Fifty-to-One

by Charles Ardai

  Yeah, said the voice. Still.

  Tricia reached the top of the fire escape and climbed the narrow metal ladder leading up from there to the roof of the building. She threw one leg over the edge of the cornice. Before she could follow it with the other she heard an amplified voice from the street below.

  “You! Freeze!”

  She hesitated a moment, half on the ladder, half on the roof, her dress up around her thighs. Glancing back and down, she saw a pair of policemen, hunched behind their open car doors, guns drawn and pointing up toward her. One had a bullhorn in his other hand.

  “Come on down, lady, nice and easy, we don’t want to have to shoot you.”

  Well, that was all well and good, since Tricia didn’t want to be shot. But she didn’t want to be arrested either, particularly now that the charges against her had presumably escalated from assaulting a police officer to manslaughter. She heaved her other leg up and over and an instant later heard bullets splintering the stone of the wall the ladder was anchored to.

  Well, that was one way to send the message that they meant business.

  Staying on her hands and knees, she crawled past a huge ventilation fan in a dented tin housing, crossing to the rear of the building. The wall separating this building from the next one over was barely a separation at all, just a few rows of bricks that Tricia went over like a champion high-jumper. She didn’t hear any more gunshots, at least, so she took a chance and rose from her knees, scampering across the next roof in a low crouch, a little like Groucho Marx if Groucho Marx had been running for his life across a tenement roof.

  Another low wall, past it another roof—but now Tricia was running out of buildings and pretty soon would have to find some way down. The current roof was covered with tarpaper and stank from the tar, still tacky from a day in the sun. A little shed marked the top of the stairwell and Tricia wrenched the door open, listened for footsteps before starting to descend. She only heard her own until she reached the second floor landing, at which point her steps were joined by the sound of another pair, coming up. She darted out into the second floor corridor and started trying all the apartment doorknobs, one by one. The third one she tried turned, and she stepped inside as the service door to the stairwell sprang open, banging against the far wall.

  She looked around desperately. This apartment did have a television set and it was on, showing the tail end of an Ellery Queen episode. All the lamps in the place were burning. Whoever lived here clearly had just stepped out for a minute, perhaps to pick up his laundry in the basement or a pack of cigarettes around the corner. Or maybe he was in the bathroom and would appear any moment—

  The knock at the door was brisk and professional, not an assault on the wood the way Mitch’s had been at the rooming house. A peek out the peephole showed a policeman in full regalia—but not, she thought, one of the pair who’d been shooting at her. Tricia took a deep breath. How would Borden do it? she asked herself.

  She opened the door.

  19.

  Witness to Myself

  “Oh, officer, I’m so glad to see you, it was terrible,” Tricia said, reaching out to grip the policeman’s hands tightly in her own. “This woman came by, just a minute ago, all wild-eyed and upset. She asked me to let her in, but I said no, I couldn’t, my husband’s not home and I couldn’t let a stranger in. Who is she? What has she done?”

  The officer, whose nameplate said LENAHAN, drew his hands back and took the regulation notepad off his belt. He was a young man, maybe two, three years older than Tricia, and she could see in his eyes that he still had the impulse to comfort, to ease suffering. How many cops had that impulse, Tricia wondered. Most of them, probably, the year they joined the force; none of them, probably, a few years later.

  “It’s okay, ma’am,” Lenahan said, “we’ve got half a dozen men from the Sixth on the scene and more on their way. She’s not going to escape.”

  “Oh, good,” Tricia said. “That’s a relief.”

  “Just stay inside and if anyone comes to your door other than a policeman, don’t open it, understand?”

  Tricia nodded. She understood.

  “Now, what can you tell us about this woman—how tall would you say she was?”

  “Oh, taller than me,” Tricia said, “maybe your height.” The cop was nearly six feet.

  “What color hair?”

  “Brown,” Tricia said. “Light brown, like, um, hazelnut.”

  “Hazelnut,” Lenahan said, and wrote it in his book. “Eyes?”

  “I didn’t notice, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. How much would you say she weighed?”

