Hard Case Crime: Fifty to One

by Ardai, Charles

  Behind them, Tricia heard the pounding of feet, the heavy breathing and cursing of their pursuers. There were at least three of them, maybe four, and no more than forty yards away.

  “Is there a car somewhere?” Tricia said. “Something we could use...?”

  “Just that thing,” Erin said, jerking her head toward the grader. “If you know how to jumpstart it.”

  She didn’t—but glancing over the opposite way, Tricia had another thought. She angled off to the left, running along a line of low bushes.

  “Trixie! It’s—it’s longer that way—”

  It was. But it also intersected the paddock where the walker was working, with some success, to calm his horse. He looked up as they burst in on him.

  “We need that horse,” Tricia said, gesturing with her gun. His mouth opened, but before he could say anything she grabbed the reins out of his hands and hoisted herself up onto the horse’s back, bunching her dress around her waist, modesty be damned. She kept the gun trained on the man with her other hand.

  Erin tried to follow but slipped off the horse’s side on her first attempt. The men chasing after them were shouting now, just twenty yards away and closing. One of them sent a bullet at them through the trees. Tricia heard a branch crack and fall. The horse squealed and jerked to one side; it was all Tricia could do to keep him from bolting.

  “Erin, quick!” She reached down one arm and Erin caught it, almost pulled Tricia off, but grabbing hold of the horse’s mane with her other hand and kicking wildly with her feet she finally managed to sling herself belly-first across the horse’s back. She snaked one arm around Tricia’s waist, held on tight. Tricia kneed the horse in the sides, cracked the reins, shouted—“Yah!”—and the horse burst forward, delighted to be doing what it did best and to be doing it in a direction that took it away from the men with guns.

  The horse pounded across the dirt, over the track, his sides heaving and hooves thundering. When he came to the low concrete wall separating the track area from the parking lot, he leapt it smoothly, landing with a jarring jolt that almost unseated them both. But Tricia held onto the reins and Erin, now upright at last, held onto Tricia, and the horse went clopclopclop across the asphalt and onto Rockaway Boulevard.

  36.

  Slide

  Cars swerved, honking, out of their path. Pedestrians, too, made way as the horse loudly approached, its metal shoes echoing against the pavement. This was one of the main shopping thoroughfares in this part of Queens and Sunday afternoon was prime shopping time. There was no shortage of people to goggle at Tricia and Erin as they galloped past.

  Several ran for street-corner phone booths, leaving Tricia wondering how long they had before more than just the attention of passersby was directed their way. They’d left the men at the track far behind, but it wasn’t as though Nicolazzo’s men were the only ones interested in getting their hands on her. And riding a racehorse down Rockaway Boulevard was as fine a way to attract the attention of the others as any Tricia could imagine.

  They sped along the avenue, attracting stares and gasps. One little girl on the sidewalk raised her arm and pointed, only to have her mother slap her hand down and yank her protectively out of the way. The girl started bawling, but at the pace they were going Tricia could only hear it for a few seconds.

  The police sirens, when they came, were louder and lasted longer. One cruiser slid in behind them as they crossed 103rd Avenue, but they lost him by taking a sharp left against the traffic onto 102nd Road and then racing through a gas station parking lot and the scruffy back yards of three low brick homes. Another cop car picked up the chase when they hit Eldert Lane, the driver shouting at them through his bullhorn to pull over. “We’ll shoot if you don’t stop,” came the amplified voice.

  Tricia could feel the horse tiring under her, felt its ragged breaths, its slowing pace. They wouldn’t be able to go a whole lot farther even if the cops didn’t shoot. But Erin urged her on. “Don’t,” Erin said. “We’ve got to shake them.”

  “Where?” Tricia shouted back, her voice getting lost in the wind. But she tugged on the reins, turning the horse off the main road, and they vanished once more into the maze of yards and passages behind and between buildings.

  “We’ll have to stop soon,” Tricia shouted and she felt Erin nodding against her back.

  “You know where Jamaica Avenue is?” Erin said.

