“Listen, if you see Tricia or Erin, tell them I’m fine, don’t let them know—”
“We’re right here,” Erin shouted.
“Oh,” came the voice. “Well. I’m fine.”
“Stop it,” Tricia said. “We’re going to come get you.”
“Don’t,” Charley said. “You’ll just get yourself killed. Let Mike. He’s got experience.”
“Where are you?” Mike said.
“On the waterfront,” Charley said, “somewhere near the Gowanus. They’re putting me on a diet of treacle this evening.”
“On what?”
“A diet of treacle,” Charley said. “It’s a boat. That’s its name: A Diet of Treacle. Mike, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Nicolazzo’s here, too. I think we’re going to meet his yacht off the coast.”
“Is Coral there?” Tricia said.
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her. I’m sorry. Mike? Listen, you’ve got to come get me before the third race at Belmont. They’re just staying long enough to pick up the purse from that race and then they’re gone. It’s at—ah, jeez, I’ve got to go, he’s coming to.” And the phone went click.
Mike replaced the handset on its hooks, reached beneath the bar for a telephone book. He flipped to the back where the maps were printed. He didn’t say anything, and neither did Tricia or Erin. It didn’t feel like there was anything to say, or any time to say it.
Mike ran his finger along the coastline of Brooklyn till he found the piers by the Gowanus Expressway, jutting provocatively at New Jersey across the water. He flipped back through the business listings, looking for something. It took a while for him to find it. When he finally did, he reached for the phone—but before he could lift it, it rang again.
“Hello?” he answered.
A different voice this time, deeper and bearing a familiar accent.
“Put the girl on,” said Uncle Nick.
“What girl?”
“Hold on,” he said, and then they heard the unmistakable sound of a punch landing, someone going oof. Then Nicolazzo returned. “Now: Put the girl on.”
“Which—” Mike started to ask, but Tricia shouted, “I’m here!”
“Good. Thank you. It isn’t so much to ask, a little courtesy, is it?”
“How’d you get this number?” Mike said.
“Your friend here was kind enough to supply it,” Nicolazzo said. “We only had to break one of his fingers.”
Erin erupted, tears suddenly in her eyes, “If you hurt him again—”
“Yes? If I hurt him, then what? You’ll hurt me? Please. Don’t be foolish. Now, put the other girl back on.”
“I’m here,” Tricia said.
“Get closer to the phone or speak up, young lady. I can barely hear you.”
“I’m here,” Tricia said.
“All right. So.” Nicolazzo cleared his throat. “I know you have my pictures. I also know who took my money and then bragged to you about how he did so.”
“You do?” Tricia said.
“Oh, yes. I received a visit earlier today from my beloved niece, and she brought the voltagabanna with her.”
“Who?”
“As if you don’t know. I have to say, young Edward denied it most convincingly, right up to the end. But he did finally confess. At the very end.”
Tricia could barely speak. She thought of Eddie with his black eye, racing past her in Queens. When they found the building empty, he must have driven on to the shuttered racetrack, Renata surely having known about that hideout from when her father had used it the year before. Tricia pictured it, Eddie driving furiously and unknowingly to his own death, Renata urging him on from the back seat.
“You killed him?” Tricia said. She said it quietly, but Nicolazzo heard her.
“No, of course not,” Nicolazzo said, and Tricia let out a relieved breath. But then he continued: “My beloved niece did. She really wanted to do it herself. Seemed to bear the boy some ill will.”
At this, Tricia felt herself start to shake. She remembered the look on Eddie’s face just before he headed upstairs. Thanks, Trixie, he’d said. You’re a pal.
If I’d been a pal, Eddie, I’d have put a bullet in you right then and there. Would’ve been kinder.
“What do you want?” Tricia said, in a dead voice.
“What do you think? I want my pictures and I want my money. And according to Eddie, he left both with you.”
“With me?”
“That’s what he said. With his dying breath. A man’s not going to lie with his dying breath, now is he?”
“This one did,” Tricia said.
“Please. I’m not a fool. You have what I want. If you give it to me, I’ll let your friend here go. You, too. I know you’re not the one who took it from me, you’re not the thief. You just let this man use you. There’s no reason you need to suffer.”
No, no reason. But you’ll make me suffer anyway if you get your hands on me, won’t you? Your promises notwithstanding.
But playing along seemed to be the only thing to do. Playing along and playing for time.
“Fine,” Tricia said. “I’ll do it. But I need some time.”
“How much time?”
Tricia looked over at Mike, who held up six fingers. “Till six,” she said, but Mike shook his head furiously, mouthed Six hours. “...in the morning,” she finished. Mike thought about it, shrugged, nodded.
“That’s too late,” Nicolazzo said. “It has to be today.”
“It’s Sunday afternoon,” Tricia said. “The banks aren’t open.”
“You put my money in a bank?”
“Safe deposit box,” Tricia said.
“And this bank opens before six in the morning?”
“Yes,” Tricia said. “It does.”
“What kind of bank opens before six in the morning?”
“Mine,” Tricia said, coldly.
Nicolazzo was silent for a bit, then she heard the muffled sounds of a conversation in the background. He came back on the line. “Fine. Six. You’ll be picked up by two men and brought to me. You’ll get a call at this number telling you where. Be there, with my money and my photographs, and no police, or your friend here will suffer more than a broken finger.” Nicolazzo paused to punch Charley again. It sounded like a boxer socking a heavy bag. “Your sister, too. Oh, yes, I know that’s who she is. I know a good deal, Miss Heverstadt. Of Aberdeen, South Dakota. That’s right, isn’t it? Hmm?” He paused, but Tricia couldn’t have answered him if she wanted to, her throat having constricted to the width of a pencil. “Don’t cross me, young lady. I’m not such a nice man when I’m crossed.”
Nicolazzo broke the connection.
“What are we going to do?” Erin said.
“I’m going to find where they’re holding him,” Mike said. “You’re going to stay here and wait for that phone call.”
“That’s right, Erin,” Tricia said. “We need you here.”
“Both of you are going to stay here,” Mike said. “You heard what Charley said. You can’t come with me.”
“Who said anything about coming with you?” Tricia asked. “I’ve got to go get that money.”
“You know where it is?” Erin said.
“I have an idea,” Tricia said.
39.
A Diet of Treacle
Mike telephoned Volker’s from the street and was relieved to find them open. They were the only business he knew in the neighborhood, an importer of German beers that had somehow kept plying its trade all through Prohibition and two wars against the Fatherland. Damned if he knew how they’d pulled that off, what palms they’d had to grease, what lies they’d had to tell, what business they’d had to pretend to be in. But there they were, celebrating their fiftieth year in the same location, according to the brass plaque by the entryway.