  “I don’t know. More than me. She was quite large in the—in the chest, if you know what I mean.” She dipped her eyes demurely.

  “In the chest,” Lenahan said as he wrote.

  “Oh, and officer, she had a limp, like maybe one leg was shorter than the other.”

  “Or maybe one of our men winged her with one of his shots,” Lenahan speculated.

  “Sure. Maybe,” Tricia said, and thought of Mitch. Could be, he’d have said. Could be.

  “Anything else you noticed? This is very helpful.”

  Tricia tried to think of something else she might have noticed. “Her ears—there was something funny about them. Really long earlobes.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Lenahan’s hand hung above his pad, not writing.

  What? Was that too much? “Well, I don’t know,” Tricia said. “They looked long to me. But I only got a quick look.”

  He wrote it down. “And what was she wearing? I have it here she’s in a blue dress and, um, wide-heeled pumps.”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t say blue, more like grey, actually.”

  A new voice emerged behind her: “Would you? Grey? Didn’t you think it was closer to navy?”

  She turned, saw a young man in his shirtsleeves, wiping his hands on a paper towel. She smiled at him hopefully, tried to send a signal without being too obvious about it. Please, mister, play along.

  He smiled back at her.

  “Or teal?” he said, coming forward. He dropped the crumpled paper towel on a side table.

  “Sure, teal,” Tricia said.

  “I thought you said your husband wasn’t home,” Lenahan said.

  “Oh, he’s not. This is my cousin. Jim. Jim, this is Officer Lenahan of the Sixth Precinct.”

  Cousin Jim reached out a hand, shook Lenahan’s when he extended it.

  “Pleased to meet you, Officer Lenahan,” he said. “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life.”

  20.

  Bust

  Lenahan had her in cuffs before she could even voice a protest, hands behind her back. He patted her down, apologizing for it first, but doing it all the same. She hadn’t imagined that the first time she’d let a man touch her all over would be like this. Even when handcuffs were involved, it somehow seemed so much sexier in the books she’d read.

  “Hazelnut,” Lenahan muttered as he swiftly went up her left leg and down her right, pat pat pat. “Large in the chest.” He streaked his fingertips along her shoulder blades and down her spine. “Excuse me,” he said as he felt her backside, her hips, around in front. “It’d be better if I had a matron here to do this, but I don’t, and we’re required to search suspects thoroughly.”

  “What do you think I could hide down there, a gun?” Tricia said, and he blushed—for a moment he actually blushed.

  “It may sound foolish to you, miss, but they teach us in the academy about women who’ve concealed more than you might think.”

  “Doesn’t sound foolish, just painful.”

  “Well, there you go. Good thing you didn’t do it, then. Come on.” He guided her by the shoulder toward the stairs and they descended to the ground floor together.

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “I’m going to hand you off to a senior officer,” Lenahan said. “He’s going to take you to central booking and get you processed. I’m sur
e they’ll make it as quick and painless as they can.”

  “And then,” Tricia said, “you’ll lock me up?”

  “You’re a wanted fugitive, miss. You’ll be a guest of the state till your case is resolved.”

  Tricia thought of Charley and Erin and Coral, trapped with Nicolazzo, not to mention with Bruno. How long before Nicolazzo lost his patience and began taking it out on them? How long before he heard about Mitch?

  “Officer,” Tricia said, “I need to talk to someone before you lock me up—my sister is in serious danger, she’s being held captive by a fugitive much worse than me—”

  “Miss, please,” Lenahan said. “You’ll have your chance to tell your story, I promise.”

  “But not in time! Please, he’s going to kill her—”

  Lenahan nodded politely, but he wasn’t listening. He’d been snookered by her once; he wasn’t going to fall for it again.

  He walked her out through the building’s front door, down a few steps to the sidewalk and over toward a police car parked at an angle to the curb. There was a crowd in the street, cops and ordinary citizens attracted by the sound of gunfire. Down the block she saw Coral’s building, where the biggest mass of people was.