  “No,” Tricia said.

  “Up by all those cemeteries? Mount Cypress, Mount Lebanon, you know.”

  She didn’t know. But somehow Tricia wasn’t surprised to find herself racing toward yet another cemetery. There seemed to be no getting away from them. New York was peppered with good places to lie down and have a final rest, to go with all the reasons you might need to.

  “Just keep going, you’ll hit it,” Erin said.

  “Why there?” Tricia shouted.

  “We can ride into the cemetery,” Erin said. “The cops can’t drive in. They’d smash up all the graves. They’d never do it.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Not much farther.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know, eight blocks? Nine?”

  “Great,” Tricia said and urged the horse on.

  It turned out to be twelve blocks. By the time they reached the elevated tracks marking the end of the road, Tricia could feel the horse trembling from exertion and the unaccustomed weight they’d made him carry, like running a race with two jockeys. They sped under the high metal beams as a row of subway cars clattered by overhead, then through the wide-open front gate of a place identified by a large but tasteful sign as Mount Hope. Tricia was willing to take the name as a good omen. Better, at least, as death-related gateways went, than Abandon Hope.

  A steep hill just inside the gate led to a cluster of mausoleum buildings at the top. The horse strained to climb it at a decent canter.

  As they neared the top, Erin said, “We should get off here, quick. Let him keep going. Just slide off.”

  “What do you mean ‘slide off’? You can’t just slide off a moving horse.”

  “We don’t want him to stop,” Erin said. “We need them to keep chasing him.”

  “They’ll see we aren’t on him,” Tricia said.

  “Not right away. Now slide off. Slide!”

  Tricia felt Erin tilting behind her, felt gravity take hold. The sweat on the horse’s sides contributed its part and she felt herself accelerating toward the ground—which was still going by at a considerable clip. She hadn’t been able to scream when she fell from the rain gutter, but she screamed now, and Erin joined her. It didn’t last: Colliding with the ground knocked the wind out of them. For an instant, all Tricia could see were the horse’s hooves raising and lowering like angled pistons just inches away from her head—but then they were a foot away, and then a yard, and then the horse was off in the distance, galloping to freedom among the tombstones.

  The police sirens, meanwhile, had grown louder as the hoofbeats faded. A pair of cars squealed to a halt at the bottom of the hill. Tricia glanced around, saw Erin beside her doing the same. There wasn’t much here: the stone mausoleums, whose doors presumably were locked; a narrow footpath, winding off into the heart of the cemetery; another path, leading down the hill; a plot of graves, mostly old and overgrown, though one was freshly dug and covered with a tarpaulin, presumably for a burial later today.

  Tricia and Erin looked at each other, gave each other a chance to object or to propose a better idea. Instead, they nodded simultaneously, then scampered on hands and knees toward the grave, lifted the side of the tarp, and slid under it. Carefully, they let themselves down into the hole. The tarp settled back into place.

  Moments later, they heard the police arrive. They saw shadows through the tarp, heard sounds of men arguing, walking this way and that overhead, complaining. A radio crackled with static followed by the voice of someone back in the stationhouse issuing orders. Tricia couldn’t quite hear what they we
re but made out a few incredulous-sounding words, “horse” chief among them.

  The cops departed a moment later, no doubt following the horse’s tracks. Tricia reached above her to push the tarp back, but Erin raised one palm in a gesture that meant Wait. The caution did make a certain amount of sense—what if the cops had left a man or two behind to search the area?

  So they waited. It was cool and damp standing in the grave. Surprisingly, it wasn’t unpleasant. A bit of light filtered in through the tarp, the fabric tinting it a lush shade of green. Being off the horse gave Tricia the opportunity to flex her legs, strained from straddling the animal’s shoulders. She hadn’t ridden like that in years and her thighs had taken a pounding. She saw Erin doing the same, bending her knees in the limited space the grave afforded and massaging her lower back with one hand.

  When a few minutes had passed without any further voices or tumult overhead (it felt like more than a few minutes, but Tricia figured everything felt longer when you were standing in a grave), Erin knelt and put her hands out in a cupped position. Tricia set one foot into them and Erin hefted her toward the tarp.

