Several of the photos had the name Barrone written on them, and in those the man holding a gun in the pictures was tall and chiseled, skin pockmarked, close-set eyes cold. In fairness, he didn’t look his age—even in the later-dated photos he looked like he could be forty, not sixty. But he didn’t look like a man you’d want your sister to take to bed all the same.
“Jesus,” Charley said, after Barrone had made his fifth fatal appearance. “This is not your average garage owner.”
“Maybe there’s an explanation—”
“Of course there’s an explanation. Your sister’s boyfriend is a hit man. That’s the explanation.”
They kept turning over the photos, one by one, images of bad men and worse, hunters and their prey.
Then they got to the end.
The last photo—the very last one—dated just a little over a month ago—showed the scene Coral had described: a dead man in a gutter, several live ones standing over him. One of them was Mitch. The tall man with the chiseled features was in this photo, too, and his name was on the back. But it had been the last hunt for him and he’d been the final quarry.
Because he was the man in the gutter, and on the back it said Barrone.
24.
The Guns of Heaven
“I guess we know why he’s been away for the past month,” Charley said.
Tricia put the photos back into the box, put the lid back on, and slid it into the pocket of her dress.
“And I guess that rules out finding him,” Charley said. “He’s not exactly in a position to help us.”
Tricia put her head back against the seat, closed her eyes. She felt like crying. These were killers—real killers, not the fun sort you read about in books. They killed without remorse, without hesitation, over and over; they even killed their own. And took pictures to remember it by. What chance did she and Charley stand against them? What chance did Erin and Coral have?
“What do you want to do?” Charley said. “Now that we’ve got the photos, we’ve got something to trade. We could head out to Queens, try to make a deal. Or, Tricia,” he said, “I could take the photos out to Queens and you could get on a train back to South Dakota. They wouldn’t look for you there. You could go back to your old life, pretend you never met me, pretend none of this ever happened. Maybe that’d be the smartest. What do you say?”
Tricia opened her eyes, pinned him with her stare. “I say we need guns.”
They drove off the highway and back into the heart of the city. At the all-night drugstore in the lobby of the Warwick, Charley went to the counter to coax a sandwich and a coke out of the counterman, while Tricia worked the payphone in the corner. On the way in, Charley had asked her where she proposed to find guns at eleven on a Saturday night in the middle of New York City. “Do you know any gunsmiths that keep night hours on weekends? Because I don’t. I don’t know any gunsmiths, period.”
“I don’t know any gunsmiths either,” Tricia said, “but I know a woman who’s got at least two guns.”
“Who?”
“Just get your sandwich, I’ll be back in a minute.”
She’d gone to the payphone, hunted through the heavy phone book hanging from a wire, found no “Heaven” or “H” on the page for “LaCroix,” struck out again looking for Coral under both “King” and “Heverstadt.” Finally she just rang up the operator and gave her the address of the rooming house itself.
“Oh, is that where all the excitement was?” the operator said with a girlish squeal. “Down on Cornelia Street? I just heard about it on the radio!”
“Yeah, very exciting,” Tricia said. “People getting shot. Nothing more exciting than that.”
“Well, you don’t have to be a grouch about it,” the operator said. The phone on the other end started ringing.
As it rang, Tricia found herself thinking, Can you trust Heaven? Are you sure? But Coral had trusted her; that had to count for something. And what choice did she have anyway?
It took half a dozen rings before a familiar Eastern European voice answered. “Hello?”
“I’m calling for Heaven LaCroix,” Tricia said.
“Not here,” the landlady said. “You call back later. Is madhouse.”
“Please,” Tricia said quickly, before the woman could hang up, “I know she’s there, she’s taking care of a little boy, she wouldn’t have left him alone. Please. Just put her on the phone.”
“Who is this?” the landlady said, and you could almost hear her eyes narrowing.
“A friend of hers. It’s very important—”
The landlady’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You the girl came by earlier, ran out after shooting.”
“I didn’t shoot anyone—”
“No,” the woman whispered, “I know, Heaven tell me. But the police, they say you do, they wait for you. Don’t come back.”
“I won’t,” Tricia said. “But I need to talk to Heaven. Could you please get her on the phone?”
“I get.” Tricia heard her set the receiver down. Then the sound of footsteps departing. There was a murmur of voices in the background. Boarders? Or cops? Both, probably.
Before the footsteps returned, Tricia heard her dime fall into the phone’s innards and she deposited another from the handful of change Charley had given her.
Eventually, the footsteps came back—two pairs of them. “Hello?” It was a different accent this time, very light, almost Dutch-sounding.
“Heaven,” Tricia said. “Don’t say my name, don’t give any sign that it’s me.”
“Okay,” Heaven said.
“I’m safe—but I need your help.”
“Okay,” she said again, though this time it sounded like a question.
“I’m going to get Colleen out from where she’s being held, I have someone with me, but we’re dealing with some very dangerous men and can’t go in barehanded. I need to borrow your guns, Heaven—yours and the one you took from Mitch, the guy in the hallway.”
“Who’s that on the phone?” a voice asked. “Hey—miss, I’m asking you a question.”
“My sister,” Heaven said, “calling from Limbourg. I’ll just be a minute.” Then, to Tricia, “Dear Clara, I’m so glad to hear you’re moving to New York. I do think I can help you find work, yes. You know weekends I work at a club called the Stars, right? After the last match, cleaning up—usually starting one-thirty, two in the morning. I bet they’d have work for you, too.” Her voice rose. “We’ll ask them when you come, Clara. Next month.”
“I hear you,” Tricia said. “I’ll be there tonight. One-thirty.”
“How’s mother, Clara?”
“I’m going to hang up now.”
“Oh, good, good.”
Tricia set the phone back in its cradle, hoped the call hadn’t been traced, hoped the operator hadn’t listened in. But just in case—
She returned to the counter, lifted one of Charley’s arms. “We’d better go.”
“Can’t you sit for a minute to eat,” he said through a mouthful of turkey and lettuce. “I got one for you.”
“We’ll take it with us,” she said.
He grabbed the two sandwiches, one whole and one partly eaten, wrapped them in a paper napkin, dipped for one last pull at his coke.
“Now,” Tricia said.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Outside, on the street, he asked, “What’s the rush? Your friend with the guns?”
“No, she won’t be ready for another two hours. I just didn’t like how nosy the operator was getting. She seemed a little too interested in what was happening down on Cornelia Street.”
“You think she called the cops?”
“I don’t want to find out.”
They rounded the corner to the side street where they’d parked the Lincoln, then backed away when they saw a policeman bending over beside it, hands on his knees, trying to see in through the driver’s side window.