“We’re renovating,” Borden said.
“I’ll say,” the policeman said. “Listen, I want to talk to the man in charge.” He took a leather-covered pad from a clip on his belt, flipped through its pages till he found the one he wanted. “A mister Charles Borden.” He shut the pad. “That you?”
“For variety’s sake,” Borden said, “let’s say yes.”
“And who are these two?” Pointing at Erin and Tricia.
“Colleagues of mine.”
“I suppose that’s all right then,” the policeman said. “Just as well for you all to hear this. I need some information about one of your authors.”
Tricia’s heart fell.
“And which of our authors would that be,” Borden said. “As if I didn’t know already.”
The policeman reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered copy of I Robbed the Mob!.
“The one who stole three million dollars from Salvatore Nicolazzo last month,” he said.
7.
Home Is the Sailor
“Funny story,” Borden said. “That book isn’t what you think it is. You probably think it’s a true story, and I can certainly understand why, what with the word ‘true’ on the cover and all. But it isn’t. It’s actually a novel, same as all the other books we publish. One hundred percent fiction. Some of us just thought it would be,” he took a deep breath, “amusing to present this one as if it had really happened.” Borden smiled weakly. “But it didn’t.”
“Well, now, that is a funny story,” the cop said. “Because someone did steal three million dollars from Sal Nicolazzo last month.”
“Really,” Borden said.
“Oh, yeah. Walked into the Sun after hours, made his way to the counting room, opened the safe, emptied it out, and got away with three million smackers, pretty much to the letter the way it’s described in this fictional book of yours. Nicolazzo’s managed to keep it under wraps, but we’ve got people on the inside and word is the big man’s beside himself.” He pointed to the desk again. “You want some help with that?”
“Sure,” Borden said. “Why not.” Together, he and the cop turned the desk over, set it on its stumpy legs again. Borden was breathing hard when they were done, but the exertion didn’t seem to have bothered the cop at all.
“Mr. Borden,” he said, “I’ve been doing this a lot of years. I know where renovations like these come from. They come from men with names that end in vowels.”
“Like O’Malley?” Borden said, aiming a thumb at the nameplate pinned to the cop’s jacket.
“Wiseass,” O’Malley said. “ ‘Y’ isn’t a vowel.”
“Sometimes it is.”
“Well, the ones I’m talking about are your ‘I’s and your ‘A’s and your ‘O’s. Especially,” he said emphatically, “your ‘O’s.”
“You trying to say something, officer,” Borden said, “or is this the Police Benevolent League’s version of a crossword puzzle?”
“All right, Borden. I’ll make it plain, so that even a two-bit smut peddler like you can understand it. I think the men who did this to your office work for Nicolazzo, and unless you gave them what they wanted, I don’t think they’re through with you. Now, I want the same thing they do—but me, I don’t put holes in people’s doors, or in people. What I do is put people in holes. And I can put you in a deep one for a good long time if you don’t come across with a name.”
“Mother of mercy,” Borden said. “What a day. O’Malley, I’m going to tell you something and you’re not going to believe me, but it’s going to be the god’s honest truth. There’s no name to give you. None. This book was not written by a man whose name ends with a vowel, or by one whose name ends with a consonant, or by any other sort of man. It was written by a sweet young girl with an overactive imagination and no more knowledge of gangsters than you have of ballet. If there was an actual robbery at the Sun it’s a pure coincidence, and I’m sure Nicolazzo will figure that out soon enough. Now would you please leave us alone so we can clean the place up and go home?”
“I don’t think you appreciate the position you’re in,” O’Malley said. “You think this guy is a run-of-the-mill heel? He’s not. The man’s a killer, Borden. He’d think no more about snuffing you than he’d think about blowing his nose. He’s been convicted on fifteen federal racketeering charges and sentenced to three consecutive life terms. In principle, he can’t even set foot in the United States or he’ll be arrested on the spot.”
“You’re telling me this guy I’m supposed to be afraid of isn’t even in this country?”
