Fifty-to-One Read online

  “Damn it, Tricia, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “You mean you don’t want you to get hurt,” Tricia said.

  “That, too.”

  “Well, I don’t see that we have a choice, Charley. We need to get Coral and Erin, and we need weapons to do that, and the one person who can give us what we need is at the Stars Club. So that’s where we’re going.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. Charley threw out the napkin when he’d finished his sandwich and Tricia did the same with the apple core a block later. Empty-handed, they made their way to the rear of the building the Stars Club was located in. They searched along the unlighted brick wall for the outlines of a service entrance and did find one metal door, but it was locked. There were two narrow windows, but both were covered with formidable iron grillwork so that even if opening them had been possible it would have been no use.

  Rounding the corner, they saw a side door swing open and ducked back into the shadows as a group of people spilled out. At least two of them looked like fighters, taller and bulkier than the rest and muscular even under their coats. The rest looked like trainers, managers, miscellaneous hangers-on. There was lots of laughter and high-spirited talk about what after-hours bar would still be serving at 2AM, and then some about how it wasn’t really 2AM yet, was it, and how no, it wasn’t, but it would be by the time they made it to the nearest bar. As the last of them exited the building, the door slowly began to swing shut.

  “We’ve got to—” Tricia started to say, then realized she wasn’t saying it to anyone, since Charley wasn’t beside her any longer.

  She saw him, then, darting out into the midst of the little crowd. “Gents! Gents! Coming through!” He patted one of the big men on the back. “Hey, nice work tonight. Nice work. Give it to him, right?” He caught the closing door with one hand before it could shut. “Is Barney in there? Never mind, I’ll find him.” And before anyone could say anything he was inside and had pulled the door closed behind him.

  “Barney?” one of the men asked. “Who’s Barney?” Another shrugged and a third stepped out into the empty street with an arm upraised to hail a cab. When none came, the lot of them shuffled in a group toward the corner where Tricia was standing. She backed up into an alcove, hoping the shadow would cover her.

  “Hey, look what we’ve got here,” one of the fighters said and pointed toward her as they passed. “Looking for company, honey?”

  “Come on, bruiser,” one of the smaller types said, and Tricia realized with a start that it was the janitor, the one with the squint. “Keep it in your pants.” She pressed her back hard against the wall, her chin against her chest. He looked right at her, tipped his hat in her direction. “Sorry, sister, he didn’t mean nothing.”

  Thank god for myopia, she thought.

  When the last of them had gone and the sound of their loud conversation had dwindled in the distance, Tricia ducked out of the alcove and sprinted to the side door where Charley had gone in. She knocked. “Open up,” she said, “it’s—”

  The door opened and Charley pulled her inside, a finger to his lips. They were at the top of a staircase and Charley led her down to its foot.

  From somewhere not too far away, she heard a punch land and the sound of a tired crowd that could barely rouse itself from its torpor to cheer. Another punch landed, and another, and then came a heavier sound, a body hitting the canvas. “Huh-one! Aaa-two! Thuh-ree!” the ref counted, but he got no further than the ‘F’ in “Four” before the felled fighter apparently righted himself. The crowd mumbled a desultory blend of approval and disdain. Then a bell rang and there were scattered groans from people in the audience who wanted the fight to be over, already.

  Charley pulled Tricia down the long, T-shaped corridor. Though all but one of the ceiling lights were off now, she recognized it from before: they were behind the arena, near the changing rooms. She had to figure the cleaning crew would be based somewhere around here. But it was a big place. Hell, there were other floors entirely. Maybe they stashed the cleaning crew on one of those.

  “So?” Charley whispered in her ear. “Where’s your friend?”

  Then he stiffened and stepped away from her slowly, his arms rising, palms out. “Hold on,” he said, “don’t shoot, I’m not armed.”

  “Of course you’re not,” Heaven said, stepping out of the shadows. She had a gun pressed between Charley’s shoulderblades and she held it there while she steered him over to face the wall. “That’s why you’re here. Is this the person helping you?” she asked Tricia.

  “Yes,” Tricia said.

  “You might want to reconsider,” Heaven said, “just how much help he’s likely to be.”

  “You think you could put the gun down now?” Charley said, but she didn’t. Tricia saw it was the Luger, the gun that had killed Mitch.

  “If I could get the drop on you so easily, the people who have Colleen will, too. They’re professionals. I’m just someone who knows how to take care of myself.” She finally took the gun away from Charley’s spine, lowered it. “You don’t seem to be either.”

  “We’ve done okay so far,” Charley said, bristling.

  “Heaven,” Tricia said, “thank you for coming. Did you bring both of them?”

  Heaven nodded and took the other gun out from the pocket of the windbreaker she was wearing. She handed both guns to Tricia. They were heavier than Tricia expected.

  “They’re fully loaded,” Heaven said. “But when they’re done, they’re done. That’s all the bullets I had.”

  “Thank you,” Tricia said. “I can’t tell you—”

  “Don’t tell me. Just go. I can’t be seen with you.”

  “Who’s with Artie now?” Tricia said.

  “Malwa. A Ukrainian girl. He’ll be fine. Now, go.”

