Fifty-to-One

by Charles Ardai

  Nicolazzo raised a meaty fist, shook it at Borden. “Salvatore Nicolazzo,” he said in a strangled voice, “is not afraid of any bet.”

  Borden pushed the cards toward him. “Then shuffle, big man.”

  Nicolazzo snatched up the cards, violently riffled them together. It sounded like a string of firecrackers going off. “All right, Borden,” he said. “All right. But we play my game now. No more straight cut. We play Fifty-to-One, eh?”

  “You give your word on the stakes?” Borden said.

  “Absolutely. If you win, you walk out of here. But you won’t win. And if you don’t win, you’ll tell me where my money is, and you’ll tell me who took it, or I will cut your hands and feet off, I’ll take your eyes out, I’ll feed you your coglioni, and then, when you beg me on your knees to kill you, I will kindly and lovingly slit your throat. Do we understand each other, Mr. Borden?”

  Borden swallowed, nodded.

  “So.” Nicolazzo set the cards down gently, squared up the edges of the deck. He flipped the top card face up. It was the four of spades. He set it aside. He looked at Borden, waited with a vicious and self-satisfied smile on his face.

  “What do I do?” Borden said.

  “It’s very simple, Borden,” Nicolazzo said. He tapped his index finger on the back of the topmost card on the deck. “You just tell me what this card is.”

  “What do you mean what that card is?” Borden said. “How am I supposed to know? That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous,” Nicolazzo said. “You’ve got fifty chances to be wrong, one chance to be right. Fifty-to-one. Now name your card.”

  Borden stared at the deck.

  “I’m waiting,” Nicolazzo said.

  Borden stared some more.

  “Say something, Borden.”

  “Six of diamonds,” Borden said.

  Nicolazzo shoved the top card forward, dug a thumbnail under it, flipped it over.

  Both men stared at it.

  Borden smiled weakly.

  “Fare un bidone —” Nicolazzo sputtered.

  Borden stood, walked quickly to the door.

  22.

  Lemons Never Lie

  “You just left them there?” Tricia said. “Erin and Coral, with Nicolazzo fuming like that—”

  Borden glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. “You think it’d be better if I was still locked up with them?”

  “Maybe,” Tricia said.

  “And who’s this ‘Coral’?”

  “My sister.”

  “Your sister,” Borden said.

  “Yes. And god only knows what he’s doing to her right now, and to Erin, thanks to you.”

  “He’d be doing it to me, too, if I were there,” Borden said. “This way we at least have a chance.”

  “You took an awful risk,” Tricia said, “using marked cards. That’s what you did, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t believe I just got lucky?”

  “No, and Nicolazzo shouldn’t either. You went through how many straight cuts with him and didn’t guess right even once? That’s as improbable as if you’d guessed right every time. He should have been tipped off by that alone.”

  Borden thought about it. “You’re right,” he said. “I should’ve given myself one or two.”

  “How long till he figures it out? You know he’s not going to feel obliged to keep his word once he does. And now he thinks you know where his money is!”

  “All true,” Borden said, “but at least I’m here and not there, and he’s there and not here, and I got you out of the bind you were in, so you know, I’d say we’re not doing too bad.”

  “I’m handcuffed in the back seat of a stolen police car,” Tricia said, “driving god knows where, you’re wanted for assaulting two policemen now and impersonating one of them, I’m probably wanted for murder—”

  “Murder?”

  “Mitch,” Tricia said, “got shot. I didn’t do it. But they think I did—that’s what all the cops were there for. And now one of the most bloodthirsty gangsters on the east coast is gunning for us both. That’s your idea of not doing too bad?”

  “Could be worse,” Borden said.

  The car’s police-band radio, which had been alternating between static and background chatter all the way from Cornelia Street, broke in on them now with a loud announcement: “All cars, all cars, respond immediately; stolen police vehicle V-J-1-3-9, that’s Victor-Jason-1-3-9, spotted going north on First Avenue, use extreme caution, suspects armed and dangerous—”

  “That’s us, isn’t it?” Tricia said.

  “Unless someone else stole a cop car and is joyriding right behind us.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Borden said.

  “Well, you’d better think of something.”

  “Me? I got us this far, why don’t you think of something now?”

  Tricia was about to spit back a nasty response when she did, in fact, think of something. “Hold on,” she said, and twisted around in the back seat, trying to get her arms around to her side and her dress shifted over so the pocket was within reach. It felt like her shoulders were coming out of their sockets and when the car bumped over a deep pothole the jolt was excruciating. But she kept straining, groping, reaching till her fingers closed on the key ring.

  “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. “Ni
neteen 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 brightly, “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.”