“Actually, I’m not telling you that,” O’Malley said. “I’d have told you that for sure three weeks ago—he’s been living for years on a yacht he keeps just outside U.S. coastal waters, where we can’t touch him. Sails off for the open sea any time we come close. But that was before someone stole three million dollars from him.
“Word is, he’s come home. We don’t know when and we don’t know where, other than he’s somewhere in New York City. One of our sources says he was smuggled in in a pickle barrel. How do you like that? Another says he was brought in in the trunk of an automobile. Either way, it’s a lot of trouble and discomfort and risk for him to have gone to, and it can’t have put the man in a better mood. But he apparently felt it was worth it in order to find out who robbed him.”
O’Malley slapped his copy of I Robbed the Mob! on the newly righted desk, where it had no competition for the attention of everyone in the room.
“And who do you think he’s going to look to for the answer?”
Borden grimaced.
“The name, Borden. I don’t care if it’s a man or a woman or a newborn baby, I want a name. I’ve been after this son of a bitch for seven years, this is the best chance we’ve had in all that time of getting him, and I’m not leaving here without a name.”
Tricia stepped forward. “I’ll give you her name.”
“Don’t, Trixie,” Borden said, but she ignored him.
“I’ll give you her name, if you tell me what you’re going to do with it.”
“Do with it? I’m gonna find her and—” O’Malley halted, checking whatever it was he’d been about to say. He licked his lips. When he spoke again, it was more slowly and quietly and carefully. “I’m going to talk to her, and find out what she knows and how she learned it. Then I’m going to, to, um, keep an eye on her—so Nicolazzo can’t get at her without our knowing about it. And then when he tries,” he said, heating up again, “I’m going to put him away for the rest of his miserable life!”
“And you won’t come after the woman who wrote this book,” Tricia said.
“Come after her? Only to give her a medal,” O’Malley said. “Anyone who helps us put Nicolazzo away deserves the key to the goddamn city. Excuse my French.”
“You won’t say she must’ve had something to do with the robbery,” Tricia said. “You won’t try to charge her with anything.”
O’Malley seemed to be struggling to restrain his impatience, or maybe it was his temper. “What do we care if someone robs a crook like Nicolazzo?” he said. “It’s dirty money to begin with. Let her have it.”
“Maybe she doesn’t have it,” Tricia said.
“Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “Then let someone else have it, I don’t care. Just as long as we get Nicolazzo.”
“You swear,” Tricia said.
“On my sainted mother’s grave,” O’Malley said. “Now, talk, lady.”
“All right,” Tricia said. She stiffened her spine and stood as straight as she could. “I wrote the book.”
“You did,” O’Malley said.
“That’s right,” Tricia said. “I did.”
“Well,” O’Malley said, slapping his cap back on his head, “that makes things easy. You’re under arrest, lady.”
“What?”
O’Malley whipped a pair of handcuffs off his belt with one hand and started drawing his service revolver from its holster with the other.
“But you said—” Tricia started.
“I don’t remember saying anything,” O’Malley said, or anyway he started to. He hadn’t quite gotten the whole thing out when the brass desk lamp in Erin’s hands collided with the back of his head.
8.
Kiss Her Goodbye
The big man sank to his knees and tipped forward, landing face-first on the carpet.
“Great,” Borden said. “That’s going to make us popular with the police.”
“How popular were you before?” Erin said.
Borden took Tricia by the arm. “What the hell were you thinking, Trixie? Did you really think he was going to let you walk out of here after you told him you wrote a book detailing a three million dollar robbery?”
“He said—”
“He said,” Borden scoffed. “If I said I’d step out that window and fly to Minnesota, would you buy tickets to see it?”
“No,” Tricia said, “but he’s a policeman and you’re a liar.”
“Well, kiddo, I think you’ve just had a valuable lesson in how honest New York’s Finest are.” Borden knelt beside O’Malley on the floor, yanked the man’s belt out of his pants and used it to bind his hands behind his back.
“Should we take his gun?” Erin said.
“Absolutely, that’s a great idea. Because we’re not in enough trouble as it is.” Borden looked around the dark little room. “I really liked this office, too.” Beneath him, O’Malley started groaning. His eyes were still closed, but how long would that last?
