“Mr. Guercio,” Erin said, and Tricia marveled at the straight face she was able to keep as she said it, “I can tell you absolutely for sure that Charley had no inside knowledge about that race. He picked those horses because he liked the sound of their names.”
“Will She Shine, that’s a fine-sounding name, too.”
“What can I tell you,” Erin said. “He didn’t like it as much.”
“Your Mr. Borden,” Guercio said. “I have...heard things. On the grapevine, you understand. That he is, forgive me, not long for this world.”
Tricia, who’d made a great effort to hold her tongue so far, couldn’t contain herself at this. “What are you talking about? What have you heard?”
“Whisperings, here and there. That he has made a powerful man angry. That this man now holds him captive and has no intention of letting him go. The details do not matter.”
“What sort of grapevine is this?” Tricia said. “They just got him a few hours ago!”
“I assume you know the business I’m in. Mr. Borden certainly does. In this business, people talk. Thieves talk to thieves, second-story men to other second-story men. Killers talk to killers. They each have their own grapevine, and there are few secrets that can be kept from it for long.”
“And which one’s talking about Charley?” Tricia said.
“The worst,” Guercio said. “He is in the hands of murderers, madam. And the word traveling along the murderer vine is that tomorrow’s sunrise will be his last. What’s more,” he said emphatically, “the particular murderer into whose hands he has fallen is not only a savage fellow indeed but the very man whose horses won this race.” He spread his palms as if to illustrate how plain and clear it all was. “So you see, I have to consider the possibility that Mr. Borden somehow gained improper knowledge of the outcome of that race prior to its being run, and that this is why he is now facing the punishment he faces.”
“It’s not,” Tricia said. “That has nothing to do with any horse race.”
“That would be most reassuring to hear,” Guercio said, “if only I believed it.”
“What are you saying?” Erin said. “That you won’t pay off on the bet? Because none of the rest of this matters. You accepted Charley’s wager, he won, now you have to pay off. That’s the way it works.”
“Don’t lecture me on how my business works,” Guercio snapped. He got control of himself again and when he spoke next his voice was measured and careful once more. “A bookmaker is an honorable man and has certain obligations, it’s true—but only insofar as he is himself dealing with other honorable men. There is no obligation to pay a man who cheats. There is also, I might add, no obligation to pay a dead man.”
“He isn’t dead yet,” Erin said. “Maybe he will be tomorrow or maybe not—but tomorrow’s not today, and today’s when you owe him his money. You want word to get out that you welsh on your bets?”
“No,” Guercio said, “that would be both unfortunate and false—and doubly unfortunate for being false. Perhaps I can suggest an accommodation.”
“Such as?”
“We will hold Mr. Borden’s money for now—in escrow, if you will. Safe under lock and key. Should he return, alive and well, from his captors tomorrow, that will be evidence enough for us that he didn’t cheat and we will release the money. With a day’s interest, of course. We are looking to harm no one.”
“That’s not good enough,” Erin said.
“I’m afraid it’s the best I can do. These decisions go even higher up in our organization than I.”
Tricia thought of Reynaldo’s words: We all answer to someone. “How much higher?”
“Enough,” Guercio said.
“Then we want to talk to whoever’s higher,” Erin said. “Whoever’s got the power to hand over the money we’re owed.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Guercio said. “All you’ll do is make him angry.”
“Look,” Erin said—and as she said it she reached one arm up under her dress and Tricia heard the sound of tape ripping off skin. When her hand emerged, Tricia’s gun was in it. “Somebody owes me money,” she said, “and somebody’s going to pay.”
44.
Somebody Owes Me Money
Reynaldo’s mouth fell open and Tricia felt her own drop as well. When—? How—?
Erin must have taken the gun after Tricia put it down on the bar at Mike’s, she figured. Erin had gone to the bathroom before they left. That must have been when she’d taped it to...what, the inside of her leg?
In any event, she had it in her hand now.
Behind them, Tricia heard the guard grunt and, turning, she saw the man drawing a gun of his own out of a holster beneath his sport coat.
Erin sighted quickly and pulled the trigger, and the man’s hand shot back, his gun flying out of his fist. With an expression of pain on his face, he jammed his hand under his other arm. Tricia saw blood slowly soak into his sleeve, turning it an even darker shade of rust.
“Toss the other gun,” Erin commanded, and when the guard failed to respond, she repeated it. “Otherwise my next shot goes between your eyes,” she said.
Her next shot—
There would be no next shot, Tricia knew; Erin had just used up the only bullet in the gun.
“Erin,” she said.
“Not now,” Erin said. As the guard threw Reynaldo’s derringer away from him and, following Erin’s gestures, moved over to the narrow end of the room, Erin swung the gun to cover Guercio, whose hands dutifully rose.
“Erin,” Tricia said.
“Not now!”
“It’s important,” Tricia said.
But Erin ignored her. “Mr. Guercio, we need this money—without it, Charley is going to die. What’s more, it’s ours. You owe it to us. So let’s skip to the finish here. Who do I need to see to make this happen?”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe so,” Erin said. “It won’t be my first or my last.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Guercio said.
“The money...?” Erin said.
Guercio took the top slip of paper from a stack on his desk, uncapped a fountain pen, and scratched out a few words, paused for a moment, then scratched out a few more. He screwed the cap back on the pen, laid it down, folded the note in half. Held it out to her. “You can take this to the Satellite Club on Union Square, ask for Mr. Magliocco. If he wants to give you the money, it’s up to him.”
Erin snatched the paper from his hand.
While she was doing this, Reynaldo stepped forward. He gave the knob at the end of his walking stick a counterclockwise twist and drew out a slim foot-long blade. He dropped the stick itself and swung the blade up to within an inch of Erin’s neck. “Not so fast, my dear.”
“Put that thing down,” Guercio said. “You’re going to get yourself shot.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t shoot me,” Reynaldo said. “We’ve known each other a long time. Isn’t that right, my dear? I’m sorry to do this—but you can’t walk in here with a gun and start threatening people. You are my guest, and I’ll have to answer for your behavior.”
“I’m sorry, too, Reynaldo,” Erin said. “I liked you.” She turned the gun to face him and pulled the trigger.
He flinched as the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
She pulled the trigger twice more with the same result. After a moment of confusion, a smile spread across Reynaldo’s face. Another appeared on Guercio’s, tinged less with relief and more with malice. The guard had no smile on his face at all—just the malice.
“Ah,” Reynaldo said. “My dear.”
The derringer bucked in Tricia’s hand then as she fired it from just two feet away. The blade spun from Reynaldo’s grip to clatter against the wall.