d seen him last. “Let’s talk about your situation, Miss Heverstadt.”
“Can’t we talk about something more pleasant?” she said.
“I’d love to talk about pleasant things, Miss Heverstadt. But I’m afraid I’m out of practice. Now. Just to get it out of the way, I’m not going to charge you with assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duty.”
“Good. That wasn’t me.”
“I’m not charging anyone. I don’t need it. Or with attempted murder, reckless endangerment, kidnapping—”
“Kidnapping?”
“You tied me up, didn’t you? But forget it.” He waved a hand airily. “What do I need with chicken feed like that, when I’ve got two, maybe three actual, honest-to-God charges of murder? A Mister Roberto Monge, with a knife. A Mister Mitchell Depuis, gunshot. And we understand Al Magliocco got himself done earlier this evening, and that you were in attendance.”
“I wasn’t the one who—”
“No, of course not. What else’ve we got? Illegal possession of a firearm. Four counts of resisting arrest. That was somebody else, too? Breaking and entering, I forget how many counts. Grand larceny—let’s not forget that little item. Three million smackers, which you wrote a whole book about stealing. And of course these very interesting photos. Can I add blackmail to the list?”
“Do I look stupid enough to try and blackmail Salvatore Nicolazzo?”
“You’d be surprised, Miss Heverstadt. I don’t look stupid myself, and just look how stupid I’ve been over the past few days.” He leaned across the table, brought his face close to hers. “Listen, girlie. You’re looking at the max.”
“The hell I am,” Tricia said. “You’re bluffing.”
The man in the suit looked pained when Tricia said hell. “Miss Heverstadt,” he said, in a smooth, authoritative voice, “I’m afraid your attitude is not helpful. I can assure you that what Captain O’Malley says is correct.” He had a glistening crew cut, a wide, squarish jaw, and a short and very straight nose. He would have been handsome as a movie star if his eyes hadn’t been so close together.
“You sound like a radio announcer. Who is this guy?” Tricia asked O’Malley.
“Now that is a question I was asking myself not so very long ago. Miss Heverstadt, may I present Special Agent Houghton Brooks...” He turned to Brooks. “I’m afraid I keep forgetting. Are you Houghton Brooks the Third, or the Fourth?”
“Just Junior, Captain,” Brooks said with a strained smile.
“Agent Houghton Brooks, Jr. of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. The federal authorities have been kind enough to interest themselves in our little case, Miss Heverstadt. They are very interested in you. And you still don’t think you’re looking at the max?”
“I don’t know,” Tricia admitted. “What’s the max?”
“The maximum penalty permitted under New York State sentencing guidelines, Miss Heverstadt. In your case, several consecutive sentences that’ll add up to life without parole.” O’Malley stood, leaned forward on both hands and looked down at her. “How old are you, Miss Heverstadt? Eighteen, nineteen? You haven’t done much living yet, have you? How’d you like to do the rest of the living you’ll ever do, spend the rest of the years you’ve got to spend, in the slam? How’d you like to grow old in a cage?”
“Right now, Captain, growing old anyplace at all sounds pretty inviting.”
“And how about your friends? Your bartender friend we don’t have much on except operating illegally after hours—but Miss Erin Galloway, now there’s a piece of work. Of course you’ll probably tell me she didn’t try and fracture my skull, either.” Tricia shrugged. “Well, never mind that. We’re charging her with Murder Two—an employee of Uncle Nick’s named Celestino Manzoni, by means of another firearm she wasn’t legally entitled to possess. Grand larceny again—a racehorse this time. And as an employee in good standing of Madame Helga’s organization, I’m sure she’s been up to a few things that might interest the boys in vice.
“And your friend Borden, now, where do I begin? He likes to assault cops and impersonate officers and steal cop cars. That’s when he isn’t publishing smut or running Madame Helga’s himself. Some breaking and entering for Mister Borden, too, as well as—”
“All right,” Tricia said. “All right.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Heverstadt. Am I boring you?”
“I’m tired. I’m very tired, and it’s—late. And I would like you to get to the point.”
O’Malley turned to Agent Brooks. “You see? She’s a pain in my thigh, and she’s rotten straight through, and she lies like a hundred-dollar Persian rug, and she’s keeping company with big piles of newspaper cut up the same size as money, God knows why. But like she says, she’s not stupid. She knows there’s a point.” He turned back to her and his eyes, shadowed by bandages, were suddenly savage. Very softly he said, “I don’t care
about any of this crap, girlie, and I don’t care about you. I don’t care about you or your whore friends or your piss-ant smut-peddler boyfriends. You’re not even annoyances to me. You’re gnats. You’re something I’ve got to brush away from time to time so I can go about my business. And my business is Sal Nicolazzo. And you are going to bring him to me.”
Tricia stared at him.
“Permit me,” Agent Brooks said. “Captain O’Malley expresses himself a bit—”
“That’s right,” O’Malley said. “I expressed myself. You’ve got a way about you, sister. You seem to wiggle your little butt into and out of Uncle Nick’s place easier than anybody I’ve ever seen. He’s interested in you.”
“He’s interested in his three million dollars, Captain O’Malley. He thinks I’ve got it. He’s wrong—but that’s what he thinks. He’s also interested in those photos. And he’s given me until six AM tomorrow—six AM this morning—to get them to him, on that boat of his. That’s why the piles of newspaper. They’re going to pick me up at six at a pier in Brooklyn and I’ve got to have it all with me, or Charley and my sister...he’s got them out there, and he’s said he’ll kill them. They’ll die.”
“Well then,” O’Malley said. “That gives us something to work with.”
“To work with?”
“Yeah. You’re going to go out there to Uncle Nick’s boat. You’re going to bring—” He shouted toward the door. “Nevins!” A balding head appeared. O’Malley pointed to the leather case of photos. “Get Levitas out of bed. Now. Get him to copy these photographs. I want negatives by three this morning, and I want a set of dry prints on my desk at nine, and whatever fingerprints are on these photos and this case better still be on them and nobody else’s. Clear?” Nevins nodded and disappeared, and O’Malley turned back to Tricia. “You’re going to bring these photos, and your case of funny money, to that boat, and you’re going to bring a story with you, and that story, when you tell it, is going to bring Uncle Nick back to dry land where Agent Brooks and I can get at him. That’s what you’ll do, and that’s all you’ll do. And when you’re done, you and your whore friend and your smut-peddler sweetheart and your sister can all walk. The bartender, too. Understand? I’ll wipe the slate. You give me Nicolazzo, and we’re quits.”
Fifty-to-One hcc-104 Page 27