  A figure came toward them out of a narrow alleyway between buildings, a policeman with captain’s bars on his jacket and his cap pulled down low. The jacket hung a little loose on him, Tricia thought, like he’d lost weight recently; funny, the things you think about at a time like this.

  He strode up to Lenahan, put one hand out to stop him. “Nice going, officer,” he said in a broad Bronx accent. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Captain,” Tricia said, “you’ve got to listen to me, my sister’s life is in danger—”

  “Shut up,” the captain said. And when she kept talking he turned to face her, raised his cap for a second and drew a finger along his lips. “Zip it.”

  She dropped silent in the middle of her sentence.

  “She’s the one we’re looking for,” Lenahan said, “I’m sure of it. I caught her in an apartment she’d broken into—”

  “That’s excellent police work,” the captain said. “I’ll make sure you’re recognized for it. Now hand her over. I’ll take full responsibility.”

  “Thank you, sir. My name’s Lenahan, sir, Bill Lenahan.”

  “All right, Lenahan. You’ll get a commendation for this.” He reached out for Tricia’s arm.

  “Is there anything else you need, Captain...” Lenahan leaned forward to look at the captain’s nameplate, but it was half covered by his jacket’s lapel. “Captain...?”

  “Um,” the captain said.

  Tricia bent to peer under the lapel. “Clohessy,” she read.

  “Clohessy,” the captain said.

  “Is there anything...?” Lenahan said, looking only slightly more puzzled than he had when Tricia had told him about the long earlobes.

  “Yes, there is,” said Captain Clohessy, pulling Tricia out of Lenahan’s grasp. “I want you to go over there,” he pointed toward the big crowd, “find Sergeant Mulvaney, and tell him I’m taking the suspect downtown.”

  “Downtown, sir?”

  “That’s right, downtown. Oh, and Lenahan, let me use your car.” He held out a hand for the keys.

  “My car, sir?”

  “Yes. I can’t get mine out, just look at that mob.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lenahan found his car keys and handed them over. The captain snatched them and Lenahan turned to go find Sergeant Mulvaney. “Oh, Lenahan,” the captain said, and Lenahan turned back.

  “Sir?”

  The captain waved at the cars nearest to them. “Which one...?”

  “This one, sir,” Lenahan said, patting the nearest on the hood.

  “Of course,” the captain said, and unlocked the door. “Thank you. That’s all.” And when Lenahan didn’t depart, “What are you waiting for?”

  “Sir!” Lenahan spun on his heel and dived into the throng, looking for a police sergeant Tricia firmly believed existed only in the realm of imagination.

  “My god,” she said, but the captain held up a finger in warning.

  “In the car.” He opened the rear door of the police cruiser and Tricia slid in. Then he climbed behind the wheel, cranked the ignition, backed out, and made the turn onto West 4th.

  Tricia waited to speak till she saw Washington Square Park racing past the windows.

  “So where’s Captain Clohessy?” she finally said.

  “Never fear. He’s sleeping peacefully, right where I left him.”

  “And how did you manage to get away from Uncle Nick?”

  “It’s a funny story,” Borden replied.

  21.

  Straight Cut

  Nicolazzo smiled narrowly as he walked Borden to a pair of overstuffed, leather-upholstered armchairs on either side of a glass-topped oval table. He pulled the stiletto, sprang the blade, stepped behind Borden’s back, and for a moment Borden feared the worst. But all Nicolazzo used the blade on was the rope holding his hands together, sawing away until it dropped to the ground. Borden rubbed his wrists and when Nicolazzo gestured for him to do so, sat.

  “So you’re the one published the book,” Nicolazzo said.

  “What book?” Borden said.

  “What book. Very good.” Nicolazzo opened the cardboard box the playing cards were in, set it aside, shuffled. “They warned me you were a rompiculo.” He slid the deck across the table. “Cut.”

  Borden split the deck in half, set the top half over to the right of the bottom. Nicolazzo reassembled the deck, shuffled again.

  “Why would you publish a book like this, revealing a man’s private concerns?”

  “For money,” Borden said.

