The Hand on the Wall(37)

This entirely checked out with things David had told Stevie about his parents.

“And thanks, Stevie, for taking part.”

“What?” It erupted from her mouth.

“You think you walked in on that beatdown by accident?” he said. “I needed you to see it. I followed you to Burlington and paid those dudes. Then I made sure we were in your path and started the beating right on time. That way you could let everyone know that not only did I get beat up and take off, but I paid people to do it and uploaded it myself. That’s a double layer of weird and crazy. It would keep everyone wondering for long enough. I needed to seem all . . .”

He jazz-handed around his head.

“And why do you think there’s something on those drives?” Janelle said.

“I have my sources,” he said. “Now, who wants a tablet? We need to get started.”

“Me,” Vi said loudly.

David passed them one, along with a device to connect the drive.

“Nate?”

“I’m good for now,” Nate said. “I’d like to do this one violation at a time.”

David shrugged expansively as if to say, “Suit yourself.”

“I’m assuming that’s a no, Janelle, or . . .”

“It’s a no,” Janelle said, looking at Vi, who was already working away on the tablet.

“Fine, then. Let’s get to it.”

“What about me?” Stevie asked.

“Oh, you want one?” David said. He got out one of the tablets and held it toward Stevie, but as she reached for it, he drew it back.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said.

He put it back in his bag. Nate put his head down so hard it looked like he was trying to crawl into his computer. Janelle shook her head.

“You’re better off,” she said.

And so, each member of the group turned to their own task in the little closet near the pool, while the snow fell and the wind blew and Ellingham emptied. Stevie reached into her bag and got out And Then There Were None, the story of ten strangers gathered on an island and murdered one by one.

It was, perhaps, a little too close to reality at the moment.





February 18, 1937


New York City

GEORGE MARSH PUSHED OPEN THE DOOR OF MANELLI’S RESTAURANT on Mott Street. Manelli’s was like many joints in the area—spaghetti and clams, veal, decent red wine, rapid-fire Italian spoken all around. At ten o’clock on a snowy night, it was still thrumming quietly, a haze of cigar smoke hanging over the tables and laughter puncturing the rhythm of forks and knives hitting plates. He took a stool at the bar and ordered a glass of whiskey and a plate of salami and bread.

“I’m looking for two guys,” he said as he tore into the small loaf.

The bartender wiped down some rings on the bar.

“Lots of guys around here. Pick any two.”

George reached into his pocket and put a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. The bartender blinked, then slid the bill off the bar and into his apron pocket. He lingered by George, polishing the zinc bar top in circles. Even in a place like this—a place where rackets were managed and numbers run, where small fortunes were passed back and forth in paper bags and cigar boxes—a free hundred-dollar bill would get attention and a friendly ear.

“These guys have names?” he asked casually.

“Andy Delvicco and Jerry Castelli.”

The bartender nodded as if George was talking to him about the weather.

“Yeah, I may know these guys,” he said. He shoved the rag in a sink below the bar, rinsed it, then wrung it out. “Might take a day or two.”

“This is my phone number.” George pulled a nub of pencil from his pocket and wrote it down on a napkin. “In case anything comes to mind. If you have something useful for me, that fella I gave you has plenty of friends.”

He polished off the whiskey and the last bite of the salami and slipped off the barstool. Once outside, George turned up his coat against the falling snow, which glowed pink and blue in the light of the neon signs. He walked slowly to give anyone who wanted to follow him a chance to catch up.

Each night for the last ten nights, George Marsh had followed the same routine. He went to a known wise-guy hangout, had a chat with the bartender, and dropped a hundred. The bartender usually said he’d ask around. George would leave his phone number. So far, no one had called. He’d had one or two slow tails, but it seemed to George that they were more casual—mob guys always liked to take a look at anyone coming in, and everyone knew who George Marsh was. No one was going to go after Albert Ellingham’s man. Too much trouble. They just wanted to have eyes on him, and George wanted to be seen. He wanted it known: Andy Delvicco and Jerry Castelli were wanted men, and there was money for anyone who could turn them up. Ellingham money. Bottomless money. Easy money.

Easy money. That was the start of most of the trouble in this world. It was certainly the start of his trouble. . . .

George had always played cards. Nothing serious—a game here or there, at the station, at someone’s house on a Saturday night. He liked a little dice now and again, or a trip to the races. Things got a bit more exciting when he started running in Albert Ellingham’s circles. Suddenly there were nights at the Central Park Casino, weekends in Atlantic City, trips to Miami, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles . . . places with bigger and better games, more glamour, more excitement, more money.