Fifty-to-One

by Charles Ardai

  With the knob off, I had an opening into which I could insert the third of my tools, which I drew from its pocket now, a tapered hacksaw. Only its long, narrow nose could fit into the hole, but that was enough. I began the process of cutting a squared-off horseshoe shape into the wood around the latch.

  I had a bad moment when the blade caught and I couldn’t get it free. I was scared to pull too hard and maybe break the blade. For half a minute, while precious seconds ticked away, I knelt staring at it and did nothing. Then I began easing the blade slowly back and forth. After a tense minute I was able to dislodge it. I wiped my forehead on my sleeve. I started sawing again. Coming back at the same point from underneath, I was able to break through.

  I was breathing heavily when the door finally swung open. The luminous dial of my wristwatch showed I’d taken almost an hour at my task. It was 3PM now and it wasn’t unheard of for some of the staff to show up to work before 4. I had to move more quickly.

  Or else—

  Or else I’d be making the trip back down the airshaft without benefit of handholds and toeholds.

  I picked up the broken halves of the doorknob, wrapped them up along with my tools in the felt square, and deposited the bundle in one corner of the empty box. Once inside the counting room, I closed the door and walked up to the safe.

  It was the height of a man—a taller man than me. The dial was almost the size of a captain’s wheel from an old schooner, only made of cast iron rather than wood. There were eight stubby metal arms you could use to turn the thing and numbers painted onto the rim in white, zero through 99. No hacksaw or chisel would get you into this beauty. Nothing short of knowing the combination would.

  So it was a good thing that I did.

  I turned the dial clockwise to 75.

  Sal Nicolazzo—Zio Nicolazzo, as he liked to call himself, Uncle Nick—was a sentimental man. A mean bastard, sure, a vicious man, a gambler who’d wager on anything anytime, the bloodier the better—all true. But he fancied himself a good family man who took care of his own. He had family members by birth and marriage on his payroll and even the ones who didn’t work for him he sent money to now and then, a little present when they needed it to keep them in the black.

  I spun the dial back the other way to 23.

  There was one relative, though, that he couldn’t send presents to, except for flowers once a week, regular as clockwork, to dress her headstone. Her name had been Adelaide Barrone and she’d been his kid sister’s younger daughter. Born in the U.S.A., served in the U.S. Army, died of malaria in North Africa in 1945. She’d been a WAC, and her dogtag number had been A-752344.

  I turned the dial to 44.

  The door to the safe swung open.

  Sentimental bastard. I almost felt sorry for him.

  Almost.

  The dough was stacked neatly and it took me only ten minutes to transfer it to the box. I stopped when the box was full and the safe was empty, a happy coincidence. I didn’t know how much I’d gotten. There’d be time to count it later.

  If there was a later.

  A grunt escaped my throat as I lifted the box. I felt a muscle spasm in my back, but didn’t put it down again. No time. I could buy all the heating pads I wanted when I got home.

  I retraced my steps as quickly as I could, one lurching step at a time.

  Corridor. Backstage. Kitchen.

  The dumbwaiter, bless it, was waiting where I’d left it. I slid the box inside, then unwound the rope holding it up and climbed in next to the box. It was a tight fit. Hand over hand, I let the rope play out and the dumbwaiter slowly descended. When we settled at the bottom of the shaft, I peeked through the closed door—lights off, no signs of movement—before raising it. I backed out, pulled the box out after me. Groped through the darkness till I found what I was looking for: one of the deep, fabric-sided carts the maintenance men used for bringing tools and supplies in and garbage and laundry out. The one I found was half full, which was perfect. With a mighty heave I lifted the box over and in, then rearranged the cart’s prior contents to cover it up. I stripped off my coat and hat, balled them up, and shoved them down deep in the cart. Underneath I had on a khaki uniform that marked me as some sort of working stiff—I figured no one would ask precisely what sort. From inside my shirt I pulled a matching khaki cap, unfolded it, and tugged it down over my head, its bill hiding my eyes.

