Tricia’s heart fell.
“And which of our authors would that be,” Borden said. “As if I didn’t know already.”
The policeman reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered copy of I Robbed the Mob!.
“The one who stole three million dollars from Salvatore Nicolazzo last month,” he said.
7.
Home Is the Sailor
“Funny story,” Borden said. “That book isn’t what you think it is. You probably think it’s a true story, and I can certainly understand why, what with the word ‘true’ on the cover and all. But it isn’t. It’s actually a novel, same as all the other books we publish. One hundred percent fiction. Some of us just thought it would be,” he took a deep breath, “amusing to present this one as if it had really happened.” Borden smiled weakly. “But it didn’t.”
“Well, now, that is a funny story,” the cop said. “Because someone did steal three million dollars from Sal Nicolazzo last month.”
“Really,” Borden said.
“Oh, yeah. Walked into the Sun after hours, made his way to the counting room, opened the safe, emptied it out, and got away with three million smackers, pretty much to the letter the way it’s described in this fictional book of yours. Nicolazzo’s managed to keep it under wraps, but we’ve got people on the inside and word is the big man’s beside himself.” He pointed to the desk again. “You want some help with that?”
“Sure,” Borden said. “Why not.” Together, he and the cop turned the desk over, set it on its stumpy legs again. Borden was breathing hard when they were done, but the exertion didn’t seem to have bothered the cop at all.
“Mr. Borden,” he said, “I’ve been doing this a lot of years. I know where renovations like these come from. They come from men with names that end in vowels.”
“Like O’Malley?” Borden said, aiming a thumb at the nameplate pinned to the cop’s jacket.
“Wiseass,” O’Malley said. “ ‘Y’ isn’t a vowel.”
“Sometimes it is.”
“Well, the ones I’m talking about are your ‘I’s and your ‘A’s and your ‘O’s. Especially,” he said emphatically, “your ‘O’s.”
“You trying to say something, officer,” Borden said, “or is this the Police Benevolent League’s version of a crossword puzzle?”
“All right, Borden. I’ll make it plain, so that even a two-bit smut peddler like you can understand it. I think the men who did this to your office work for Nicolazzo, and unless you gave them what they wanted, I don’t think they’re through with you. Now, I want the same thing they do—but me, I don’t put holes in people’s doors, or in people. What I do is put people in holes. And I can put you in a deep one for a good long time if you don’t come across with a name.”
“Mother of mercy,” Borden said. “What a day. O’Malley, I’m going to tell you something and you’re not going to believe me, but it’s going to be the god’s honest truth. There’s no name to give you. None. This book was not written by a man whose name ends with a vowel, or by one whose name ends with a consonant, or by any other sort of man. It was written by a sweet young girl with an overactive imagination and no more knowledge of gangsters than you have of ballet. If there was an actual robbery at the Sun it’s a pure coincidence, and I’m sure Nicolazzo will figure that out soon enough. Now would you please leave us alone so we can clean the place up and go home?”
“I don’t think you appreciate the position you’re in,” O’Malley said. “You think this guy is a run-of-the-mill heel? He’s not. The man’s a killer, Borden. He’d think no more about snuffing you than he’d think about blowing his nose. He’s been convicted on fifteen federal racketeering charges and sentenced to three consecutive life terms. In principle, he can’t even set foot in the United States or he’ll be arrested on the spot.”
“You’re telling me this guy I’m supposed to be afraid of isn’t even in this country?”
“Actually, I’m not telling you that,” O’Malley said. “I’d have told you that for sure three weeks ago—he’s been living for years on a yacht he keeps just outside U.S. coastal waters, where we can’t touch him. Sails off for the open sea any time we come close. But that was before someone stole three million dollars from him.
“Word is, he’s come home. We don’t know when and we don’t know where, other than he’s somewhere in New York City. One of our sources says he was smuggled in in a pickle barrel. How do you like that? Another says he was brought in in the trunk of an automobile. Either way, it’s a lot of trouble and discomfort and risk for him to have gone to, and it can’t have put the man in a better mood. But he apparently felt it was worth it in order to find out who robbed him.”
O’Malley slapped his copy of I Robbed the Mob! on the newly righted desk, where it had no competition for the attention of everyone in the room.
“And who do you think he’s going to look to for the answer?”
Borden grimaced.
“The name, Borden. I don’t care if it’s a man or a woman or a newborn baby, I want a name. I’ve been after this son of a bitch for seven years, this is the best chance we’ve had in all that time of getting him, and I’m not leaving here without a name.”
Tricia stepped forward. “I’ll give you her name.”
“Don’t, Trixie,” Borden said, but she ignored him.
“I’ll give you her name, if you tell me what you’re going to do with it.”
“Do with it? I’m gonna find her and—” O’Malley halted, checking whatever it was he’d been about to say. He licked his lips. When he spoke again, it was more slowly and quietly and carefully. “I’m going to talk to her, and find out what she knows and how she learned it. Then I’m going to, to, um, keep an eye on her—so Nicolazzo can’t get at her without our knowing about it. And then when he tries,” he said, heating up again, “I’m going to put him away for the rest of his miserable life!”
“And you won’t come after the woman who wrote this book,” Tricia said.
“Come after her? Only to give her a medal,” O’Malley said. “Anyone who helps us put Nicolazzo away deserves the key to the goddamn city. Excuse my French.”
“You won’t say she must’ve had something to do with the robbery,” Tricia said. “You won’t try to charge her with anything.”
O’Malley seemed to be struggling to restrain his impatience, or maybe it was his temper. “What do we care if someone robs a crook like Nicolazzo?” he said. “It’s dirty money to begin with. Let her have it.”
“Maybe she doesn’t have it,” Tricia said.
“Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “Then let someone else have it, I don’t care. Just as long as we get Nicolazzo.”
“You swear,” Tricia said.
“On my sainted mother’s grave,” O’Malley said. “Now, talk, lady.”
“All right,” Tricia said. She stiffened her spine and stood as straight as she could. “I wrote the book.”
“You did,” O’Malley said.
“That’s right,” Tricia said. “I did.”
“Well,” O’Malley said, slapping his cap back on his head, “that makes things easy. You’re under arrest, lady.”
“What?”
O’Malley whipped a pair of handcuffs off his belt with one hand and started drawing his service revolver from its holster with the other.
“But you said—” Tricia started.
“I don’t remember saying anything,” O’Malley said, or anyway he started to. He hadn’t quite gotten the whole thing out when the brass desk lamp in Erin’s hands collided with the back of his head.