Fifty-to-One

by Charles Ardai

  Deadly Beloved

  They pulled to a stop in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge. “Don’t look back,” Tricia said, the first words yet that she’d spoken to the driver, and she said them in the most menacing tone she could muster. She kept one hand in her pocket as she climbed out of the car, then hastened with Erin to the subway the instant the Pontiac sped out of sight.

  Would the driver stop at the nearest police station and report them or just count himself lucky and hurry off to whatever he was late for in Bensonhurst? No way to know, and it was best not to take any chances.

  The Times Square station was crowded when they arrived there and Tricia briefly lost sight of Erin on the way out. They found each other on the street.

  “I left Charley in a bar near here,” Tricia said, “a sort of after-hours place run by a guy named—”

  “Mike?” Erin said. Tricia nodded. “I know Mike. He’s okay.”

  “He was very decent to us,” Tricia said. “Let us use his back room.”

  Erin gave her a funny look. “You and Charley? You used Mike’s back room?”

  “Yes. We needed some sleep. Only managed to get an hour or so, but...”

  “I bet you did,” Erin said. “I didn’t think you had it in you, kid. Or that he had it in you. I guess I shouldn’t underestimate Charley.”

  Tricia found herself blushing furiously. “We just slept there,” she said. “Nothing else.”

  “Save it for the folks back home,” Erin said. “I know better. Charley took me to Mike’s back room once, too.”

  “I’m telling you, nothing happened!”

  “Well, if that’s true,” Erin said, making the turn onto 44th Street, “I’m sorry for you. You missed something fine.”

  Tricia found herself wondering, from the look on Erin’s face, whether maybe she had.

  They climbed the stairs to Mike’s place, knocked on the door, knocked again when no answer came. After another minute, footsteps approached, the panel slid open, and then Mike opened the door. “Did Charley find you?” Mike said breathlessly.

  “What do you mean did he find me?” Tricia said.

  “When he woke up and saw that you were gone, he was pretty sore. Mostly with me. Wanted to know why I let you go off by yourself.”

  “What were you supposed to do, physically restrain me?”

  “That’s exactly what I asked him. He said yes, physically restrain you. If that’s what it took.”

  “So where is he?”

  “He went through all those papers you left here—the photos and letters and so on, and he found this.” Mike picked up Royal Barrone’s note from the bar. There was Coral’s handwriting, in the margin: AQUEDUCT, STABLE 8, STALL 3. “He asked if that’s where you’d gone. I said I didn’t know. He went anyway.”

  “When was this?”

  “Maybe an hour after you left? Hour and a half?”

  “And you haven’t heard from him since?” Erin said.

  Mike shook his head. He led them over to the bar, walked behind it, took out two glasses unasked and filled them with beer from a tap. “I’m sorry, Erin. I shouldn’t have let him go.”

  “That’s right,” Erin said. “You should’ve physically restrained him.”

  “You think he’s in trouble?”

  “Yes,” Erin said.

  “But he’ll get out of it,” Mike said. “He always does.”

  “You just keep telling yourself that,” Erin said. “If it makes you feel better.”

  Tricia, meanwhile, was trying to think who would have been waiting for Charley at the track when he arrived—Nicolazzo’s men? Or the police?

  “We’ve got to go back, Erin,” Tricia said. “Now we really do.”

  “No way,” Erin said. “You think Charley would want us to put ourselves in danger?”

  “I think he’d want us to get him out of there,” Tricia said, “just like he came for me when the police tried to arrest me downtown.”

  “Get him out of where?” Erin said. “We don’t even know where he is.”

  “I’ve been calling around,” Mike said. “That’s why I couldn’t come right away when you knocked—I was on the phone. He hasn’t been arrested. I’ve got friends on the force who’d know it if he had.”

  “You might think that’s good news, Mike,” Tricia said, “but arrested’s probably the better of the alternatives right now.”

  “I’m just saying, he’s not in police custody. That’s all I know.”

  “Well, he’s in someone’s custody,” Tricia said. “Or he’d be back here already. Or at least he’d have called.”