  I pushed the cart out of the room, through a long, empty corridor, and up to the gate of the freight elevator. I knocked briskly on the metal gate and a few moments later it slid open, the tired-looking operator inside greeting me with a glazed look. I wheeled the cart inside. He reached for the handle to pull the gate shut again.

  Just then, someone called, “Hey, you!”

  My heart stopped. Simply stopped.

  A man hustled up to the still-open elevator, dragging a lumpy sack behind him.

  “You headed back to Jersey?” he said.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Can you take this with you?”

  Without waiting for my answer, he swung his sack up and tossed it in my cart.

  “Thanks, buddy,” he said, and shuffled off.

  “Next time,” the elevator man said, “you guys get everything ready before you make me come. Understand?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You’re sorry, I’m sorry, everybody’s sorry.” He punched the freight car down to the basement. I stayed at the back of the car, where he’d have had to turn his head to look at me. He didn’t bother.

  When he opened the gate again, I pushed the cart out of the elevator, onto the rear loading dock and into the parking area behind the building. I half expected one of the security guards to be waiting for me. Or maybe Mr. N himself, disappointment in his eyes and a pistol in his fist.

  But I made it to the street without seeing anyone I knew.

  Whistling softly to myself, I wheeled the cart home.

  11.

  Branded Woman

  “Trixie,” Erin hissed, and then Tricia heard it, too: footsteps, coming toward the locker room. Tricia put the book down and darted over to where Erin was standing beside the door. When it opened, they’d be behind it.

  It opened. They were behind it.

  Two figures staggered in, one with the other’s arm slung across his shoulders, Stella and her trainer. The trainer kicked the door shut without looking back and led her to the bench in front of the lockers. She sank onto it heavily and he started kneading her shoulders as she went at the laces of her glove with her teeth.

  “Hello, Stella,” Erin said.

  Stella didn’t move, just stopped biting at her laces. Her trainer turned around. He was a fireplug of a man, low and broad, and looked like he might have been an athlete once himself—not a boxer, maybe, but a wrestler, a weightlifter. “Excuse me,” he said, “who are you?”

  “We’re friends of your fighter there.”

  “Is that true?” he asked Stella.

  Stella slowly turned, brought her legs over to the other side of the bench, looked at them. Her face was bruised and there was a trail of blood under one nostril. And the marks on her cheek—looking at them now, Tricia thought they almost looked like letters, like a monogram in raised red welts.

  Tricia ran to her. “My god, Stella, what happened to you?”

  “I was in a fight,” Stella said. “It’s why the gloves, and trunks, and all.”

  “No, I mean your face. What is that?” She bent to look at the welts: a low, wide ‘Z’ next to an ‘N.’ In fact, it wasn’t even two letters, it was the same letter twice, just turned sideways. And her blood ran cold as she realized the significance of those particular letters. ZN. Zio Nicolazzo.

  “It should’ve been you, Trixie. Not me. You. You’re the one knows who wrote the book.”

  “Nicolazzo did this to you?”

  She turned to her trainer. “Could you leave us alone for a minute?”

  “You sure you’re okay?” he said.


  “Yeah, I’m sure. Go on. I’m fine.” He left reluctantly, watching from the door for a moment before letting it close. “Listen, kid,” Stella said. “You need to know this. I gave you up. I didn’t want to give the bastard anything, but...” She touched the padded tip of one glove to her cheek.

  “You know how he did it?” she said. “He’s got a ring with his initial on it, this big goddamn ring, and he held it over the flame from a cigarette lighter, a fancy gold Zippo, and he said, ‘You tell me which of my men betrayed me or you’ll never work as a model again.’ I told him I have no idea. They roughed me up a little, but Jesus, I’ve taken worse than that in my fights, and they knew it. So the ring. He said back in Italy, you’d use it to seal a letter, press it in hot wax. Leave your mark.”