  Nicolazzo nodded. That was reasoning he could understand, could appreciate. “Why not just come to me? I might have paid you not to publish it.”

  “It’s not just this book,” Borden said. “I publish one book that’s a hit, it puts the whole line on the map.”

  “I might have paid you not to publish the whole line.”

  “Or you might have killed me,” Borden said. “Saved yourself some money.”

  “I might kill you now,” Nicolazzo said.

  “The horse is out of the barn now,” Borden said. “What good would killing me now do?”

  “Maybe it would just make me feel better,” Nicolazzo said. “Maybe it would keep some other farabutto from screwing with me next time.”

  “What’s a farabutto?”

  “You,” Nicolazzo said. “You’re a farabutto. And—” he glanced at his watch “—for the next fifty minutes or so, you’re a live farabutto. After that...” He raised his shoulders expressively, let them fall. “So, canasta? Rummy? Or you like something simpler?”

  “Simple is always nice,” Borden said.

  Nicolazzo slapped the cards down. “Straight cut. High card wins.”

  “How much?” Borden said.

  “How much can you afford? Hundred bucks a point?”

  Borden, who couldn’t afford one buck a point, said, “Sure.” He divided the deck into two parts, roughly equal.

  Nicolazzo pushed the top two cards off the bottom half with a plump index finger. “Choose,” he said.

  Borden looked at the backs of the two cards, scrutinized them as though the intricate pattern could reveal something to him about what was on the other side. Finally he flipped one face up. Two of diamonds.

  Nicolazzo turned over the other card. Seven of clubs. “You owe me five hundred dollars.”

  “I thought you said one hundred,” Borden said.

  “One hundred a point. Seven minus two is five points. Five hundred. Do you disagree?”

  Borden shook his head. Nicolazzo gathered up the cards, shuffled again, slapped them down. “Cut,” he said.

  Borden cut, Nicolazzo slid two cards forward, and Borden turned over the jack of hearts. Nicolazzo turned over the queen of hearts. “One point,” Nicolazzo said. “That’
s one hundred dollars. For a total of six hundred. Double or nothing?”

  “What the hell,” Borden said. “Double or nothing.”

  Half an hour later, Borden was forty thousand dollars in the hole and still plunging, no bottom in sight.

  “At this rate,” Borden said, “you’ll have your three million back before the night’s out.”

  “That assumes you have three million to lose,” Nicolazzo said, “which I’m betting you don’t.”

  “You’re right about that,” Borden said. “But what if I told you I knew who did?”

  “My three million?”

  “Your three million.”

  Nicolazzo pushed the deck toward him. Borden cut it and Nicolazzo fingered off two cards. By this point, they could do it without talking, without even paying much attention. Borden turned over the four of clubs, Nicolazzo the nine of spades. Eighty thousand.

  “Quite the losing streak,” Nicolazzo said. “You haven’t gotten one right yet.”

  Borden shrugged. “Happens.”

  “So,” Nicolazzo said, “where’s my money?”

  “You may find this surprising,” Borden said, “but I don’t keep eighty thousand dollars in my wallet.”

  “Not that money,” Nicolazzo said. “The three million dollars this Judas took from me.”

  “Ah, yes. That money.” Borden fingered the cards thoughtfully. “Well, I may not be winning right now, but I’m sure you’ll agree I don’t owe you that much quite yet.”

  Nicolazzo leaned forward across the table, glared at Borden ominously. “Where’s my money? You don’t want to play games with me.”

  “I thought you liked games,” Borden said. “Canasta and all.”

  “If you don’t tell me right now—”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Borden said. “Let’s cut for it. Make a little wager. Three million dollars if you win.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Why not?” Borden said.

  Nicolazzo thought about it. “And if you win?”

  “I walk out of here right now,” Borden said, “and you don’t stop me. You don’t touch me. You don’t get that bruiser of yours to stop me and you don’t send him after me. I win and we’re even. I don’t owe you the eighty thousand, I don’t owe you anything.” Charley leaned in, matched Nicolazzo stare for stare. “Or are you scared to risk that much on a hand of cards?”