  “No,” said a deep voice from further down the corridor, “you stay right where you are.” A hulking shape moved toward them. The gun held in one of his hands came into view before his face did, but eventually his face followed.

  “Bruno,” Tricia said.

  “Drop the guns,” Bruno said. “The boss said to bring you in alive if I can, but I can shoot you if I need to.”

  “Kill him,” Heaven said. “That’s what they’re for—use them!”

  “Quiet,” Bruno said, and his rumbling bass voice made the word sound like a commandment. “Now put the guns down.”

  “You, too, son,” said a nasal voice from the other end of the corridor, where (Tricia saw, turning) several men were clattering down the stairs she and Charley had used just minutes before. “Drop it. You too, Borden. You’re all under arrest.”

  And as this new figure stepped from darkness into light Tricia saw it was O’Malley, his nose bandaged and his face bruised. He had his police service revolver outstretched and two patrolmen behind him had theirs out, too.

  “I don’t even have a gun,” Charley said.

  “Well, put down whatever you’ve got, all of you.”

  Tricia lowered her hands and bent to put the guns on the floor. Bruno seemed to be weighing his options.

  From the other side of the wall, then, the bell sounded and a second later a massive punch connected. The crowd, roused from its stupor, roared; you could hear chairs tip over as people rose to their feet.

  And Tricia took the opportunity to raise one of the guns she’d been about to put down and, aiming well over everyone’s heads, fired it.

  She’d only meant it as a distraction, a warning shot, a ploy out of sheer desperation; she couldn’t have hit the ceiling light if she’d aimed at it, not in a million years. But she hadn’t aimed at it and now it winked out with a tinkle of shattering glass.

  Hearing the gunshot, the audience screamed and stampeded; from the ring came the sound of the bell being rung repeatedly in a futile effort to restore order.

  From somewhere in the darkness, O’Malley shouted, “Nobody move!”

  Someone grabbed Tricia’s arm and in the chaos she d
idn’t know if it was friend or foe until Charley said, his breath warm in her ear, “This way.”

  She ran beside him down what she guessed was the middle branch of the ‘T’, one gun in each fist, her legs aching and her breath short.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” she gasped.

  “Nope,” Charley said.

  This arm of the corridor dead-ended at a doorway and, barreling through it, they almost toppled down the stairway just inside. They were in the basement, but apparently the place had a sub-basement, since the barely illuminated steps were inviting them further down.

  Charley slammed the door behind them and locked it. Instants later, they heard the knob rattle and a fist pound against the door’s surface. Charley held out his hand for one of the guns and Tricia passed him the Luger. He fired a round into the door below the knob, scaring off the person on the other side at least for a moment and maybe—Tricia hoped—jamming the lock mechanism in the bargain.

  Of course, while that might keep their pursuers out it also left them only one way to go, since this room was where the stairs began. There was no up—only down. Which struck Tricia as an apt metaphor for their entire situation.

  Side by side, guns held tightly in their sweating fists, they started to descend.

  26.

  Grave Descend

  The stairs turned twice at little square landings, but there were no doors at either, no way to go but further down. The only light came from low-wattage bulbs hanging overhead in metal cages, and few enough of them that there were stretches where Tricia couldn’t see a thing. In an act of what she first thought of as unaccountable bravery Charley led the way, walking in front of her into the unknown; but then she thought about the known they were walking away from and his eagerness made more sense.

  “Do you see anything?” she said.

  “Sh,” he said.

  In the faintest whisper she could manage she said, “Well? Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Be careful,” she said.

  “That’s good advice,” he muttered. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  He stopped suddenly and she collided with his back. The gun fortunately didn’t go off.

  “Door,” he whispered.

  “Can you open it?”

  She heard a knob turn. Charley leaned into the door with his shoulder, gently eased it open.

  Past it, the light was slightly better, but only slightly. A long tunnel extended perhaps twenty yards before curving out of sight. It looked a little like a subway tunnel except for the absence of rails along the bottom. Instead the ground looked to be dirt—hard-packed earth, uneven and pitted, as though dug by hand.

  They stepped inside, closed the door behind them, and Charley swung a metal bar down to latch it shut.

  “What is this?” Tricia said. “An old bootlegging tunnel? Some sort of secret escape tunnel?”

  “You know something,” Charley said, “you read too many books.”

  “Well what do you think it is?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying you read too many books.” He started off down the tunnel and she followed.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He crept cautiously through the tunnel’s curve, gun held high, finger tight on the trigger. They came out into another straight stretch. There was no one in sight, but he didn’t lower the gun. “You say ‘bootlegging tunnel’ like it’s something romantic. It’s not romantic. It’s ugly. It’s people stealing from each other, cutting each other’s throats. There are probably people buried down here, you know—nice romantic bootleggers who fell out of favor with Uncle Nick.” He kicked at the dirt underfoot. “We’re probably walking on their graves.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “It’s the real world, kid. It’s not like you read about in paperbacks.”

  “You mean like the ones you publish, Charley?”

  “I mean like the one you wrote,” he said. “Bang-bang stuff, where the blood all washes off by the final scene and the bad guys all wear black.”

