Fifty-to-One

by Charles Ardai

  “I don’t understand,” Tricia said. “What are we doing here? Why couldn’t we go to his office?”

  “I’m sure Reynaldo will explain,” Erin said. And indeed, a large man came toward them on the sidewalk, explaining as he neared.

  “My dear, my dear, I’m so sorry,” he said, gesturing with the walking stick he carried. He wore a heavy, woolen suit—too heavy, given the weather—and a sisal hat whose long brim cast half his face into shadow. “I congratulate you on your victory and look forward to giving you what you’re due, but—this much money, I can’t pay it off on my own say-so. You understand.”

  “I don’t, actually,” Erin said. “You must pay off more than this all the time. We’re talking, what, eleven, twelve thousand? Not a million bucks.”

  “No, not a million, it’s true. But still—this much money, on a bet placed so close to post time, in a race where the favorite fell...they won’t let me do it. We all answer to someone, my dear, and the man I answer to has said he wants to attend to any noteworthy payoffs on this race personally.” He took his first look at Tricia then. “And who is this? A friend of yours? I haven’t met her before, have I?”

  “No. Trixie, this is Reynaldo; Reynaldo, Trixie.”

  They shook hands and Reynaldo favored her with a smile. “Do you like parties, my dear?”

  “No,” Tricia said. “I like bookies who pay off when you win, like they’re supposed to.”

  Reynaldo’s expression hardened. “Rather a sharp tongue on this one.”

  “Who is it we’re going to be meeting?” Erin said.

  “A man named Guercio. His first name is not important. If he is satisfied that there was nothing untoward about your bet, he’ll pay what you’re due.”

  “And if he’s not satisfied?” Erin said.

  “Why think of such things? Come. He is waiting for us.” Reynaldo let them into the Flatiron Building through one of the doors on the side. They took a swift elevator to the sixth floor, where a guard in a rust-colored sport coat gave all three of them a cursory pat-down. He didn’t find the gun or the photos in Tricia’s pocket, since they were back at Mike’s where she had left them lying on the bar. He did confiscate a small derringer from Reynaldo.

  “You’ll get this back when—”

  “—I leave, I know,” Reynaldo said. “I’ve been here many times.”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Bruges,” the guard said, pronouncing it to rhyme with “budges,” and Reynaldo winced.

  “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bruges.”

  He winced again.

  “Follow me.” The guard led them down the hall and into an office built into the prow of the wedge-shaped building. Past a sturdy oak coat closet on one side and a pair of filing cabinets on the other, the walls angled toward one another, converging at the far end in a rounded-off point just wide enough for one man to stand; and just one man was standing there, hands in his pockets, staring out at Madison Square Park across the way.

  “This was once a lovely park,” the man said without turning to face them. “An important park. Did you know, the Statue of Liberty was displayed here, in pieces, while she was being constructed? Her arm and her torch. They stood here for years. Now—”

  He turned, walked away from the window.

  “Now, it’s a place I wouldn’t let my sister walk alone.” He looked at Erin, at Tricia. He ignored Reynaldo.

  “This bet of yours, on the horses that won,” he said, speaking slowly, as though he wanted to consider each word carefully before letting it out. “This bet, on horses that would not have won had this unfortunate accident not occurred. This bet...what prompted your Mr. Borden to make it?”

  “What do you mean?” Erin said. “Charley thought the horses might win. That’s why he made the bet. Why does anyone make any bet?”

  “Forgive me,” Guercio said. “I understand why bets are made. But this particular bet—it is unusually large for Mr. Borden, is it not?”

  “Reynaldo accepted it,” Erin said. “If it was too large he should have said something.”

  “Mr. Borden has an admirable record of losing his bets,” Guercio said. “For him to win such a large bet on such an unlikely outcome—it stretches credulity, does it not?”

  “You know what they say,” Erin said. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”

  “Ha! This is so. And still.”

  “Mr. Guercio,” Erin said, and Tricia marveled at the straight face she was able to keep as she said it, “I can tell you absolutely for sure that Charley had no inside knowledge about that race. He picked those horses because he liked the sound of their names.”

  “Will She Shine, that’s a fine-sounding name, too.”

  “What can I tell you,” Erin said. “He didn’t like it as much.”

  “Your Mr. Borden,” Guercio said. “I have...heard things. On the grapevine, you understand. That he is, forgive me, not long for this world.”

  Tricia, who’d made a great effort to hold her tongue so far, couldn’t contain herself at this. “What are you talking about? What have you heard?”

  “Whisperings, here and there. That he has made a powerful man angry. That this man now holds him captive and has no intention of letting him go. The details do not matter.”

  “What sort of grapevine is this?” Tricia said. “They just got him a few hours ago!”

  “I assume you know the business I’m in. Mr. Borden certainly does. In this business, people talk. Thieves talk to thieves, second-story men to other second-story men. Killers talk to killers. They each have their own grapevine, and there are few secrets that can be kept from it for long.”

  “And which one’s talking about Charley?” Tricia said.

  “The worst,” Guercio said. “He is in the hands of murderers, madam. And the word traveling along the murderer vine is that tomorrow’s sunrise will be his last. What’s more,” he said emphatically, “the particular murderer into whose hands he has fallen is not only a savage fellow indeed but the very man whose horses won this race.” He spread his palms as if to illustrate how plain and clear it all was. “So you see, I have to consider the possibility that Mr. Borden somehow gained improper knowledge of the outcome of that race prior to its being run, and that this is why he is now facing the punishment he faces.”

  “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 Re
ynaldo’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.

  “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 y
oung 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?”