  The phone on the wall behind the bar chose that moment to ring.

  They all looked at each other. Mike reached out an arm, lifted the receiver the way a ranger might pick up a snake.

  “Mike? Mike?” came a tiny voice. “Say something, Mike, I can’t talk for long.”

  “Charley?” Mike said, bringing the receiver to one ear but keeping it tilted away from his head so they could all hear.

  “Listen, if you see Tricia or Erin, tell them I’m fine, don’t let them know—”

  “We’re right here,” Erin shouted.

  “Oh,” came the voice. “Well. I’m fine.”

  “Stop it,” Tricia said. “We’re going to come get you.”

  “Don’t,” Charley said. “You’ll just get yourself killed. Let Mike. He’s got experience.”

  “Where are you?” Mike said.

  “On the waterfront,” Charley said, “somewhere near the Gowanus. They’re putting me on a diet of treacle this evening.”

  “On what?”

  “A diet of treacle,” Charley said. “It’s a boat. That’s its name: A Diet of Treacle. Mike, are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Nicolazzo’s here, too. I think we’re going to meet his yacht off the coast.”

  “Is Coral there?” Tricia said.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t seen her. I’m sorry. Mike? Listen, you’ve got to come get me before the third race at Belmont. They’re just staying long enough to pick up the purse from that race and then they’re gone. It’s at—ah, jeez, I’ve got to go, he’s coming to.” And the phone went click.

  Mike replaced the handset on its hooks, reached beneath the bar for a telephone book. He flipped to the back where the maps were printed. He didn’t say anything, and neither did Tricia or Erin. It didn’t feel like there was anything to say, or any time to say it.

  Mike ran his finger along the coastline of Brooklyn till he found the piers by the Gowanus Expressway, jutting provocatively at New Jersey across the water. He flipped back through the business listings, looking for something. It took a while for him to find it. When he finally did, he reached for the phone—but before he could lift it, it rang again.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  A different voice this time, deeper and bearing a familiar accent.

  “Put the girl on,” said Uncle Nick.

  “What girl?”

  “Hold on,” he said, and then they heard the unmistakable sound of a punch landing, someone going oof. Then Nicolazzo returned. “Now: Put the girl on.”

  “Which—” Mike started to ask, but Tricia shouted, “I’m here!”

  “Good. Thank you. It isn’t so much to ask, a little courtesy, is it?”

  “How’d you get this number?” Mike said.

  “Your friend here was kind enough to supply it,” Nicolazzo said. “We only had to break one of his fingers.”

  Erin erupted, tears suddenly in her eyes, “If you hurt him again—”

  “Yes? If I hurt him, then what? You’ll hurt me? Please. Don’t be foolish. Now, put the other girl back on.”

  “I’m here,” Tricia said.

  “Get closer to the phone or speak up, young lady. I can barely hear you.”

  “I’m here,” Tricia said.

  “All right. So.” Nicolazzo cleared his throat. “I know you have my pictures. I also know who took my m
oney and then bragged to you about how he did so.”

  “You do?” Tricia said.

  “Oh, yes. I received a visit earlier today from my beloved niece, and she brought the voltagabanna with her.”

  “Who?”

  “As if you don’t know. I have to say, young Edward denied it most convincingly, right up to the end. But he did finally confess. At the very end.”

  Tricia could barely speak. She thought of Eddie with his black eye, racing past her in Queens. When they found the building empty, he must have driven on to the shuttered racetrack, Renata surely having known about that hideout from when her father had used it the year before. Tricia pictured it, Eddie driving furiously and unknowingly to his own death, Renata urging him on from the back seat.

  “You killed him?” Tricia said. She said it quietly, but Nicolazzo heard her.

  “No, of course not,” Nicolazzo said, and Tricia let out a relieved breath. But then he continued: “My beloved niece did. She really wanted to do it herself. Seemed to bear the boy some ill will.”

  At this, Tricia felt herself start to shake. She remembered the look on Eddie’s face just before he headed upstairs. Thanks, Trixie, he’d said. You’re a pal.

