Tricia found her palms sweating, her nails biting into the flesh as the horses rounded the first turn. You could barely hear the hoofbeats in the background behind the sound of the announcer’s yammering, but they were there, like her own thundering heartbeat. The horses’ names became part of the general din, a swarm of unfamiliar sounds among which she desperately tried to catch the ones she knew.
Tricia had never been to a horse race in her life, had never listened to one on the radio before, never watched one on television; she’d ridden, like every other kid in South Dakota, but this was new to her, and she didn’t care for it. It was too frenzied, too loud, too desperate—and there was too much at stake.
The trumpets blared, and then a Pall Mall jingle began.
Tricia felt her breath coming fast. Her face felt flushed. “That poor horse,” she said. “You think Nicolazzo could possibly have known she’d fall...?”
“Possibly known?” Erin said. “I’m sure he paid the jockey to do it.”
“That’s sickening,” Tricia said.
“Add it to his tab,” Erin said, picking up the phone. “Now let’s get our money.”
The taxi let them out at the foot of the Flatiron Building, just a mile or so south of Mike’s place.
“I don’t understand,” Tricia said. “What are we doing here? Why couldn’t we go to his office?”
“I’m sure Reynaldo will explain,” Erin said. And indeed, a large man came toward them on the sidewalk, explaining as he neared.
“My dear, my dear, I’m so sorry,” he said, gesturing with the walking stick he carried. He wore a heavy, woolen suit—too heavy, given the weather—and a sisal hat whose long brim cast half his face into shadow. “I congratulate you on your victory and look forward to giving you what you’re due, but—this much money, I can’t pay it off on my own say-so. You understand.”
“I don’t, actually,” Erin said. “You must pay off more than this all the time. We’re talking, what, eleven, twelve thousand? Not a million bucks.”
“No, not a million, it’s true. But still—this much money, on a bet placed so close to post time, in a race where the favorite fell...they won’t let me do it. We all answer to someone, my dear, and the man I answer to has said he wants to attend to any noteworthy payoffs on this race personally.” He took his first look at Tricia then. “And who is this? A friend of yours? I haven’t met her before, have I?”
“No. Trixie, this is Reynaldo; Reynaldo, Trixie.”
They shook hands and Reynaldo favored her with a smile. “Do you like parties, my dear?”
“No,” Tricia said. “I like bookies who pay off when you win, like they’re supposed to.”
Reynaldo’s expression hardened. “Rather a sharp tongue on this one.”
“Who is it we’re going to be meeting?” Erin said.
“A man named Guercio. His first name is not important. If he is satisfied that there was nothing untoward about your bet, he’ll pay what you’re due.”
“And if he’s not satisfied?” Erin said.
“Why think of such things? Come. He is waiting for us.” Reynaldo let them into the Flatiron Building through one of the doors on the side. They took a swift elevator to the sixth floor, where a guard in a rust-colored sport coat gave all three of them a cursory pat-down. He didn’t find the gun or the photos in Tricia’s pocket, since they were back at Mike’s where she had left them lying on the bar. He did confiscate a small derringer from Reynaldo.
“You’ll get this back when—”
“—I leave, I know,” Reynaldo said. “I’ve been here many times.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Bruges,” the guard said, pronouncing it to rhyme with “budges,” and Reynaldo winced.
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Bruges.”
He winced again.
“Follow me.” The guard led them down the hall and into an office built into the prow of the wedge-shaped building. Past a sturdy oak coat closet on one side and a pair of filing cabinets on the other, the walls angled toward one another, converging at the far end in a rounded-off point just wide enough for one man to stand; and just one man was standing there, hands in his pockets, staring out at Madison Square Park across the way.
“This was once a lovely park,” the man said without turning to face them. “An important park. Did you know, the Statue of Liberty was displayed here, in pieces, while she was being constructed? Her arm and her torch. They stood here for years. Now—”
He turned, walked away from the window.
“Now, it’s a place I wouldn’t let my sister walk alone.” He looked at Erin, at Tricia. He ignored Reynaldo.
“This bet of yours, on the horses that won,” he said, speaking slowly, as though he wanted to consider each word carefully before letting it out. “This bet, on horses that would not have won had this unfortunate accident not occurred. This bet...what prompted your Mr. Borden to make it?”
“What do you mean?” Erin said. “Charley thought the horses might win. That’s why he made the bet. Why does anyone make any bet?”
“Forgive me,” Guercio said. “I understand why bets are made. But this particular bet—it is unusually large for Mr. Borden, is it not?”
“Reynaldo accepted it,” Erin said. “If it was too large he should have said something.”
“Mr. Borden has an admirable record of losing his bets,” Guercio said. “For him to win such a large bet on such an unlikely outcome—it stretches credulity, does it not?”
“You know what they say,” Erin said. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”
“Ha! This is so. And still.”
“Mr. Guercio,” Erin said, and Tricia marveled at the straight face she was able to keep as she said it, “I can tell you absolutely for sure that Charley had no inside knowledge about that race. He picked those horses because he liked the sound of their names.”
“Will She Shine, that’s a fine-sounding name, too.”
“What can I tell you,” Erin said. “He didn’t like it as much.”
“Your Mr. Borden,” Guercio said. “I have...heard things. On the grapevine, you understand. That he is, forgive me, not long for this world.”
Tricia, who’d made a great effort to hold her tongue so far, couldn’t contain herself at this. “What are you talking about? What have you heard?”
“Whisperings, here and there. That he has made a powerful man angry. That this man now holds him captive and has no intention of letting him go. The details do not matter.”
“What sort of grapevine is this?” Tricia said. “They just got him a few hours ago!”
“I assume you know the business I’m in. Mr. Borden certainly does. In this business, people talk. Thieves talk to thieves, second-story men to other second-story men. Killers talk to killers. They each have their own grapevine, and there are few secrets that can be kept from it for long.”
