“Make us a couple gin tonics, will you?” he said, and since he didn’t turn his head when he said it, Tricia briefly thought he was asking her to do it. But Reenie must have been used to this and got up and made her way to a little bar set up in the corner.
“That okay with you?” Magliocco said, and this time he was talking to Tricia, so she nodded.
“Good. Good. So listen, here’s the pitch: I want you to come work for me. Dance for me. Ditch that bastard Nicolazzo, forget the Sun, come work here. I’ll double your salary and you’ll make the same again in tips. More, maybe. Depends what you’re willing to do.”
“He means will you lay for it,” Reenie said. She had a queer high-pitched voice, like a boy who’d swallowed the helium from a toy balloon.
“Tschah,” Magliocco said, or something to that effect. “Just make the drinks.” And to Tricia: “It’s up to each girl what she’s willing to do. There’s no house limit here, each girl sets her own limits. So, you know, whatever you’re comfortable doing, where you draw the line, that says how much money you can make. We got rooms in the back, you want to use them—but a good dancer like you, you could make decent dough without even taking none of your clothes off, probably.”
“Mr. Magliocco,” Tricia said, straining to keep her tone civil, “I appreciate the offer, and I’ll seriously consider it—I mean that. Truth is, I can’t go back to work at the Sun and I’ve got to work somewhere. But right now I just can’t think about myself. Charley Borden’s in deep, deep trouble and I’m the one that landed him there. I’ve got to get him out, and we have a plan, but for the plan to work we need money, and the money Charley won on that horse race is the money we need. Can’t you just pay what he won and then we can talk about the job later?”
“No,” Magliocco said. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. You sign a contract saying you’ll come to work for me and I’ll pay off that bet the next minute. It’s what they call a quid pro quo—you know what that means? It’s French for you scratch my back, I scratch yours.”
Reenie had come over with the drinks—just two of them, one for Tricia and one for Magliocco—and she said, “That ain’t French, dummy, it’s Latin.”
He took one of the glasses from her hand, dashed its contents in her face. “And that ain’t a drink no more, now it’s war paint. Make me another and keep your yap shut.”
Tricia could see the slow burn the poor girl was doing as the liquor ran down her cheeks and dripped onto her décolletage. She waited with dread for the second glass to go flying. But Reenie turned to her politely and held it out for her to take. What could she do? Tricia took it.
“Excuse me,” Reenie said, with great dignity. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Then she was gone, through a side door.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Mr. Magliocco,” Tricia said. “It was cruel.”
“She shouldn’t have mouthed off.”
“Still.”
“Don’t feel bad for her,” Magliocco said. “She’s a spoiled little brat. I’d have tossed her out on her can a year ago if she wasn’t so damn good in the rack.” He made a drinking motion with one hand and Tricia reluctantly took a sip. It tasted like licking paperclips. “So, what’s it gonna be—you want to come work for me?”
There were probably things Tricia would have wanted to do less, but they weren’t coming to mind.
What she said, though, was, “I’ll do it—but only if you pay that money out to Erin right now. And I mean now.”
“Eager,” Magliocco said, “I like that.” He snatched up the receiver of a telephone by the sofa. “Joey?” he said. “Yah, it’s me. The redhead still there? Good, good. Hold on.” He waved Tricia over to a desk on the far side of the room, beneath the window. “There’s paper and pens there.” There were. “Sit down. Write. ‘I—,’ whatever your name is, ‘—being of sound mind and body, do hereby solemnly swear to come work for Alessandro Magliocco starting tomorrow and continuing for as long as Mr. Magliocco says I should. Yours truly, et setra, et setra. You got that? Read it back.”
“I didn’t get it all,” Tricia said.
“That’s all right, just sign the bottom, I’ll fill it in later.”
She signed. It wasn’t her name that she signed—not even her fake name—but ink went on the paper, and that seemed to be good enough for Magliocco. As far as he was concerned, a deal had been made. He returned to his phone call. “All right,” he said, “give her the money. What? Yes, the money. Borden’s money. Yes, all of it. What? I don’t care, hundreds, fifties, whatever you’ve got. What’s that? Yeah. Yeah, she did.” He hung up.
“You won’t regret this,” he said. “It’s much better here than at the Sun. A much better class of customer.”
“I can see that,” Tricia said.
The side door opened then and Reenie came through it, pulled it shut quietly behind her. She’d changed out of the dress and was wearing slacks and a blouse under a blue raincoat. In one hand she held a cardboard suitcase.
“What the hell’s that?” Magliocco said.
“I’m leavin’,” she said. “I’ve had enough of you.”
“Like hell,” Magliocco said. “You don’t leave till I say you leave. You signed a contract.”
She came over, buttoning her raincoat as she came. “Here’s your contract,” she said, reaching into the pocket of the coat. At first Tricia couldn’t see what she pulled out. Then it went thump into his massive chest and she could see half of it, the half that was sticking out. It looked like the wooden handle of a chef’s knife.
Magliocco staggered forward, groping for the knife, spraying blood. Most of it went on the raincoat, which Tricia realized she’d probably worn for that very reason.
“It’s like you said, Al,” Reenie said. “Every girl’s got to draw the line somewhere. Well, this is where I’m drawing it.”
The big man went down on his knees. He was gasping for breath, trying to say something. Whatever it was, it didn’t come out. The only sound he made was the impact when he hit the floor, driving the knife in deeper.
“Everything okay in there?” came a voice from outside.
With one fist, Magliocco was pounding against the floor. But after the first couple of blows, his fist fell slower, then slower still, and then stopped altogether.
Reenie unbuttoned the raincoat, stripped it off, and held it by the collar, careful not to get any blood on her clothes.
“Hey, you,” she said. “Here. Catch.”
She flung the bloody raincoat at Tricia and, while it was flying toward her, screamed.
46.
Baby Moll
“She killed him!” Reenie wailed. “She’s killed Al!”
While a scrambling began on the other side of the door, Tricia watched the raincoat loft toward her. If she caught it, she’d have Magliocco’s blood all over her—her hands, her clothes. Of course, it wasn’t her raincoat and she could prove it; they’d all seen her come in without it on, and it’s not as though she could’ve been hiding it somewhere while being frisked to within an inch of her life. But seeing the big man’s blood on her might be enough to set them off without thinking—his lieutenants might not pause before whipping out their guns and blasting away.
So Tricia hurled herself to one side and let the coat land in a ruinous heap on the rug. She regained her feet as the door banged open, slamming against the wall, and two men rushed in, the pepperpot and another she hadn’t seen before. “My god!” Reenie screamed. “He’s dead!”
“I didn’t do it,” Tricia said, her hands going up as they trained their guns on her. “She did. Look at her, she’s got some in her hair, it’s all over her coat. Look—see her suitcase, she said she was leaving him and he tried to stop her. Honest to god, it wasn’t me. Take her fingerprints—they’ll be all over the knife. I mean, assuming wood takes fingerprints, I don’t know if it does—”