“No.”
“What time of day?”
“Lunchtime. A little after noon.”
“Two guys a month ago at lunchtime? That’s all you’ve got?”
“That’s all.”
He mulled some more.
“Strikeout,” he said finally. “Sorry, baby. I come up dry.”
“Well,” Tricia said, “there you go.”
“I told you—” Renata said.
“You told me lots of things,” Tricia said.
The bartender waved at the selection of liquor behind him. “Can I get you wrens anything else? Something to drink?”
“Thanks, but no. We’ve got another bar to try. My friend’s got one more shot to get this right.” Tricia started to pull Renata away. But Renata yanked her arm out of Tricia’s grip, and sat down firmly on one of the stools.
“Actually,” she said, smiling up at the bartender, “I’d love a drink.”
He looked from one of them to the other. “Fine,” he said, a little uneasily. “What’s your kick?”
“Nothing,” Tricia said. “We’ve got somewhere to be.”
“I’m staying,” Renata said. “You run along. I’ll see you later.”
“No, Renata, we’re leaving.”
“Or what?” Renata said. She turned to the bartender: “You won’t believe what this one’s been telling me she’d do to me if I don’t do what she says.”
“What’s that?”
“See how she’s got her hand in her pocket there?” Renata said. “She says—”
“Renata,” Tricia said.
“She says,” Renata said, “that she’s got a gun in there.”
“Renata—”
“A gun?” the bartender said and laughed. Then he saw Renata wasn’t laughing. “Man, that’s not cool.”
“She’s joking,” Tricia said.
“I’m not joking,” Renata said. “She said she’d shoot me if I didn’t do what she says.”
“You said that to her? That you’d plug her? That’s not cool at all.”
“Of course I didn’t say that,” Tricia said.
“You got a rod in there?”
Tricia smiled weakly. She pulled her hand out of her pocket, empty.
“No rod,” Tricia said.
“I’ve got eyes,” the bartender said. “I see it there in your pocket.”
Sure enough, the outline was showing, plain as day.
Some of the other people sitting at the bar were looking at her now.
“It’s not a real gun,” Tricia said. “It’s just a prop, from this show we’re doing.”
“We’re not in any show,” Renata said. “That’s a lie.”
“Listen,” the bartender said, “I don’t know what’s going on here—but when you start bringing firepower into it, that’s a matter for the Man.” He lifted a black telephone onto the bar from underneath.
She didn’t know which ‘Man’ he meant—the police or his employer. Either way, though—
“That’s not necessary,” Tricia said. “I’m leaving.”
“Better believe you are,” the bartender said as she backed away, keeping her hands in the air. He kept his on the telephone receiver. “Bringing a piece into the Rusty Bucket. That’s way uncool. That’s zero cool. That’s negative cool.”
He patted Renata’s hand and she put on a hurt-and-frightened face to suit.
“Okay, Renata,” Tricia said, “you win. But what exactly do you expect me to tell your uncle?”
“Anything you want, long as it’s not about me.”
“And why shouldn’t I tell him about you?”
“I didn’t take his money,” Renata said. “That’s the truth. I didn’t take it and I don’t have it. You tell him otherwise and you’ll get a second innocent person killed.”
“Innocent!” Tricia barked. “You’re about as innocent as Mamie Van Doren.”
The bartender lifted the telephone receiver. They could all hear the dial tone.
He said, “If you’re not gone in five—”
She was gone in two.
42.
Shooting Star and Spiderweb
“Great,” Mike said. “Just great.” He turned to Erin. “And you—did you get the call?”
“Like Billy Sunday on a Saturday night.” Erin lifted a cocktail napkin from the bar. She’d scrawled an address on it. Mike took one look at it and said, “That’s the pier. Where the boat was tied up.”
“Well, it’s where they want you to bring the money,” Erin said, to Tricia. “And the pictures.”
“The pictures are easy.” She patted her pocket. “The money—that’s another story.”
“It sure is,” Erin said. “But I haven’t exactly been sitting on my rump while the two of you went all over town chasing wild geese. I’ve made arrangements.”
“What arrangements?”
“We need three million dollars, right? Or anyway a box that looks like it’s got three million dollars in it. You’d think the box would be the easy part, but actually that wasn’t so. Hope you don’t mind that I emptied this.” She dragged a footlocker out from behind the bar.
“Fine with me,” Mike said.
“Now for the three million dollars part.” She swung the lid open.
No one would have mistaken the contents for money—the hand-cut slips of paper were the right size and shape but they’d clearly been cut out of newsprint or, in some cases, what looked like pages of the phone book. “That’s not going to fool anyone,” Tricia said.
“Not the way it is now, it won’t,” Erin said. “But with enough layers of actual bills on top it’ll pass inspection.”
“You want to tell me where these layers of actual bills are going to come from?” Tricia said.
“By all means,” Erin said. “They’re going to come from a Mister Reynaldo Bruges.”
“And who is mister...?”
“Bruges,” she said, pronouncing it like she was clearing her throat. “He’s a fine Argentine gentleman who sometimes calls Madame Helga to book a model or two for a party he’s throwing. For some high roller.”
“ ‘High roller’ meaning—”
“The man’s a bookie,” Erin said. “Takes bets, makes book. Hands over layers of actual bills when one of your bets comes in.”
“That’s your plan? Place some bets and hope one of them comes in?”