  If I’d been a pal, Eddie, I’d have put a bullet in you right then and there. Would’ve been kinder.

  “What do you want?” Tricia said, in a dead voice.

  “What do you think? I want my pictures and I want my money. And according to Eddie, he left both with you.”

  “With me?”

  “That’s what he said. With his dying breath. A man’s not going to lie with his dying breath, now is he?”

  “This one did,” Tricia said.

  “Please. I’m not a fool. You have what I want. If you give it to me, I’ll let your friend here go. You, too. I know you’re not the one who took it from me, you’re not the thief. You just let this man use you. There’s no reason you need to suffer.”

  No, no reason. But you’ll make me suffer anyway if you get your hands on me, won’t you? Your promises notwithstanding.

  But playing along seemed to be the only thing to do. Playing along and playing for time.

  “Fine,” Tricia said. “I’ll do it. But I need some time.”

  “How much time?”

  Tricia looked over at Mike, who held up six fingers. “Till six,” she said, but Mike shook his head furiously, mouthed Six hours. “...in the morning,” she finished. Mike thought about it, shrugged, nodded.

  “That’s too late,” Nicolazzo said. “It has to be today.”

  “It’s Sunday afternoon,” Tricia said. “The banks aren’t open.”

  “You put my money in a bank?”

  “Safe deposit box,” Tricia said.

  “And this bank opens before six in the morning?”

  “Yes,” Tricia said. “It does.”

  “What kind of bank opens before six in the morning?”

  “Mine,” Tricia said, coldly.

  Nicolazzo was silent for a bit, then she heard the muffled sounds of a conversation in the background. He came back on the line. “Fine. Six. You’ll be picked up by two men and brought to me. You’ll get a call at this number telling you where. Be there, with my money and my photographs, and no police, or your friend here will suffer more than a broken finger.” Nicolazzo paused to punch Charley again. It sounded like a boxer socking a heavy bag. “Your sister, too. Oh, yes, I know that’s who she is. I know a good deal, Miss Heverstadt. Of Aberdeen, South Dakota. That’s right, isn’t it? Hmm?” He paused, but Tricia couldn’t have answered him if she wanted to, her throat having constricted to the width of a pencil. “Don’t cross me, young lady. I’m not such a nice man when I’m crossed.”

  Nicolazzo broke the connection.

  “What are we going to do?” Erin said.

  “I’m going to find where they’re holding him,” Mike said. “You’re going to stay here and wait for that phone call.”

  “That’s right, Erin,” Tricia said. “We need you here.”

  “Both of you are going to stay here,” Mike said. “You heard what Charley said. You can’t come with me.”

  “Who said anything about coming with you?” Tricia asked. “I’ve got to go get that money.”

  “You know where it is?” Erin said.

  “I have an idea,” Tricia said.

  39.

  A Diet of Treacle

  Mike telephoned Volker’s from the street and was relieved to find them open. They were the only business he knew in the neighborhood, an importer of German beers that had somehow kept plying its trade all through Prohibition and two wars against the Fatherland. Damned if he knew how they’d pulled that off, what palms they’d had to grease, what lies they’d had to tell, what business they’d had to pretend to be in. But there they were, celebrating their fiftieth year in the same location, according to the brass plaque by the entryway.

  This stretch of the Gowanus area of Brooklyn stank, not just of industry and trash and too many people in too close a space, but of fermentation and hops, since in addition to whatever spills and leaks Volker’s produced on a daily basis there was, right next door, a one-time leather-work factory that had more recently been turned into a brewery. The painted brick wall still said JAS. PORTER — SADDLES, RIDING GEAR, &C. — FOUNDED 1870, but the smell said something else altogether.

  Volker’s eldest son, Adolphe—and speaking of saddles, could his father possibly have saddled the poor boy with a more unfortunate name?—greeted Mike at the door, pinning his hand in the iron grip of one who spent all day every day lifting barrels off ships and onto trucks. “Marie tells me you were coming. Is there anything the matter with our shippings?” He’d been born here; there was no reason for his English to be less than perfect. But it was, and slightly accented, too, as if he’d taken over more than just his father’s business when the old man died.