  Tricia yanked the fabric to one side and popped her head out of the grave. Behind her, she heard a sharp intake of breath.

  She pulled herself out of the hole and scrambled to her feet. A small man in a surplice stood at graveside, a prayer book open in his hands; beside him, an old woman in black, a veil lowered over her face, dipped a gloved hand below the veil to bring a handkerchief to her eyes. Beside her was a slightly younger woman. Her eyes, prominent to begin with, looked positively ready to leave their sockets.

  Tricia bent down, extended an arm, and helped Erin out of the hole.

  “Inspection,” Tricia said, by way of explanation, and Erin nodded. They both wiped their palms off on their sides.

  “Everything’s in order,” Erin said.

  “Good drainage,” Tricia said.

  “Solid foundation,” Erin said.

  “Up to code,” Tricia said.

  “Carry on,” Erin said, nodding to the priest.

  “Thank you so much,” the old woman said, “for taking the trouble. Calvin would be so grateful.”

  Feeling like a heel, Tricia led the way past a wheeled gurney holding a coffin and off into the graveyard’s crowded interior.

  37.

  Dead Street

  As soon as they were out of sight of the hilltop, Tricia said, “We have to go back.”

  “Back? What are you talking about? Back where?”

  “Wherever they were holding you,” Tricia said. “And Coral. Colleen. My sister—the fighter?” Erin’s face showed no sign of recognition. “The Colorado Kid, remember?”

  “That’s your sister?”

  “It’s a long story,” Tricia said. “But yes, she’s my sister. And we’ve got to—”

  “All we’ve got to do is get out of here. There’s no point in going back. I’m sure they’re not there anymore. They hustled us out of the other place as soon as Charley got out—now that I’ve escaped, you can bet they’re gone from this one.”

  She was right, of course. But Tricia’s heart fell at the prospect of having to figure out where Nicolazzo might hole up next. Would Coral have been able to leave her another message, scratched on another wall in another basement cell? It was too much to hope for.

  “How did you escape?” Tricia asked.

  “That’s kind of a long story, too,” Erin said. She kept walking swiftly, picking a path between gravestones and along the edges of the tree-lined lawns.

  “You got a gun somehow,” Tricia said.

  “That’s right. I got a gun somehow.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  “No,” Erin said, “and you don’t want to hear about it. It’d turn your hair white, Wyoming. Better than that bleach we used.”

  “That bad?”

  Erin nodded. Looking her over, Tricia couldn’t see any particular signs—no marks on her face, for instance. But what did that mean? Tricia let the subject drop, tried not to think about what Nicolazzo’s men might be doing to Coral right now. At least there were two fewer of them now. That was something.

  “Is Charley okay?” Erin asked.

  “So-so,” Tricia said. And when Erin looked alarmed, “Oh, he’s safe. He just had a...run-in, with someone who works for this mobster we met.”

  “For Nicolazzo?”

  “No, Barrone.”

  “Barrone?”

  “Long story.”

  They were making their way now through a rough, untamed bit of wilderness, the border between two abutting cemeteries. It felt a little like one of those black-and-white spy movies, crossing from Hungary into Austria under cover of darkness, only without the darkness, and without the zither music.

  “Where are we going?” Tricia said.

  “Best chance of catching a ride around here’s on Dead Street,” Erin said, and Tricia gave her a blank look. “Never heard it called that?” Tricia shook her head. “The Inter-borough Parkway—between Cypress and Forest Parkway it runs right through the cemetery. Blame Robert Moses. Twenty-some years ago he came along and said, ‘What we need here’s a highway, a nice four-lane highway.’ ”

  “In the middle of a cemetery?”

  “This is Robert Moses we’re talking about. Where he wants a highway, he gets a highway,” Erin said. “They had to dig up hundreds of graves, move the bodies...you really never heard about this? What do they teach you in Wyoming, anyway?”

  “South Dakota.”