“Who said anything about hoping? I’m talking about a sure thing.”
Tricia saw Mike nodding out of the corner of her eye. “What? What am I missing here? What’s this sure thing you’re so...sure about?”
“The third race at Belmont,” Erin said, handing over a copy of the Racing Form. There were a batch of bill-sized holes in the front page, but the “Races of the Week” listings on the next page were intact. There were a dozen horses listed for the third race. Ten of the names she didn’t recognize. Two she did. She’d briefly shared a stall with one of them.
“Uncle Nick’s not going to leave anything to chance,” Erin said. “If he’s got people sticking around to pick up the purse, he knows there’s going to be a purse for them to pick up.”
“You’re devious,” Mike said.
“Why, thank you,” Erin said. “I try.”
“How much money did you put down?” Mike asked.
“All that Reynaldo was willing to float me, or more precisely all he was willing to float Charley. I told him I was putting the bet on for him.”
Tricia said, “And you put it on...”
“Shooting Star and Spiderweb, each to win and then the two of them to win and place, either combination. We’ll clear more than eleven thousand dollars if they do. That’ll fill the box nicely.”
“And if they don’t win?”
“Then Charley owes some money he can’t afford to pay,” Erin said. “It won’t be the first time. I’d say he’s got bigger worries right now than that.” She took Tricia by the shoulder. “But they will win. Nicolazzo’s not a gambling man, not with his own horses o
n his own track.”
“You think Belmont’s his track?” Mike said.
“His and his friends.” She turned the knob on the old RCA Mike kept beside the cash register. With a soft crackle the sound faded in. She tuned it, stations passing in a blur till she got to the far end of the dial. “...and it’s Curtain Call and Rented A Tent, Curtain Call coming up on the outside, Curtain Call taking the lead—no, it’s Rented A Tent, Curtain Call and Rented A Tent, they’re neck-and-neck, I’m telling you, this one’s gonna be close, it’s—it’s—It’s Curtain Call, folks. Followed by Rented A Tent, and Brassy Lady coming in to show. Those are your results, folks, coming to you live from the Belmont Race Track, where every race is a winner.” A trumpeter played a few notes of “Off to the Races” and the program went to commercial.
“How many more to go?” Tricia asked.
Erin looked at the paper. “Two. That was the first.”
They sat impatiently through the second race, which took a while to get started and another while in the post-race analysis afterwards. Then came some more words from the sponsor. But eventually the horses were at the starting gate for the third race. The tension couldn’t have been any worse at the track than it was in Mike’s bar.
“And...” came the announcer’s voice, “they’re off!”
Tricia found her palms sweating, her nails biting into the flesh as the horses rounded the first turn. You could barely hear the hoofbeats in the background behind the sound of the announcer’s yammering, but they were there, like her own thundering heartbeat. The horses’ names became part of the general din, a swarm of unfamiliar sounds among which she desperately tried to catch the ones she knew.
“It’s Will She Shine in the lead, well ahead of the pack, Shooting Star behind her, two lengths back, King’s Ransom and Sun Tomorrow and Spiderweb tussling for the number three spot...it’s Will She Shine and will she ever, this race is hers to lose, gentlemen, Shooting Star’s coming up but they’ve passed the halfway mark, there’s no way he’ll catch her—”
Tricia had never been to a horse race in her life, had never listened to one on the radio before, never watched one on television; she’d ridden, like every other kid in South Dakota, but this was new to her, and she didn’t care for it. It was too frenzied, too loud, too desperate—and there was too much at stake.
“...the race to place is opening up as Spiderweb pulls out in front, she’s coming up from behind...Shooting Star’s falling back, it’s Spiderweb and Shooting Star, Will She Shine out in front, then Spiderweb and Shooting Star, no, no, Shooting Star and Spiderweb—wait—” A sudden roar rose from the crowd. “Will She Shine is down, folks, she’s fallen, it’s a bad one—” The announcer was shouting now. “And Shooting Star takes the lead—it’s Shooting Star and Spiderweb, now Sun Tomorrow’s making a move, it’s Shooting Star and Spiderweb and Sun Tomorrow, Sun Tomorrow’s coming up, it’s Shooting Star and Sun Tomorrow, no, no, now Spiderweb—” He fell silent for a moment and you could hear the clatter as the horses hit the finish line. “My gosh, what a race. It’s Shooting Star, Spiderweb by a nose, and Sun Tomorrow, followed by King’s Ransom in fourth, and poor, poor Will She Shine out of the action, still lying in the track, the medics are coming over—call her Will She Race now, folks, or Will She Even Walk. The jury’s out on what this means for this golden, golden horse. It’s a sad day at the Belmont Race Track, listeners, a tremendous upset. Your final results: Shooting Star, Spiderweb, Sun Tomorrow. More in a moment.”
The trumpets blared, and then a Pall Mall jingle began.
Tricia felt her breath coming fast. Her face felt flushed. “That poor horse,” she said. “You think Nicolazzo could possibly have known she’d fall...?”
“Possibly known?” Erin said. “I’m sure he paid the jockey to do it.”
“That’s sickening,” Tricia said.
“Add it to his tab,” Erin said, picking up the phone. “Now let’s get our money.”
43.
The Murderer Vine
The taxi let them out at the foot of the Flatiron Building, just a mile or so south of Mike’s place.
“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.”
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