“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 didn’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.