“Ladies, would you please wait for me outside in the hall?” Tricia and Erin stepped outside, shut the door behind them. Through the hole in the glass, Tricia saw Borden give O’Malley another clout with the heavy base of the lamp. O’Malley stopped groaning and lay still. A moment later, Borden joined them in the hallway.
“Is he dead?” Tricia asked.
“Just napping,” Borden said. “Though he’ll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. Erin—will you let Billy know what happened?” Erin nodded. “Tell him I’ll be working out of 902 till the heat’s off, assuming it ever is. Now, Trixie: I need you to explain to me how this made-up robbery of yours could somehow actually have happened.”
“I don’t know,” she said miserably.
“You’re telling me you didn’t steal three million dollars from the Sun,” Borden said.
“Would she still be living here if she had?” Erin said.
“I need to hear it from her,” Borden said. “Trixie, do you swear on your life—on your mother’s life—on my life, that you didn’t steal any money from the Sun?”
“Of course not,” Tricia said. “What do you take me for?”
“I didn’t take you for a novelist, and look how that turned out.”
“I’m not a thief,” Tricia said.
“All right, fine. If you didn’t steal the money, someone else did. And if it happened the way you described in the book, it means whoever did it must’ve read the book.”
“Thousands of people have read the book by now,” Erin said. “Probably tens of thousands.”
“Sure—by now. It’s on every newsstand in America now. But a month ago? That would have been a bit harder, considering it hadn’t been published yet. The question is, who could have read the book a month ago? Who had access to the manuscript?”
“The printer?” Erin said.
“Moe? Moe’s seventy years old and walks with a cane.”
“Any of the girls could have read it,” Tricia said. “They all saw me working on it, and I just kept it in a box under my bed. But I didn’t think any of them were interested—”
“Apparently one of them was,” Borden said. He crossed the hallway. “Maybe more than one.” He knocked briskly on the door to the chateau. “Everyone decent in there?” he called. “I’m coming in.”
“Just a minute,” a voice called back. It sounded like Rita.
“Come on, Charley,” Erin said. “You really think one of the girls could pull off a heist like that? Forget about climbing eleven stories and opening a safe—just picture one of them trying to lug three million dollars around. How much would three million dollars even weigh?”
“Couple of tons, if it’s pennies,” Borden said. “Couple of ounces if it’s diamonds. If we’re talking about hundred dollar bills?” He thought for a second. “Maybe fifty, sixty pounds. I know men who couldn’t carry that much and girls that could. Besides, who’s to say our girl didn’t have help? Any of them could’ve gotten a boyfriend involved in it.” He knocked again, on the glass this time and louder. “Or a girlfriend.”
An image of Joyce sprang into Tricia’s mind—and Tricia knew Erin was thinking the same thing. Strapping, six-foot-tall Joyce, who from the first day had seemed so resentful of Tricia. She certainly could’ve carried fifty pounds if she had to.
Borden turned the knob, swung the door open. Rita was buttoning a blouse she’d obviously thrown on hastily—the buttons were one hole off all the way down. Annabelle was lying on her cot in a transparent nightie and slippers, blissfully unconcerned about being seen that way. The other cots were empty; from the bathroom came the sound of a shower running.
“Jeez,” Rita said. “Can’t a girl have a little privacy here?”
“No,” Borden said. He strode over to the writing desk, where Tricia’s typewriter was still set up. A small stack of pages next to it held her latest attempt at a short story. It hadn’t been going very well, and she’d been on the verge of giving up on it and starting another book instead, maybe something about a rugged, two-fisted detective this time, or maybe an assassin, cruel but principled. She had no shortage of ideas, and the prospect of another five hundred dollars was a powerful incentive. But now that opportunity seemed to have shattered along with the glass across the hall.
“Which one’s yours?” Borden asked.
Tricia pointed out her cot and he bent to look under it. He pulled out a box of manuscript pages labeled “I Robbed the Mob!” in his own handwriting. Her original title, which he’d crossed out, had been Dark Temptation.
