fight with her.”
“I wouldn’t say a fight’s what she wants to get into with you,” Tricia said. “You might want to check the tub before you climb in.”
Charley wearily slid his suspenders off his shoulders, began undoing his cuffs. “Her cozying up to us isn’t the worst thing that could happen, Tricia.”
“Us? She’s not cozying up to
“So?” Charley said. “One of us is better than neither. We need every advantage we can get.”
He was right, of course—she knew he was right. Still. “Go take your bath,” she said. She pulled off her shoes one by one, threw them at the armchair in the corner. She slung herself backwards across the bed, let her eyes close. “And don’t wake me when you come back.”
“Then move over,” Charley said, “so I won’t have to.”
“I think maybe you should take the chair this time,” she said.
“Swell,” Charley muttered and headed toward the sound of pouring water.
When the first rays of sunlight through the blinds prodded her awake, Charley wasn’t in the bed; he wasn’t in the chair either. His shoes were on the floor, next to hers—he’d left the four of them lined up, side by side. She saw his pants draped over the arm of the chair. Her dress, which she’d stripped off and left in a heap on the floor with her underwear, was missing, and in its place was a folded robe. It was too large for her, but she put it on and managed to walk down the hall to the bathroom in it without tripping.
The hallway lights were off and the house was silent. She rapped gently on the bathroom door and prepared to whisper his name, but it swung open under the impact of her knuckles. There was no one inside—but there were her dress and her intimates, hanging from the shower rod and almost dry. Charley’s shirt and undershirt were hanging beside them. She looked at the seat of the dress. The stain from where she’d landed on Jerry’s roof hadn’t come out, not completely, but it was faint enough now that you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know to look for it; and the smell, at least, was gone.
She got washed at the sink like she’d done for years on cold mornings in Aberdeen: a splash of water, a streak of soap, some more water, vigorous toweling. She brushed her hair back, briefly inspecting the dark roots that had started to show at her scalp. Would she dye it again? If she got out of this mess, would she stay blonde? Or would she go back to the old brown of Aberdeen, quiet and unexciting but safe? It was tempting—to not be Trixie any longer, just Patricia Heverstadt once again, attracting glances as she walked down the street but not bullets. Yet she wondered whether this temptation was like the bargains she’d found herself making while climbing down the rain gutter, the sort you might contemplate in a dire moment but that you’d never go through with in the end.
She pushed the question out of her mind. First things first. Finding Charley (maybe he was in the kitchen, grabbing some breakfast?), finding the guns (would Barrone really let them have them back?), and then finding Nicolazzo and Erin and Coral (the corner of Van Dam and Greenpoint, wasn’t that what Charley had said?).
She pulled the dress on over her head, buttoned it up as far as the missing buttons would permit, drew on her stockings, then padded back toward the bedroom for her shoes. There was one other room on the floor—one other door anyway, halfway down the hall—and she went slowly as she passed it, trying to make as little noise as possible.
She needn’t have bothered. She heard a throaty chuckle from within, a creaking of springs. Then a woman’s voice, coaxing: “C’mon, beautiful. Ain’t you slept enough?” More creaking followed. The people inside weren’t listening to anything going on in the hall.
Tricia moved on. Then stopped dead when she heard a voice, muffled by the door, say, “I really need to go.” It was Charley’s voice.
“What’s the hurry?” Renata asked. “It’s early still.”
“We’ve got a long day coming up,” Charley said.
“That’s not all you’ve got coming up,” she said.
“Renata, let go. Please. Stop that.”
“Oh, but you like it,” she said. “I can tell.”
“I like it fine,” Charley said, “but I need to go.”
“I’ll show you what you need,” Renata said, and whatever response Charley had been about to give was stifled under a barrage of laughter and kisses.
There was a keyhole in the door, but Tricia didn’t stoop to looking through it. She continued on to the bedroom, grabbed her shoes, hesitated, then dug a handful of money out of the pocket of Charley’s pants, transferred it to her own.
You need every advantage you can get? Well, Charley, so do I.
Holding her shoes in one hand, she slipped silently down the stairs. She put the shoes on when she reached the ground floor.
She remembered Barrone denying it, saying,
Yeah, well.
She entered the kitchen, empty now except for Eddie, who either was the earliest riser in the house or had stayed up all night. He sat at a circular table with a cardboard cereal box and an empty bowl, plus the pair of guns Barrone had taken from them, the Luger and Heaven’s smaller gun, the one Tricia had been carrying. Two piles of bullets were lying on the tabletop between them.
“Miss,” he said.
“It’s Trixie, Eddie. You can call me Trixie. We’re going to be working together, after all.”
“Okay,” he said. “Trixie.”
“Listen,” she said, thinking, all right, I’ve found Charley, I’ve found the guns, now it’s time to get on with it. She had a brief twinge of remorse, but she stifled it. Coral wasn’t going to have to wait till mister love ’em and leave ’em got around to leaving this one.
“Listen,” she said again. “Renata was asking for you just now.”
“Really?” The poor boy’s eyes lit up.
“Mm-hm. She said to ask you to come up. Just go quietly. And,” Tricia said, “don’t knock. Just let yourself in.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hm.”
He was halfway out of his seat before he looked back at the table. “I don’t know...I don’t think Mr. Barrone would want me to leave you here with the guns, Trixie.”
“Well, I don’t think Renata would want me coming up to the room with you. It sounded like she was looking forward to having some privacy with you.”
“Privacy,” he said.
“Look, the guns are empty, right?” He nodded. “Fine. Then here—” Tricia swept the bullets up in her hands and held them out to Eddie, who cupped his palms to receive them. “Now I can’t do anything. And you can go enjoy yourself.”
Eddie jammed the bullets in his pockets and hastened to the door. “Thanks, Trixie. You’re a pal.”
“Have fun, Eddie,” she said.
When she heard his step on the stairs, Tricia picked up the Luger. She tried loading it with the one bullet she’d managed to hold out, clamped between her palm and the base of her thumb. It didn’t fit, so she grabbed the other gun, tried loading it into that one. It clicked neatly into place.
One bullet wasn’t much. But it would have to be enough.
From upstairs she heard a commotion. Someone was shouting. Doors were opening on other floors. It was time to go.
She hustled to the front door and down the five stone steps to the street.
Subway...subway...she looked around hastily to orient herself then headed off to the west.
