“I explained to them that with their help we might be able not only to free Charley but also do some harm to Nicolazzo—Guercio didn’t seem to have much love for him. And I asked them please to not interfere with our getting the money we’re owed from Mr. Magliocco.”
“You asked them please...? They’re probably on the phone with Magliocco right now!”
“I don’t think so,” Tricia said.
“Why not?”
“Because I also ripped the phone out of the wall,” Tricia said. “And made them take off all their clothes.”
“All their clothes,” Erin said.
“And get in the closet,” Tricia said. “I locked them in. Then I locked their clothes in the filing cabinet. The phone, too.” She opened her palm, where two keys lay, one longer, one shorter.
Erin smiled.
“That’s more like it,” she said.
“I try,” Tricia said.
They showed Guercio’s note to the bruiser at the door, who patted them down at length before letting them pass, and then to a crew-cut maitre d’ who handed the note back with an expression of surprise. Maybe he was used to the women who came bearing notes from Guercio looking more impressive, less run-down. Or perhaps it was the note’s second sentence that surprised him.
The note said,
The maitre d’ bent to his appointed task, giving Tricia her fourth frisking in 24 hours, and her most thorough yet. Uncomfortable as it was, Tricia submitted to the search with good grace. The guard’s pistol was sitting comfortably in a garbage can down the block, so she knew there was nothing for the maitre d’ to find.
He didn’t find anything on Erin, either, though he worked his way up her body slowly and with obvious relish.
“Touch ‘em again and I’ll have to charge you five bucks,” Erin said.
“I’ve got my orders,” he said.
When he was satisfied they had nothing dangerous on them, he led them through a dark and empty lounge to a leather-upholstered door, where he pulled a braided cord dangling from the ceiling. Somewhere behind the door, Tricia heard a bell chime. Footsteps approached, and the maitre d’ said, “It’s me—Joey,” when they’d stopped.
“Yeah?” came a voice. “What kind of wine we serving tonight?”
“Montepulciano.”
The door swung open.
Behind it, a roulette wheel spun at a table surrounded by bettors in wrinkled suits and young women in backless gowns. A croupier stood at a craps table, sweeping the dice along the felt to a waiting shooter’s hand. The maitre d’ threaded a path between the tables and Tricia and Erin followed close on his heels. A few men looked up as they passed but most remained focused on the money they were losing.
There were tables set up for poker and blackjack, but with no players at them so far—it was still early, Tricia supposed. Up on one wall she saw a blackboard listing the start times of upcoming horse races.
They kept going, past a small stage with a red velvet curtain and rows of plush seats empty before it, then down a hallway decorated with framed paintings of naked women. The door at the far end had no upholstery on it and no braided cord to pull. The maitre d’ knocked.
A voice said, “What’s the—”
“Montepulciano.”
Tricia watched the doorknob turn and the door swing to. The room inside was brightly lit and well appointed, with thick curtains hanging before a wide window and dark cherrywood furniture buffed to a high gloss. On one side of the room a low sofa supported the bulk of a black-haired man of at least three hundred pounds and a slender blonde coiled up on the seat beside him with a resentful look on her face. She looked to be about Tricia’s age; the man looked at least two decades older.
“What is it, Joey?” the man said in a voice as husky as a just-wakened drunk’s. “Who are these women?”
The maitre d’ passed the note to him. “They had this note from Vincent, Mr. Magliocco.”
He read it, passed it back. “You frisk them?”
“Absolutely.”
Magliocco sat forward with his hands on his knees. “I know you,” he said to Tricia. “Why do I know her?”
The man who had opened the door—a little pepperpot with a tangle of curly hair and a nose you could use to split logs—came over to them for a closer look. “She’s that dancer you liked, boss,” he said. “You remember, at the Sun. You had me give her your number. She never called,” he added accusingly.
“Oh, yes,” Magliocco rasped. “The dancer. I remember. ‘Begin the Beguine,’ right?”
Tricia nodded.
“And what are you here for now? Borden’s money? The man’s a cheat, and he’s about to become a dead cheat. Why should I pay anything?”
“Because you accepted his bet and it came in,” Erin said. “You
“Don’t tell me what I owe.”
“You’ve taken his money every time he’s lost, haven’t you?”
“A man wants to give me money, I’ll take it.”
“Well, then you’ve got to pay out when he wins!”
“Ah, get her out of here,” Magliocco said.
“Both of them?” the pepperpot asked.
“No, just the loud one,” Magliocco said. He licked his lips. “Maybe the dancer and I can work something out.”
Magliocco sprang to his feet with more alacrity than his size had led Tricia to expect. He kicked the door shut behind the two men. They’d walked Erin out with a hand on each elbow, and at the last moment she’d looked back at Tricia with more than a little concern in her eyes. Tricia had said, “It’s okay, I’ll be fine,” but it had been a reflex. She wasn’t at all sure she was going to be fine.
“So,” Magliocco said. “What would you like to drink?”
“I’m okay, thanks. I don’t need a drink.”
“Who ever needs a drink? A glass of water, maybe, if you’re in the Sahara Desert. Other than that, it’s for pleasure. So what’s your pleasure?”
“A glass of water sounds fine,” Tricia said.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re gonna be a pain in my ass, aren’t you?” He said it with some amusement, though. “You’re cute, you know. Not what I’d call gorgeous, and maybe you don’t got knockers like your friend or like Reenie here, but you’ve got something, kid.”
Reenie was staring daggers at her. Tricia wanted to say to her, Don’t worry, he’s all yours, I don’t want him. But she kept her mouth shut.
“Make us a couple gin tonics, will you?” he said, and since he didn’t turn his head when he said it, Tricia briefly thought he was asking her to do it. But Reenie must have been used to this and got up and made her way to a little bar set up in the corner.
“That okay with you?” Magliocco said, and this time he was talking to Tricia, so she nodded.
“Good. Good. So listen, here’s the pitch: I want you to come work for me. Dance for me. Ditch that bastard Nicolazzo, forget the Sun, come work here. I’ll double your salary and you’ll make the same again in tips. More, maybe. Depends what you’re willing to do.”
“He means will you lay for it,” Reenie said. She had a queer high-pitched voice, like a boy who’d swallowed the helium from a toy balloon.
“Tschah,” Magliocco said, or something to that effect. “Just make the drinks.” And to Tricia: “It’s up to each
