Fifty-to-One

“Show them the book.”

The big man stowed the mug shot in his pocket and took out a well-thumbed copy of I Robbed the Mob!, its spine cracked, its pages dog-eared. It pained Tricia to see it in such condition.

“This Mister Anonymous here,” the smaller man said, pronouncing it like it was two names, Ann an’ Amos, “is a turncoat and a rat. He took money that didn’t belong to him from a man who’d never done anything but help him, and we’re here to get it back.”

“But that’s impossible,” Tricia said. “He’s not—”

“He’s not what, miss? Not a thief? Read the book. He admits he’s been a thief all his life. Just this time he stole from the wrong person.”

Tricia hadn’t been about to say that he wasn’t a thief. She’d been about to say he wasn’t real. Which of course meant he couldn’t have stolen anything from anyone. But in that case, what the hell were these two refugees from a Robert Mitchum picture doing here?

“So, Borden,” the smaller man said, “you want to tell us who this guy is and where we can find him, and we’ll be on our way?”

“I’d love to help you, gentlemen, but I’m really not Charley Borden. I’ll be glad to give him a message, though, if you’d like to leave one.”

The smaller man snapped his fingers at the bigger one, who walked over to Borden’s desk, bent at the knees, tilted it forward slightly so he could get his fingers underneath and then turned it upside down. The telephone and the brass desk lamp went tumbling to the ground along with a pair of whiskey glasses and a rain of books. One of the drawers sprang open and more books spilled out. The one on top was titled Hot-House Honey and showed a lady wearing nothing but a gardenia behind one ear. She looked a lot like Rita.

“O-ho,” the smaller man said, bending to pick it up. “You’re a naughty boy, Borden.”

“Stevenson,” Borden said.

“Hit him,” the smaller one said.

The big guy shot out a fist and caught Borden’s lapels, pulled him close. He drew back his other fist like a piston.

“Hey,” Erin said, “what’s going on here?”

Tricia turned to see her standing in the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing?” Erin said.

“We’re having a private conversation, miss,” the smaller man said. “Run along.”

“Call the cops,” Borden shouted.

“Oh, I already did that,” Erin said. “Soon as I heard the glass break. They’ll be here any minute.”

“That’s unfortunate,” the smaller man said, looking murderously at Erin. “I suppose we’ll have to continue our conversation another time.”

At a signal from his partner, the larger one released Borden’s jacket, patted down the crumpled fabric.

“You’ll give Borden our message, right?” the smaller one said. “Tell him Mr. Nicolazzo won’t take no for an answer. Not twice.”

Borden nodded. “I’ll tell him.”

“You do that. And ladies,” the man said, “you might want to rethink the type of character you pal around with. It’s not always...safe.”

He fixed Erin with a stare that was full of unsavory implications.

“Hey,” Borden said. “What about the desk?”

“What about it... Stevenson? You’re telling us it’s not your desk, what do you care?” The man tipped his hat at Tricia, his eyes narrowing for a moment as though he half recognized her; then he shook his head and backed out through the open door, slipping Hot-House Honey into his pocket on the way.

The big guy patted Borden twice on the cheek. “Think about it,” he said, his voice like a gravel pit. He followed his partner out.

6.

The Confession

“Did you really call the police?” Tricia asked.

“Of course not,” Erin said. “I just said that to make them scram. Last thing we need here is police.”

“Why’s that?”

“Never you mind,” Erin said. “What’d you do to make those guys so mad, Charley?”

“They’re book reviewers,” he said. “The door-to-door variety.”

“I’m so sorry,” Tricia said. “This is all my fault.”

“Nonsense,” Borden said. “You mean because of the book? You just did what I told you to. If that weasel you got the story from ripped off Nicolazzo, how is that your fault? Look—” He fished around on the floor till he found a book with a toga-clad brunette on the cover, triremes sailing in the background. The title was The Bedroom Secrets of Helen of Troy. “You think Larry Block should apologize for the Trojan War? Or maybe Don Westlake should apologize to the Russkies.” He dropped Helen of Troy on top of a book called Communist Party Girls. “The guy could’ve kept his mouth shut. He didn’t have to talk to you. Now he’ll get what’s coming to him. It won’t be pretty, but you know what? Better him than us.” He bent and tried to set his desk upright again but was unable to budge it. He gave up, slapped his palms together as if he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. “All we’ve got to do is give those two fellows the man’s name and they won’t bother us again.”

“I can’t do that,” Tricia said.

Borden looked over at Erin, gave her a nervous little smile. He turned back to Tricia. “What do you mean you ‘can’t do that’?”

“I can’t,” Tricia said. “It isn’t that I don’t want to—I genuinely can’t.”

“Honey,” Borden said, coming forward, “of course you can. You have to. Those guys weren’t playing a game. Next time it’ll be me they turn upside down and dump all over the floor.”

“I know,” Tricia said. “And it’s all my fault.”

“Forget about whose fault it is,” Borden said. “Just give them the man’s name.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

“Why? Are you afraid of him, what he’ll do to you? Or what—you feel bad being a snitch? Getting him in trouble? What?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Tricia said. “I mean, I would feel bad if someone had trusted me to keep his name secret and I...” She shook her head. “But that’s not the point. I can’t give you his name because he hasn’t got one. There’s no man. I made the whole thing up.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Oh, come on,” Borden said.

“I’m so sorry, I know you wanted a true story—”

“Come on,” Borden said. “What do you take me for?”

“There’s nothing going on at the Sun!” Tricia said. “There’s nothing, I swear. I looked. I couldn’t find one lousy poker game, one girl turning tricks. Well, okay, there was one—but she was doing it on her own and they fired her for it. Nicolazzo has never shown up once while I’ve been there—I’m not saying not often, I’m saying not once. I haven’t seen any drugs, I haven’t seen any guns. I haven’t even seen any money, other than people paying their drink tabs and tipping the hat check girls.”

“But it says right here,” Borden said, picking up a copy of I Robbed the Mob!, “that Nicolazzo has a private suite in the back, with poker and craps games all night long—”

“I made it up—the whole thing, I made it up.”

“The counting room with the stacks of hundred dollar bills—”

“The whole thing.”

“Even the girl with the...?”

Tricia nodded. “Everything. Out of whole cloth.” Her voice cracked. “Pure, unadulterated malarkey. I’m sorry.”

“But then why,” Borden said, “did those two goons just try to shake us down?”

“That’s what I want to know!” Tricia said. “It doesn’t make any sense. There never was any robbery. There