There was nothing to do about it, though. They couldn’t stay in here much longer. For one thing, their entrance had probably been heard. And even if it hadn’t, if there were people outside someone would eventually come in to use the toilet, and then what would they say?
Charley grabbed a handful of the coarse brown paper towels the owner had set out and, wiping his hands, pushed the door open.
“Gentlemen,” he said. Tricia followed him out. There were two men in the small space, a heavyset character, gray at the temples, sitting at the counter with a mug in front of him, and a skinny one standing behind it, wearing his usual canvas apron, the pocket in front loaded down with coins. The door to the street was closed, a shade drawn over the glass. Charley seemed to be deciding, for a moment, whether to bolt or stay—were they safer in here or out on the sidewalk? Finally he went to one of the two empty stools, motioned Tricia to the other.
The men stared at them. They both seemed to have been caught in mid-sentence.
“Jerry,” Tricia said to the man in the apron, “this is my friend Charley. Charley, Jerry. Jerry’s always very nice to me any time I come in.”
“How’d you get in there, Trixie?” Jerry said nervously. “You weren’t there ten minutes ago.”
Tricia shrugged. There was no good answer, and why give a bad one?
“You don’t mind,” Charley said, “we’d both do well with a cup of coffee.” He dug a few coins out of his pocket, dropped them on the counter.
“Actually,” Jerry said, his eyes darting toward his other customer.
“Actually,” the customer said, turning on his stool to face them, “we were transacting some private business, and I don’t like being interrupted.” He reached inside his suit jacket as though to pull out a wallet or change purse, but what he came out with was a gun. And here they were, Tricia and Charley, both of them with their hard-won armament tucked away safely in their pockets.
“Now who are you,” the heavyset man said, “and what were you doing spying on us?”
“Spying?” Charley said. “Nothing of the sort. We were just...well, you know. Using the room.” He bent toward Tricia, kissed her lightly on the neck. Startled, she jumped a little. She felt a blush shoot up her cheeks.
“But how did you get in there?” Jerry said, still stuck on the logistics like a kid working out a magic trick.
“I work next door, on the third floor,” Charley said. “At the big theatrical agency, you know the one I mean. And we just...climbed out the window, came down.”
“Why?” Jerry said. “Why would you want to do it in my bathroom? If you like bathrooms, don’t you have one in your office?”
“It’s not as private,” Charley began, but the man with the gun waved him to silence.
“That’s all right, Jerry,” the man said, “they’re just lying to you. There’s only one reason they’d be here, and you know what it is. Sal’s always liked to keep an eye on me, and I guess he’s gotten suspicious of you, too.”
“She does work for him,” Jerry said. “Told me she’s a dancer.”
“I am a dancer,” Tricia said.
“Sure,” the man with the gun said. “And he’s your partner, and you do your best dancing in toilets. Don’t play me for a sap. What’s Sal paying you to be his eyes and ears?”
“Nothing!” Tricia said.
“So you do it for free? Jerry here charges Sal seventy bucks a month, and half the information he sells him you could get for nothing on the street.” And when Tricia registered surprise, he said, “What? You thought Jerry pays his rent peddling candy and papers at a nickel a throw? You can peddle information for a lot more. More than it’s worth, sometimes.”
“Don’t say that, Mr. B,” Jerry said, “I give good value—”
“We don’t work for Nicolazzo,” Charley said. “We never met him before today.”
“Shut up,” Mr. B said. “The lot of you.” To Charley he said, “Of course you never met him before, the man lives on a goddamn boat. Doesn’t mean you don’t work for him. I work for him. Jerry works for him. We all work for Uncle Nick.” He said it with unconcealed disgust—something Tricia feared meant he had no intention of letting them leave the room alive.
She looked more closely at his face. She’d never seen him before—she was certain of that. But there was something familiar about him and she suddenly realized what it was. “Mr. B,” she said. “Does that stand for Barrone?”
The big man looked over at Jerry. “Listen to that. ‘Does it stand for Barrone?’ You do a fine innocent act, sister. You should be an actress, not a dancer.”
“No, really,” Tricia said, “does it?”
“Why? What are you going to tell me if I say yes?”
“That I’ve got something you’re going to want to see. Or maybe you won’t want to see it, but you ought to.”
“And what’s that?”
“Some pictures,” Tricia said. “Out of Mr. Nicolazzo’s safe.”
The bluff, hectoring expression vanished from the big man’s face. He was deadly serious now. “Where are these pictures?”
“In my pocket,” Tricia said. “I’ll give them to you.”
“Slowly,” he said, and she eased the leather box out of her pocket, slid it to him across the counter.
“You can look at all of them,” Tricia said, “but the one you’ll want to see is the last one.”
“Open it,” he told Jerry, and he kept his gun trained on Tricia and Charley while Jerry lifted off the lid of the box and spread its contents out over the counter.
“Aw, jeez,” Jerry said when he got to the last picture. Mr. B looked down at it. He didn’t say anything, but his hand shook and Tricia wondered whether he was going to shoot them all.
“Mr. Barrone,” Tricia said, “I’m so sorry about Royal. Was he your brother?”
“What are you talking about? I’m Royal Barrone. That’s Frankie. That’s my son.”
“You say you got these from Sal’s safe?” Barrone said.
“I didn’t,” Tricia said, “my sister did. I think you know her—Colleen King?” His eyes narrowed and he nodded as though, bit by bit, he was putting things together. “She told me she found them in the safe after someone else broke in and stole all the money. But Nicolazzo thinks she took the money, too, or at least knows who did, and he’s holding her somewhere in Queens, along with a friend of ours. Charley just got away a few hours ago. I barely got away myself.”
“I see,” Barrone said. He turned to Jerry. “And what do you know about all this?”
Jerry was backing away from the counter, although in the narrow space there wasn’t far for him to go. He was shaking his head, the loose skin under his chin quivering. “Nothing, Mr. B, honest.”
“Don’t give me that, Jerry. You hear everything. You must’ve heard something about this.”
“Sure, I hear things, but half of it’s just talk—”
“How about the other half?”
“Like I was saying before—I hear Sal’s rounding up everyone who might’ve had anything to do with the robbery, no matter how remote. He even grabbed the guy published that book, you know, the one talked about the robbery...” He looked over at Charley. “Word is, this guy took him at Fifty-to-One, walked out the front door. This was a couple of hours ago.”
Charley smiled weakly.
“What about Frankie?” Barrone said. “What do you hear about Frankie?”
“Nothing,” Jerry mumbled.
“Jerry, how much do I pay you? Not Sal—me. How much? Now answer my goddamn question.”