Fifty-to-One

“I don’t know, ask her.”

“I did ask her. She said you did it.”

“Who’re you gonna believe, her or me?” The guy didn’t answer quickly enough. “Tony! I loved him!”

“Sure—the true love of a woman for a pile of dough.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? You pocketed plenty.”

“Of course he took care of me, Tony. I was his woman.”

“You were his moll, baby—not even, you were just some teenage tail he kept on hand for when there were no grown-up women around.”

She slapped him, hard, the crack ringing in the air. “Don’t you ever say that,” she said.

“That one’s going to cost you,” Tony said. “Later. First we’ve got to—hold on, where’d...?”

Tricia, who could only hear his voice faintly at this point, figured he must have noticed now that she was gone and begun searching the room for her. She hastened along the passageway on the other side of the door Reenie had used for her earlier exit and entrance. She’d snuck through it while Tony was occupied with Reenie, and she heard it swing open behind her now.

“Hey!” he shouted.

Fortunately she was already at the end of the corridor and was able to make a turn before the pair of gunshots he fired reached the spot where she’d been standing.

He ran; she ran faster. Pulling open a heavy door, she found herself in the wings of the stage, behind the velvet curtain. On the other side of the curtain, she heard people milling about, a confused murmur of voices, Joey’s rising above them: “People! People! Calm down, I’m telling you, this is a routine security matter...” She didn’t stick around to hear the rest of his explanation, though she’d have been curious to. Did the maitre d’ even know his boss was dead?

Tricia dashed through the cluttered backstage area to a service exit, but Joey had gotten there first and the door was locked and barred. She rattled the bar briefly out of sheer frustration and moved on.

But to where? The front door was out, obviously; and she didn’t know enough about the layout of the place to guess where the other exits might be, never mind which one Joey’s lockdown would reach last.

She shot blindly past several doors, all of them internal ones, not ones that would lead to the outside. Then, struck by a momentary inspiration, she doubled back.

Where would Joey’s lockdown reach last? Probably this room. She pushed through a door marked LADIES.

A window, she told herself on the way in—that’s what she needed. She said a little prayer: Let there be a window. Please, any window. Even a small one.

And there was—a very small one. It was high enough up on the wall that she had to drag over a trash can to reach it, and then, once she had, it took all her strength to force it open even half a foot. Wriggling through a half- foot opening was a painful process and twice she thought she’d gotten irretrievably stuck. But a combination of inhaling deeply, straining like a woman in labor, and kicking like mad eventually deposited her headfirst in a litter- strewn alleyway behind the club. She didn’t bother dusting herself off, just hobbled to the mouth of the alley, looked this way and that, and ran out onto Park Avenue South. A taxi screeched to a halt inches from her shins. Apologizing profusely for nearly getting run over, she tumbled into its back seat.

“Where you going, lady?” the driver said, glancing in the rearview.

She gave him Mike’s address.

“You look like you left that place in a hurry,” the driver said. “Anything the matter?”

“Just some men trying to kill me,” she said. “It’s been like that a lot lately.”

“You want me to take you to the police?” he asked.

“God, no,” Tricia said. Then, seeing his expression in the mirror, she said, “They’re so busy. I wouldn’t want to bother them.”

Ten minutes saw them to the door of Mike’s building. Tricia had just enough money to pay the fare with a few pennies left over for a tip.

“You sure you’re okay?” the driver said.

“I’m fine now,” Tricia said. “Just as long as no one followed us here.”

“Followed us?” the driver said. “The way I was going? Not a chance.”

It was true—he’d gone at top speed, weaving between cars and taking corners recklessly enough that more than one pedestrian had jumped back cursing. She’d certainly seen no sign of pursuit out the back window, despite checking repeatedly, and she saw none now. As the cab drove off, Tricia finally found herself breathing a little easier. With any luck, Erin and the money would already be upstairs, and Mike, too; they’d get everything ready for the morning and even have time to grab some sleep.

She climbed the stairs, knocked on the door, entered when it swung open.

And there was Mike, behind the bar, and Erin in front of it, a bulging paper grocery sack by her feet. There was the little leather box of photos sitting on the bar, where Tricia had left it. There was the footlocker, standing open, with its stacks of cut-up newspaper inside. There was only one thing wrong. If Mike and Erin were at the bar, who’d opened the door?

She turned to see. What she saw was the barrel of a revolver.

“Don’t even think of running,” O’Malley said. “You’re under arrest.”

47.

The Max

There they sat on the scarred wooden table in the drab little interrogation room: the bulging paper grocery sack, the leather box of photos, and the footlocker filled with stacks of cut-up newspaper. They looked lost there, and a little embarrassed. The tabletop was covered with random gouges and scratches, with cigarette burns, and with faintly shiny rings left by countless cups of coffee. A few hardy souls had tried scratching their initials into it. They mostly seemed to have been interrupted before they could finish. Beneath Tricia’s wrist was another vague cloud of scratches. She knew how these had gotten there: from the sharp edges of handcuffs like the ones she was wearing. Her mouth still seemed full of the paperclip taste of Magliocco’s gin. There seemed to be some kind of fine grit under her eyelids. It seemed to cover her skin. She touched her face lightly with her manacled hands; it was abnormally sensitive, as if she were sunburned. She wondered what time it was. She wanted another glass of water, but it seemed too much trouble to ask. She was very, very tired.

There were two men across the table from her, O’Malley and a very fit-looking young man in a pale gray suit. The man in the suit was looking at her attentively. O’Malley was ignoring her, riffling a stack of bills from the grocery sack with an abstracted air.

“My, my, my,” he said. He dropped the stack of bills into the bag and looked at Tricia. He still wore a thick cap of bandages on his head, and his nose and one eye were a few shades purpler than when she’d seen him last. “Let’s talk about your situation, Miss Heverstadt.”

“Can’t we talk about something more pleasant?” she said.

“I’d love to talk about pleasant things, Miss Heverstadt. But I’m afraid I’m out of practice. Now. Just to get it out of the way, I’m not going to charge you with assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duty.”

“Good. That wasn’t me.”

“I’m not charging anyone. I don’t need it. Or with attempted murder, reckless endangerment, kidnapping —”

“Kidnapping?”

“You tied me up, didn’t you? But forget it.” He waved a hand airily. “What do I need with chicken feed like that, when I’ve got two, maybe three actual, honest-to-God charges of murder? A Mister Roberto Monge, with a knife. A Mister Mitchell Depuis, gunshot. And we understand Al Magliocco got himself done earlier this evening, and that you were in attendance.”

“I wasn’t the one who—”

“No, of course not. What else’ve we got? Illegal possession of a firearm. Four counts of resisting arrest. That was somebody else, too? Breaking and entering, I forget how many counts. Grand larceny—let’s not forget that little item. Three million smackers, which you wrote a whole book about stealing. And of course these very interesting photos. Can I add blackmail to the list?”