Fifty-to-One

her as she danced. Poor, unfaithful Robbie Monge.

She picked up the receiver and placed a call to Aberdeen. The phone rang and rang and she let it—mama might easily have been at the other end of the house when the ringing started, and she wasn’t as young as she used to be.

“Hello...?”

Tricia’s face lit up. “Mama! It’s me, Patricia.”

“Patricia? Are you coming home?”

“No, mama, I’m not. But guess what? Coral is.”

There was silence on the other end. Then: “Coral?”

Tricia thought about the scene down on Cornelia Street earlier that morning, when she’d accompanied Coral to her room. She’d finally gotten to see Artie. Damned if he didn’t have his father’s chin after all, and no doubt at all who the father was.

What are you going to do? she’d asked Coral, who’d had to think about it.

I’m going to go home, she’d said finally. Not for good—but for now.

“Yes, mama,” Tricia said. “Coral. And she’s bringing someone with her.”

“A man?” her mother said coldly.

“After a fashion,” Tricia said.

Charley got up then, waved at Erin to do the same. “We’ll be outside,” he said. “Take your time.”

When her call with her mother was finished, Tricia didn’t hang up the phone, just depressed the hooks with her forefinger and then released them. She placed another call, to a number written in a neat, straight hand on the back of a business card whose front only contained a man’s name, not the name of his employer.

“Brooks here,” the man answered. Over the phone he sounded, if anything, even more stiff and formal than in person.

“This is Tricia Heverstadt.”

“Oh, Miss Heverstadt,” he said, warming up just a little. “I want to express our thanks once more. You did an outstanding job this morning. And now with Royal Barrone turning state’s evidence against Nicolazzo—”

“I can’t take credit for that.”

“You put us in touch with him,” Brooks said.

“I made one phone call,” Tricia said.

“You did an outstanding job,” he repeated. “And that is the reason I asked you to call me. So that we might discuss in private the matter I alluded to in our first conversation.”

“What matter is that?”

“Your skills, Miss Heverstadt, could be of considerable service to your government. Salvatore Nicolazzo is not the only criminal who has eluded us for years. If you were able to get close to him and his confidants, perhaps you could do the same with others.”

“I don’t think—”

“Simply by way of example,” Brooks said, and she heard some pages flipping on his end of the phone, “there is a mister Jorge Famosa, living in New York now but a native of Cuba originally. He peddles narcotics in the northeast, smuggled in from his homeland. His operations have been disrupted recently by the fighting down there —you have heard of this rebel, Castro, and his guerilla forces?”

“I think I’ve seen the name,” Tricia said, “but—”

“Well, Miss Heverstadt, we have word that Famosa is recruiting criminals from New York’s Cuban community to travel to Cuba and kill Fidel Castro. And once they’ve done that, they intend to back a bid for power by the dead man’s brother, Raul Castro, whom they believe will be more sympathetic to their operations.”

“What does this have to do with me, Agent Brooks?”

“We thought you could infiltrate Famosa’s organization and help us bring these men to justice before they create an international incident.”

“Do I look to you like I could pass for Cuban?”

“No, ma’am,” Brooks said, “but then you don’t look Italian, either.”

“I’m sorry,” Tricia said, “I’m just not comfortable—”

“That’s all right,” Brooks said, and she heard some more pages flipping. “If you’re more comfortable with our Sicilian friends, we have no shortage of assignments there, especially now, with Nicolazzo and Barrone out of commission. That creates a power vacuum and we have already heard this morning—on the QT, you understand— that certain men at the next level down are trying to fill it. There’s one fellow, for instance, who has been operating a brothel out of the Statler Hotel—he’s employed there as their house detective, if you can believe that.”

“Agent Brooks—”

“Then there’s another gentleman, Paulie Cusumano, a.k.a. ‘Paulie Lips.’ He runs a club called the Moon and word is he intends to turn it into a casino—”

“Agent Brooks!” Tricia had to shout to get his attention. “Agent Brooks. I appreciate what you’ve done for me, you and Captain O’Malley. You’ve given me a second chance and I won’t forget it. But I’ve had my fill of this sort of thing. I just want to lead a simple, quiet life from here on in. No criminals, no gunfights, no undercover assignments. Just working in the book publishing business with Charley—where at least in principle all the danger stays on the page.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Brooks said. “You have the makings of an excellent field asset.”

“Thank you,” Tricia said, “I think. But I assure you, my mind’s made up.”

“Very well. The government does not pressure its citizens. I’d like to think you might reconsider someday— but that’s entirely up to you. In the meantime,” Brooks said, “there are just a few loose ends I’d be grateful if you could help us tie up. For example, the matter of the stolen three million dollars. Are you quite certain, Miss Heverstadt, that you don’t have any idea who took it?”

“Quite certain,” Tricia said. And before he could say anything else she added, “Would you look at that? I’m so sorry, Agent Brooks, I just realized it’s almost noon and I have to be somewhere.”

“But Miss Heverstadt—” Brooks said.

“Goodbye, Agent Brooks.” She hung up.

Outside, Erin was seated at her desk, going through the mail that had piled up. She said, “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Tricia said.

“Want to get some lunch?”

“Actually,” Tricia said, “all I want to get right now is some sleep. Could you let Charley know I’ll see him a little later?”

“Sure,” Erin said.

And Tricia headed out. But instead of going across the hall to her cot, she took the elevator downstairs.

Down the block, where it had once said “Red Baron” in Gothic letters, the sign now said “O.J.’s Bar and Grill.” Inside, the propellers and framed aviation pictures had been removed from the walls. The place looked unchanged otherwise, though, and was every bit as barren of customers at noon as it had been any of the previous times she’d come here. She ordered a coke from the bartender, who served it to her unenthusiastically. She carried it to one of the dark, anonymous booths against the back wall. Renata was right, she thought. These places did all look pretty much the same.

She didn’t have to wait long—maybe ten minutes. Don was the first to show up, coming in through a doorway labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY behind the bar. Larry appeared a few minutes later, walking in off the street. Larry’s beard had come in a bit more in the months since she’d seen him last. Otherwise, the two looked much the way they had, though she thought maybe their clothing seemed a little improved.

“Boys,” Tricia said, raising her glass and waving at them with it. “Want to come over here for a minute?”

“Why, it’s our authoress,” Larry said. “Our mystery writrix. What brings you here? Are you working on another book?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Tricia said, and there was something in her voice that stopped them dead.

Larry exchanged a glance with Don, who shrugged expressively. Without another word they came over to her