Fifty-to-One

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.”