Borden turned to Annabelle and Rita. “Girls, do either of you remember ever seeing anyone going through Trixie’s things when she wasn’t around?”
“Why?” Annabelle said. “Is something missing?”
“No,” Erin said, “we’re just trying to figure out who might have been reading Trixie’s book.”
“Her book?” Annabelle said, in a tone of voice that sounded roughly as puzzled as if she’d been asked which of her roommates had been riding Trixie’s unicorn.
“Yes, her book,” Borden said. “This thing.” He opened the box, took out a batch of pages, waved them in the air.
“Did you ever see anyone other than Trixie reading it?”
Rita and Annabelle exchanged a glance.
“What is it, girls?” Borden said. “Spill.”
“Couple of times, while you were out working, Trix, Joyce would pull it out, read from it out loud,” Rita said. “She’d read a line or two and laugh, and some of the other girls would laugh along. I never did.” After a second she added, “Annabelle, neither.”
“You ever notice anyone paying particular attention when she did this?” Borden said.
“Sure, Stella,” Rita said. “Back when she was here, she was always egging Joyce on to read more.”
“Any particular part she seemed interested in?” Borden said.
“The part where the guy steals all the money? She got a real kick out of that.”
Borden turned to Erin. “So, what happened to Stella? Why isn’t she here anymore?”
“Nothing happened, Charley. She just moved out,” Erin said. “Girls come, girls go—” She kissed her fingertips and blew it off in whatever direction girls go. “I didn’t think anything of it.”
“And when was this?” he said. “That she moved out?”
Erin shut her eyes, as if she didn’t want to see Borden’s reaction. “About a month ago,” she said.
9.
361
Tricia and Erin waited till they were down on the sidewalk before discussing what they were going to do. No point in letting the elevator operator in on their plans, not when he was the first person O’Malley would grill upon regaining consciousness.
Before calling the elevator, Borden had run back into his office, stepped over O’Malley’s prone form, and pulled two copies of a book called Death Stalks a Bride from one of the room’s packed shelves. He’d torn the covers off both, handed one to each of Tricia and Erin, and tossed the remains of the two books on the floor. The cover showed a virginal brunette hiking up her wedding gown with both hands while running from a wild-eyed shirtless brute in overalls. The brute’s face looked a little like Billy Hoffman’s; the bride’s was unmistakably Stella’s.
“Call me immediately if you find her,” Borden had said before opening the door to the fire stairs. “Erin knows the number. If it’s busy, it just means I’m on the phone with Moe. I want to find out if there’s anyone other than him who might have seen the manuscript over there.”
“You sure it’s safe for you to stay in the building?” Erin said.
“I’m not sure it’s safe for me anywhere,” he said and pounded upstairs.
Now Erin was pulling Tricia along toward the subway entrance.
“Where are we going?”
“Brooklyn.”
“What’s in Brooklyn?”
“Cheap rent,” Erin said. “And plenty of bars. And what do you find where there’s cheap rent and plentiful booze?”
“What?”
“Artists,” Erin said.
“Stella’s not an artist.”
“No, Stella’s a model. And who knows better where to find a model than artists?”
“I don’t know,” Tricia said. “If she’s got three million dollars now, I’m not sure she’d be modeling anymore.”
“Neither am I,” Erin said. “But if she is, the boys at 361 will know how to find her.”
Between Knickerbocker Avenue and Irving, between Decatur Street to the northwest and the long, lonely stretches of cemetery grounds to the east, there’s a desolate block where Cooper Avenue curves and quietly turns into Cooper Street—this, Erin said, was where they were going. They rode out on the BMT until it wouldn’t take them any closer, decamping finally at an elevated station in the shadow of a stained and leaking water tower; and then they walked the rest of the way, the better part of a mile, sweating under the smothering blanket of late summer heat. By the time they arrived, the sun had hit its apex in the sky and begun its slow descent toward the distant skyscrapers of Manhattan. Tricia watched its progress with no little anxiety: When night fell, she was due back at the club, and she didn’t know which would be more dangerous, showing up or not.
Fifty-to-One hcc-104 Page 6