  “Oh, god, Stella, I’m so sorry,” Tricia said.

  “Well, I’m just telling you, I talked. I told him everything I knew and some things I didn’t. Anything to make him stop.” Stella started biting at her laces again, finally got them loose, stripped off her gloves. Her hands were taped up underneath and the tape was dark with sweat.

  “What exactly did you tell him?” Erin said.

  “I told him I’d seen Trixie working on the book, that I’d read bits of it before it came out.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No.” She turned to Trixie. “I said you were sleeping with the guy. That you told me you’d planned the robbery together.”

  “What?” Tricia exploded. “Why would you say that?”

  “I had to say something. To make him stop.”

  “Did he?”

  “Eventually.”

  “You shouldn’t have lied,” Tricia said.

  “You try it sometime, having hot metal pressed into your face, and then tell me what I should or shouldn’t have done.”

  “Why’d he even come after you? Why did he think you’d know anything about the robbery?”

  “He had his men get copies of all of Charley’s books, and they recognized me on some of the covers. I’ve been fighting here for a while, so they knew where to find me. And then, of course, they found the book in my locker.”

  “Yeah,” Erin said, “we found it, too. You think maybe you’d want to get rid of it?”

  “I wish I’d never seen it,” Stella said. “I wish I’d never met any of you.”

  “Why’d you leave, Stella?” Tricia said. “A month ago. Right around the time of the robbery. Why’d you pick that time to move out?”

  “What—you think I had something to do with it? Jesus Christ, after I took this because of you?” She was on her feet suddenly, aiming one taped hand at her scarred face. Tricia saw her fist clench and stepped back, out of range. Stella dropped her hands, disgusted. “Get out of here. Both of you.”

  “Not till you answer my question,” Tricia said, trembling but hoping it didn’t show. “We went through a lot to find you. We’re not leaving without an answer.”

  “Why’d I move out? Look at me. This is what I look like after a fight—when I win. It’s worse when I lose. Used to be I’d get a fight once a month, once every six weeks. Then about a month ago they offered me a regular gig, this whole ‘Houston Hurricane,’ ‘Colorado Kid’ thing. Good money, good hours, it’s maybe a stepping stone to a stage gig what with all the Broadway types in the audience—but how many modeling jobs am I going to get with bruises like this? Or a split lip, or maybe a broken nose? It was either or. I had to make a choice.”

  “Did it occur to you,” Erin said, “that maybe they gave you this regular gig because they wanted to keep closer tabs on you?”

  “Not until last night,” Stella said. “While they were doing this.”

  “This just happened last night?” Tricia said. “Why’d they wait that long?”

  “What, you think they should’ve done it sooner?” Stella growled.

  “I don’t mean that, it’s just...why didn’t they?”

  “Maybe Nicolazzo wasn’t back in the city yet,” Erin said. “Or maybe they’re getting desperate because no other leads have panned out. They must be pretty desperate to have sent those two goons to Charley’s office.”

  “They got Charley?” Stella said.

  “No, we chased them off.”

  “You got lucky, then. Nicolazzo’s boys are awful mean. Charley’d crumble soon as they laid a finger on him. You, too,” Stella said to Tricia. “They’d break you in two. Not sure about you, Erin. You might last a while.”

  “Thanks,” Erin said. “I think.”

  “One more question,” Tricia said, “then we’ll go. Who else saw the book before it was published? Or did you tell anyone about it?”

  “All the girls saw it. You left it lying around, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Well, Colleen—I told her. Don’t ask me why. I just thought she might get a kick out of it. This was back before we got the regular gig.”

  “Who’s Colleen?”

  “Colleen King, the Colorado Kid. You might see her on the way out—she’ll be the one coming to in the ring. She was one of Nicolazzo’s taxi dancers before he put her in the fight game.”

  “Does Nicolazzo know you told her about the book?”

