Fifty-to-One

shoulder she didn’t see anyone in pursuit. Not yet, anyway.

The man unplugged the earpiece of a little transistor Sony from his ear. “What kind you thinking about?”

“Sorry—we’re not here to buy. It’s my sister’s car. I’m just picking it up.”

The minimal light of interest that had kindled in his eyes went out. “Keys,” he said.

Tricia handed them over. The guy pointed with one pinky at a tiny number impressed into the top rim of each key. “Nineteen H,” he said, and Tricia thought, like Horse. “That’s in the garage.” He stretched an arm toward a long, low bunker at the far end of the lot.

“Thank you,” Tricia said, but he’d already returned to listening to his program on the radio.

The garage door was open. Just inside, a man with a cap of black hair and a pencil moustache sat behind a wooden desk, flipping pages in this week’s issue of Look and listening to Norman Vincent Peale on a little Sony of his own. He flicked it off when he saw them approach.

“Ah, the happy couple,” the man said, springing to his feet. “Sir, madam. Looking for a starter, a budget or economy car, to get you through that tough first year? Then you’re in the right place, let me tell you.”

“We’re not—” Tricia said, but he waved away her objection before she could even finish uttering it, a habit you got the sense he’d formed long ago, as a sort of survival instinct.

“Please, allow me. I won’t try to sell you anything, you needn’t worry. Consider me a friend. I’ll show you some of the options you have and then if you decide to buy elsewhere, well, you’ll have my blessing.” He nudged Charley with a companionable elbow. “I don’t say it will happen—you won’t find a lower price at Schultz’s or Greenpoint Ford or, well, anywhere else—but if you decide you prefer to pay more for less, well, that’s every man’s privilege.”

Somewhere in the distance—but not far enough in the distance—a police siren wailed.

“Friend,” Charley said, “it’s a fine spiel, but save it for the rubes. We’re just picking up. Give him the keys, Trixie.”

Tricia handed them over, pointed at the little 19-H.

The man’s face fell. “Are you quite sure? Even if it’s not why you came, while you’re here, why not give a thought to—”

“No,” Borden said. “Just the car.”

“All right. I can see you’re a serious man who knows what he wants. I’ll bring you the car. But while I’m gone I’ll leave you with this thought: In the modern marriage, one car just isn’t enough. The lady needs her own—”

“I’m sorry,” Borden said, “we’re in a bit of a hurry here.”

“Well, then, why don’t you walk with me? It’ll save you some time, and who knows what might catch the lady’s eye along the way?”

He placed a feather-light hand at the small of Tricia’s back and steered them down a narrow aisle between two tightly packed rows of cars, junkers one and all.

“Now there’s a nice Pontiac Streamliner, only ten years old, fewer miles on her than you might think,” he said as they passed a decrepit hulk with rust stains the size of dinner plates and a crooked rear bumper.

“No,” Borden said.

“Perhaps madam would enjoy the freedom of a fine Ford coupe, like this one with its Flathead V8 engine,” the man said, waving at a ragtop whose top literally was in rags.

“No,” Borden said.

“Madam,” the man said, turning to Tricia, “couldn’t you see yourself behind the wheel of—”

“No,” Borden said. He pointed to a sign on the wall that said ‘D’. “Which way is ‘H’?”

The man heaved a deep sigh. Positive thinking only went so far, apparently. “This way,” he said.

Tricia couldn’t avoid a growing feeling of despair. Seeing all these terrible cars filled her with dread as to what they’d find when they finally got to Coral’s. Of course Coral wouldn’t have been able to afford anything better—no surprise there. But there were limits. Would the thing even run?

“I see a look of concern in your eyes, madam,” the man said, launching one last desperate sally. “Is it perhaps that you fear you’re missing out on a great opportunity?”

“Honestly, mister,” Tricia said, “meaning no offence, I’m just trying to understand why every car here is in such awful condition.”

“Madam,” the man said, pulling himself up to his not-too-impressive full height and smoothing back his hair with one hand. “Anyone can sell you a car that looks clean and new and pristine—there’s nothing to it. But what does the outer surface tell you about how a machine will run, about what’s going on under the hood? Absolutely nothing. Many a fine-looking automobile hides flaws you won’t discover till you get it home, and then, well, it’s too late, isn’t it? We are honest dealers, madam: we put all our cards on the table. Our cars may not look like much and they won’t win races—they’re more lemons than Le Mans, if you will. But at least with us you know what you’re getting, and at a fair price, too.” He shook his head ruefully. “Appearances may deceive, madam. Lemons never lie.”

“That’s...that’s absurd,” Tricia sputtered. “You’re saying your cars are better because they look just as lousy as they run...?”

By this point Borden had gone ahead and they heard a low whistle from the next row over. “Now that’s my kind of lemon,” he called. “Kid, get over here.”

Rounding the corner, Tricia saw him standing next to a sleek, shiny, new Mark III Lincoln Continental. Not a mark on it.

The salesman followed and when he saw the car his face drained of all color. “Let me see those keys.” He read off the number on the keys and grimaced as if making a connection for the first time. “No. No no no. This can’t be. That’s Miss King’s car.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Tricia said brightly, “Colleen King. That’s my sister. I’m picking it up for her.”

“But—but—” the man said. “Royal gave it to her. He’s very particular. He wouldn’t want us to let it out into anyone else’s hands.”

“Royal?” Tricia said.

“The owner here. The boss. It used to be his personal car—he drove it every day.”

“But you’re saying he gave it to her,” Tricia said. “It’s hers now.”

“Yes, but—”

“And she asked me to bring it to her. She gave me the keys,” Tricia said. The man was shaking his head. “Why don’t we ask Royal? I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“We can’t do that,” he said. “He’s not here. Royal’s been away the past month—I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“Well, how’s he going to feel,” Tricia said, “when he does come back, if he finds out you stopped me from doing what Colleen asked?”

He twitched like an animal caught in a trap.

Finally he threw up his hands, slapped the keys into Tricia’s waiting palm. “It’s your neck, lady,” he said. “You’ve got the keys, you do what you want. But let me tell you something. You do not want to mess with Royal Barrone.”

“Barrone?” Tricia said.

“It’s your neck,” the man repeated and hightailed it out of sight.

23.

The Last Quarry

While Borden drove, first onto the F.D.R. and then north along the rim of Manhattan, Tricia straightened her hair in the lighted fold-down mirror on the passenger side. The ride was smooth and silent, the seats plush and supple. It hardly felt like they were moving, yet outside the windows the world swept past in a blur.

“Where are we going?” she said, touching a fingertip to the corner of her mouth to fix a spot where her rouge had smeared.

“Who cares?” Borden said. “Anywhere’s better than where we were.”

“You know how to get us back to Nicolazzo’s place?”

“Sure, corner of Van Dam and Greenpoint, near the cemetery. But why would we go there?”

“My sister’s there,” Tricia said. “So’s Erin. You want to get them out, don’t you?”

“Sure,” Borden said, with all the conviction of a soldier told to exit the nice, comfortable foxhole he’s been cowering in. “But driving up to the front door with no plan and no resources is not a way to get them out. It’s just a