  “South Dakota,” Erin conceded. She looked around. “Not too much farther.”

  “Good,” Tricia said.

  “When we were kids,” Erin said, “the story was they didn’t move all the bodies, just paved over some of them. If your parents drove along Dead Street, you wouldn’t roll down your window. You ever walked it or rode a bike, you held your breath.”

  “You grew up in this area?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Erin said. “Woodhaven born and bred. Me and George Gershwin.”

  “Is he buried here?”

  Erin sneered. “This place is for the working classes, honey. I’m sure he’s got a fine plot upstate somewhere, or maybe in Hollywood, with a lovely view, and not of a highway, either.”

  Up ahead, a steep embankment led to a low concrete wall. The sound of cars rushing by came through from the other side.

  “What if the cops are waiting for us?” Tricia asked in a low voice.

  “Then we find another grave to go stand in till they go away.”

  They crept up to the wall, keeping their heads down as they went. Erin peeked over the top and Tricia felt a sudden wave of anxiety. She reached toward her pocket, where the gun lay. But before she could get to it, Erin stood, waved Tricia up. “We’re alone.”

  Tricia let her hand drop. Her fingers, she noticed, were trembling.

  They made their way onto the shoulder of the highway. Traffic was light, just a car every thirty seconds or so, drivers zooming from west to east at top speed. Maybe trying to cover the length of Dead Street without taking a breath.

  In one of the lulls, they crossed to the other side.

  “Now what?” Tricia said.

  “You never hitchhiked, Trixie? Back in that small town of yours?”

  “Sure, but it’s different in a small town—”

  “It’s no different,” Erin said. “Just show a little leg.” She gave Tricia a nudge toward the traffic. “You showed plenty when we were on that horse.”

  Tricia felt foolish standing on the side of the road, one hip cocked, thumb extended in imitation of countless stranded movie heroines; but she did it. After the third car passed them by, Erin joined her, unbuttoning a few buttons on the front of her dress and throwing back her shoulders.

  The next car that passed slowed down and tootled its horn as it went by, but it didn’t stop.

  “Thanks a lot,” Erin shouted. She opened a few more buttons, bent forward so more of her
bosom spilled out.

  “Erin!” Tricia said.

  “No time to be a shrinking violet,” Erin said. “I’d take it off if it would get us a ride.”

  But that proved unnecessary. A white Pontiac convertible with a chrome dart running along the side drew to a stop, throwing up a little cloud of dust. The driver was a man in his middle forties, corpulent and sunburned, driving with one hand on the wheel and the other arm extended over the back of the empty passenger seat beside him.

  “Car broke down, girls?” he said, eyeing the two of them over the top of his black-framed sunglasses.

  “That’s right,” Erin said, leaning on the side of the car. “We need to get back to Manhattan.”

  “Ah,” the man said. “That’s a shame. A real shame.” He tore his gaze away from her cleavage with some difficulty. “I’m headed to Bensonhurst. Much as I’d enjoy your company...” He made a movement toward the steering wheel and Tricia saw his foot inch toward the gas. He gestured with his chin at Erin, who was still leaning on the door. “If you don’t mind...?”

  “Lucy,” Erin said, and it took Tricia a moment to realize Erin meant her, “why don’t you show the man what you’ve got in your pocket?”

  “The pict—” Tricia said, and then: “Oh.” She took out the gun, aimed it at the driver, whose face fell. He looked ten years older suddenly.

  “We need to get back to Manhattan,” Erin said. “You want to drive us, or would you rather get out here so we can drive ourselves? Or would you prefer the third option?”

  “What’s that?” the man said nervously.

  “They call it Dead Street for a reason,” Erin said, and smiled.

  For a moment it looked like the man might stomp the gas and peel away, but he must’ve figured his chances of outrunning a bullet weren’t good enough to risk it.

  Grudgingly he said, “Get in.” And to Tricia, “Please, just be careful with that thing.”

  “Don’t worry about Lucy,” Erin said. “She’s a crack shot. Steadiest hands in the east.”

  “That right,” the man said.