  “Not at all,” Mike said. “You’re on time every time. I just need a favor.”

  “What is it, Michael? Anything, for one customer of ours.”

  “I’m looking for a boat that’s down here somewhere. Its name’s A Diet of Treacle. Does that ring any bells?”

  “Diet of tree-kill?” Adolphe scrunched up his forehead in thought. “Not a bell,” he said. “Not a one. But someone here might know.” He walked down onto the floor and called out something in German to the brawny workers moving crates stacked five-high on metal hand-trucks. Mike saw a few shrugs, some heads shaken from side to side. One man said something, though, and Mike looked to Adolphe for a translation.

  “He says he does not know this boat himself but suggests you ask at Biro’s down the block. Many shipping folk can be found there.”

  “Thank you,” Mike said. And to the man who’d made the suggestion: “Danke.” It was all the German he remembered from his time on the front.

  Outside in the sun again, Mike scanned the block for a sign that would point him in the right direction. He spotted one swaying in the wind, a wooden shingle with the word “Biro” painted on it in faded letters over a sketch of a bull standing in what looked like a pool of blood. He approached a little cautiously, half expecting to walk into an abattoir, but Biro’s turned out to be a saloon. The walls were lined with wine bottles, the labels incoherent to any but one of Mr. Biro’s fellow Magyars.

  “That one’s called ‘Bull’s Blood,’ ” said a voice behind Mike’s left shoulder. “Specialty of the house. It’s from a town called Eger. You have heard of Eger?”

  “No,” Mike said, “but I’ll try a glass.” He laid a ten dollar bill on the bar. “You can keep the change if you answer a question for me.”

  “That must be some question,” said the man, a compact fellow with a broad face and a florid mustache. Mr. Biro, presumably.

  “We’ll see,” Mike said. “You ever hear of a boat called A Diet of Treacle?”

  Biro snatched the bill, made it vanish into the pocket of his vest quick as a dog swallowing a scrap of meat. “Mr. Kraus
got a telephone call about it just a few minutes ago. You can talk to him over there.” He pointed to a table in a shadowy corner where a white-haired man sat alone. “I bring your wine.”

  “Mr. Kraus?” Mike said, extending one hand as he approached. The old man looked up from where he sat, stooped, over a half-empty glass. There was a telephone beside the glass, its cord dangling beneath the table.

  The man straightened as much as he could, which wasn’t very much. “Yes?”

  “My name’s Mike Hanlon. I’m trying to find a boat called A Diet of Treacle. I was told to see you.”

  “You were told right,” Mr. Kraus said. His voice was soft and he had a wet sort of lisp, as if his dentures hadn’t been fitted quite right. “It’s my boat. I imagine you’re curious why I gave it that name.”

  Mike wasn’t, particularly, and more importantly felt the urgency of Charley’s situation weighing on him—but he figured saying he wasn’t interested was no way to gain the man’s confidence. “Of course,” he said, sitting down. A hand appeared over his shoulder and set a glass of red wine before him. He sipped it. It was nothing special.

  Mr. Kraus said, “My first name is Dorman. Dorman Kraus. In school, the other boys called me Dormouse. Like in Alice In Wonderland.”

  “And...?”

  “Are you not a reader, Mr. Hanlon?” Kraus said. “The Mad Hatter’s tea party. The Dormouse tells a story about three girls who live on a diet of treacle.”

  “Sure,” Mike said unconvincingly, “that makes perfect sense.”

  “What did you want to know about my boat, Mr. Hanlon?”

  “Do you ever rent it out?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “That’s odd,” Mike said, “because I understand someone is making a trip in it this evening.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Kraus.

  “What was the phone call you got about it?”

  “Who says I got a phone call about it?”

  “Biro.”

  “He’s wrong.”

  Mike dug a ten dollar bill out of his pocket and slid it across the table. Mr. Kraus stared at it.

  “I don’t need to know much,” Mike said. “Just where you dock the boat. That’ll be plenty.”

  “It might be too much.”