working out a magic trick.
“I work next door, on the third floor,” Charley said. “At the big theatrical agency, you know the one I mean. And we just...climbed out the window, came down.”
“Why?” Jerry said. “Why would you want to do it in my bathroom? If you like bathrooms, don’t you have one in your office?”
“It’s not as private,” Charley began, but the man with the gun waved him to silence.
“That’s all right, Jerry,” the man said, “they’re just lying to you. There’s only one reason they’d be here, and you know what it is. Sal’s always liked to keep an eye on me, and I guess he’s gotten suspicious of you, too.”
“She does work for him,” Jerry said. “Told me she’s a dancer.”
“I
“Sure,” the man with the gun said. “And he’s your partner, and you do your best dancing in toilets. Don’t play me for a sap. What’s Sal paying you to be his eyes and ears?”
“Nothing!” Tricia said.
“So you do it for free? Jerry here charges Sal seventy bucks a month, and half the information he sells him you could get for nothing on the street.” And when Tricia registered surprise, he said, “What? You thought Jerry pays his rent peddling candy and papers at a nickel a throw? You can peddle information for a lot more. More than it’s worth, sometimes.”
“Don’t say that, Mr. B,” Jerry said, “I give good value—”
“We don’t work for Nicolazzo,” Charley said. “We never met him before today.”
“Shut up,” Mr. B said. “The lot of you.” To Charley he said, “Of course you never met him before, the man lives on a goddamn boat. Doesn’t mean you don’t work for him. I work for him. Jerry works for him. We all work for Uncle Nick.” He said it with unconcealed disgust—something Tricia feared meant he had no intention of letting them leave the room alive.
She looked more closely at his face. She’d never seen him before—she was certain of that. But there was something familiar about him and she suddenly realized what it was. “Mr. B,” she said. “Does that stand for Barrone?”
The big man looked over at Jerry. “Listen to that. ‘Does it stand for Barrone?’ You do a fine innocent act, sister. You should be an actress, not a dancer.”
“No, really,” Tricia said, “does it?”
“Why? What are you going to tell me if I say yes?”
“That I’ve got something you’re going to want to see. Or maybe you won’t want to see it, but you ought to.”
“And what’s that?”
“Some pictures,” Tricia said. “Out of Mr. Nicolazzo’s safe.”
The bluff, hectoring expression vanished from the big man’s face. He was deadly serious now. “Where are these pictures?”
“In my pocket,” Tricia said. “I’ll give them to you.”
“Slowly,” he said, and she eased the leather box out of her pocket, slid it to him across the counter.
“You can look at all of them,” Tricia said, “but the one you’ll want to see is the last one.”
“Open it,” he told Jerry, and he kept his gun trained on Tricia and Charley while Jerry lifted off the lid of the box and spread its contents out over the counter.
“Aw, jeez,” Jerry said when he got to the last picture. Mr. B looked down at it. He didn’t say anything, but his hand shook and Tricia wondered whether he was going to shoot them all.
“Mr. Barrone,” Tricia said, “I’m so sorry about Royal. Was he your brother?”
“What are you talking about?
“You say you got these from Sal’s safe?” Barrone said.
“I didn’t,” Tricia said, “my sister did. I think you know her—Colleen King?” His eyes narrowed and he nodded as though, bit by bit, he was putting things together. “She told me she found them in the safe after someone else broke in and stole all the money. But Nicolazzo thinks she took the money, too, or at least knows who did, and he’s holding her somewhere in Queens, along with a friend of ours. Charley just got away a few hours ago. I barely got away myself.”
“I see,” Barrone said. He turned to Jerry. “And what do you know about all this?”
Jerry was backing away from the counter, although in the narrow space there wasn’t far for him to go. He was shaking his head, the loose skin under his chin quivering. “Nothing, Mr. B, honest.”
“Don’t give me that, Jerry. You hear everything. You must’ve heard something about this.”
“Sure, I hear things, but half of it’s just talk—”
“How about the other half?”
“Like I was saying before—I hear Sal’s rounding up everyone who might’ve had anything to do with the robbery, no matter how remote. He even grabbed the guy published that book, you know, the one talked about the robbery...” He looked over at Charley. “Word is, this guy took him at Fifty-to-One, walked out the front door. This was a couple of hours ago.”
Charley smiled weakly.
“What about Frankie?” Barrone said. “What do you hear about Frankie?”
“Nothing,” Jerry mumbled.
“Jerry, how much do I pay you? Not Sal—me. How much? Now answer my goddamn question.”
Jerry sounded like the words were being pulled out of him with pincers. “Frankie was asking for more,” he said, “that’s what I hear. More money. And when Sal said no, he threatened to walk. Pictures or no pictures. Said he’d take what he knew to the cops. If he went down, he’d take Sal with him.”
“And why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I didn’t want—I didn’t want you to be mad at me,” Jerry said.
“Goddamn Frankie,” Barrone whispered. “Never listened. Never knew how to keep his mouth shut.” He waved the gun at Charley. “You. Take that gun out of your pocket, slide it over here. Yes, I can see it, I’m not blind. You, too, sister. I’m keeping them and we’re going for a little ride.” Tricia and Charley reluctantly handed over the guns they’d gone to such trouble to obtain.
“You,” Barrone said to Jerry, as he packed the photos back into the box one-handed. “If you ever lie to me again—no, listen. If you ever lie to me again, or hold out on me, I’m going to kill you. Do we understand each other? Right through the head, with this gun here, I’m going to shoot you. If you lie to me. Is that okay with you, Jerry? Yeah?” Jerry was nodding wildly. Yes, absolutely, Mr. B, shoot me, that’s fine.
Barrone dropped the box of photos into his jacket pocket.
“You’re lucky that they’re
“He doesn’t,” Jerry said. “I’d never tell no one. Only people know are you, me...and now them, I guess.”
“Oh, we’d never tell anyone either,” Charley said, and Tricia shook her head in agreement. “Why would we? You want it in writing, we’ll—”
“Get up,” Barrone said. He grabbed their guns, waved them toward the door.
Charley and Tricia got up. She glanced back at Jerry, who had a half-apologetic look on his face.
Outside, there was a long black limo waiting at the curb.
“Open the door.”
Charley complied.
“Now get in.”
They climbed into the car, found seats along what seemed to be a six-foot-long banquette while Barrone climbed in after them, sat on the shorter crosswise seat at the end. He slammed the door shut. “Eddie,” he called, “take us to Fulton Street.” The car started up.
“Now,” Barrone said, “let’s hear what you know about my brother-in-law.”
It didn’t take long, since Charley didn’t know much and Tricia had decided she’d be a better listener than