  “You liked it well enough when I wrote it,” Tricia said.

  “Sure. I just don’t like living the real-world version.”

  “You think I do?”

  They walked on at as fast a pace as they could manage, the tunnel stretching out more or less endlessly in front of them.

  “I’m sorry, Charley,” Tricia said. “Okay? I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have written the book.”

  “Ah, hell,” Charley said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to.”

  “You didn’t ask me to make things up.”

  “No,” Charley said. “But all you did was make them up. I’m the one that published it.”

  “You thought it was all true,” Tricia said.

  “And that makes it better? Would you tell me what the hell I was thinking, deciding to publish the actual secrets of an actual mobster?”

  “That you’d sell a lot of books.”

  “Yep. That’s what I was thinking, all right.”

  “And you will,” Tricia said.

  “Maybe the profits will pay for a nice headstone,” Charley said.

  “Only if we get out of this tunnel,” Tricia said. “They bury us down here, we don’t get a headstone.”

  They both walked faster after that.

  By the time they reached the far end of the tunnel, Tricia figured they must have walked a good quarter of a mile, maybe more. How anyone had been able to dig a tunnel under the streets of Manhattan that ran at least five blocks she couldn’t fathom. Unless this was a much older tunnel even than Prohibition—maybe, she thought, the tunnel came first and the buildings were built around it.

  The room at the far end had wooden crates stacked against the walls and a folding card table in the center. It had no chairs and no people, though, and the one door in the room was closed and barred. The question was what they’d find when they opened it.

  “They know we’re here,” Charley said. “They must. There’s nowhere else we can be. The only thing we can hope is that we made it faster than they could because they were busy dealing with the cops.”

  “And that none of them had the chance to telephone ahead,” Tricia said, “to tell someone to be here when we came out.”

  “Yeah,” Charley said. “That, too.”

  He hesitated, counted three, two, one with his fingers, and in a rush of movement raised the metal bar, pulled the door open, and stepped through it gun-first. There was no one on the other side.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” he said.

  “We’re not out yet.”

  They raced up the staircase they found, cousin to the one in the basement of the Stars Club. At the top another door waited. When Charley started the bit with his fingers again, Tricia just pushed it open and walked out into the basement of the Sun.

  Off to one side she saw the freight elevator and two of the fabric-sided carts the maintenance staff used to wheel supplies in and out—the same sort she’d had her unnamed thief use to escape with the loot in her book. The same sort the real thief had used, too, apparently.

  She heard sounds from the loading dock outside: running feet, then hands at the metal gate, trying to raise it. Tricia went to the freight elevator door, banged on it with the flat of her palm. From the loading dock came the rattle of a padlock. “Come on, come on,” came a muffled voice. “Who has a key?”

  Tricia rapped on the elevator door again, kept pounding until it slid open. The operator stuck his head out, barking, “What are you doing, banging away—”

  She put her gun in his face and he quieted down. When he saw Charley leveling a gun at him too, he meekly put his hands up.

  “I were you, I wouldn’t rob this place,” he said. “We got hit just a month ago and the people in charge are out for blood.”

  “We’re not here to rob the place,” Tricia said. “Just take us upstairs.”

  Out on the loading dock, a gunshot went off
like a cherry bomb and what Tricia had to assume were padlock fragments rained against the metal gate.

  She stepped into the elevator. “Up.”

  The operator pulled the door closed and worked the lever to start the car. Heavy chains clanked overhead and they started to rise.

  “How far?” he said.

  “All the way,” Tricia said.

  “Is that smart?” Charley said. “Why not just go to the lobby?”

  “Because it’s almost two AM, Charley,” Tricia said, “and at two AM people from Nicolazzo’s other clubs start showing up in the lobby, delivering the night’s take. Some of them are probably there already. With armed bodyguards. Not to mention the man in the security booth out front.”

  “But if we go up to the club,” Charley said, “how are we going to get out...?”

  Tricia watched the little metal arrow above the door travel to the end of its arc. “What, you didn’t read my book?”

  At the top floor, they left the operator tied hand and foot with his belt and Charley’s necktie; a handkerchief they found in the man’s back pocket served for a gag. They turned the elevator off. Let the boys in the basement holler for it. That’d buy a few minutes at least.

  They followed the hallway to a pair of swinging doors and pushed through, finding themselves in the kitchen, where a sloe-eyed saxophonist sat nuzzling a tall glass of something amber. A woman setting dishes in one of the sinks looked up when they entered: Cecilia, still wearing her costume from their dance number, which she’d presumably had to turn into a solo. “Trixie! What happened to you? Where were you?”

  “It’s a long story, Cecilia,” Tricia said, hurrying past, “I’m sorry I let you down tonight.”

  “Robbie didn’t show up either. Do you know where he is?”

  Probably still in the trunk of Mitch’s car, wherever that was. “No,” Tricia said. “Listen, we’ve got to go. If anyone asks, you didn’t see us. It’s for your own good, trust me.” She realized as she said it that it was the same thing Charley had told Mike. Well, it was doubly true for her. Cecilia certainly didn’t need a ‘ZN’ added to her cheek.

  “Will you be here tomorrow?” Cecilia asked.