  “Nicolazzo knows everything,” Stella said. “Everything. I’m no pushover—but we’ve all got limits. I’ll take it on my face if I have to, but when he started moving that ring south I sang like Mahalia Jackson.”

  Tricia nodded. What could you say to that? She walked to the door, Erin close behind. Stella watched them go.

  “I’m sorry this happened,” Tricia said, her hand on the knob. “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. I—” She stopped abruptly.

  “What?” Stella said.

  Tricia felt the knob turning under her hand. Oh, no, she said to herself. Let it be the trainer coming back. Or Colleen King, coming in to peel her gloves off and change. Or Squinty, with his broom.

  But it wasn’t.

  12.

  Dutch Uncle

  “O-ho,” said the smaller one, “look who’s here.” The larger one ground his knuckles together like a kid warming himself in front of a fire.

  “We were just leaving,” Erin said.

  “I’m sure you were. You’re not anymore, but I’m sure you were.”

  The big one reached inside his coat and brought out something wrapped in brown burlap.

  “You can’t keep us here,” Tricia said.

  “Who said anything about keeping you here?”

  “You did,” Tricia said. “You just said we’re not leaving.”

  “What are you, a lawyer? I meant you’re not leaving us.” He snapped his fingers at his partner, who was untangling the burlap. “Bruno, come on, the boss is waiting.”

  Bruno finished pulling apart the wad of fabric, but there was nothing inside it—it was just burlap, all the way through. He walked up to Tricia, handed her a piece, then gave another to Erin and crammed the rest back in his deep coat pocket. “Put them on,” he said in his gravel pit voice and mimed pulling something over his head.

  Tricia saw the drawstring then, sticking out at the bottom, and realized it was a sack, the sort potatoes come in.

  “I’m not putting a bag over my head,” Erin said.

  “If she doesn’t,” the other one said, “put it on her.”

  “What are you going to do to them?” Stella said.

  “What business is it of yours?” the smaller man said. “You didn’t have enough last night?”

  Stella said nothing.

  “That’s better.”

  “People will be looking for us,” Erin said.

  “You mean your boss, Borden? You’ll be seeing him soon enough.”

  So they’d gotten Charley after all. Tricia’s heart sank.

  “I mean the cops,” Erin said. “We’re wanted for assault. After you left, a cop named O’Malley tried to take her in—” she nodded toward Tricia “—and we knocked him out, tied him up. They’re going to be lo
oking for both of us. I don’t know that you want to be seen in our company.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re going to have bags over your heads, isn’t it? Now, quit talking and put ‘em on.” And he whipped out a revolver to emphasize his point. Reluctantly, Tricia opened her bag. She saw Erin doing the same.

  The bag smelled musty and earthy as she pulled it over her head, as though it actually had held potatoes sometime recently. Through its coarse weave she could only see a hint of light. She felt a rough hand at her elbow, steering her toward the door.

  “You really knocked out a cop?” she heard the smaller man say.

  “Yeah,” Erin said. Her voice was muffled. “We really did.”

  “With what?”

  “Desk lamp.”

  “That brass one?” the man said. “Good for you.”

  He didn’t say any more till they were in the car. “All right, now you’re going to go in and up two flights of stairs. You’re going to keep the bag on till I tell you to take it off, understand?”

  They’d been driving for the better part of an hour, making enough turns along the way that Tricia had no idea where they were. Which, presumably, was the point.

  Something hard poked her in the side. “Understand?”

  Tricia hadn’t realized he was waiting for an answer from her. “Yes, I understand. Two flights of stairs, keep the bag on.”

  “Until what?”

  “Until you say so.”

  “Good. Now, you.”

  Apparently he’d poked Erin, since she said, “Cut it out. I understand.”

  “No, for you the rules are different. You’re going downstairs, to the cellar, where Bruno will keep an eye on you. You do whatever he tells you to. Understand?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then,” Erin said.

  “Hey, Mitch,” came a low voice from the front seat, “where does he want them, out front or in the back?”