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.
It had happened quickly, the debt. People were happy to front him credit, as he was such a good friend of Albert Ellingham’s, and George was always sure he would win it back. It was nothing at all to be five thousand dollars in debt, then ten, then twenty. . . .
He could have asked Albert for the money, of course. He thought about it. But the shame was so great. What if Albert said no? Then there was no money, no job, no credit, no friends—the life he had made for himself would be gone. He had to get the money. Twenty thousand.
About the amount that Albert Ellingham regularly kept in the safe in his office to pay the workmen at the school . . .
The plan had been so simple.
Andy and Jerry were two nitwits he knew from his days as a cop—wannabe made men who never quite made much of themselves, but perfect for a straightforward job like this. On the day of the job, they would get the signal from him and wait on the road for Iris Ellingham to drive by in her Mercedes. They were to grab her and hold her for a few hours in a farmhouse while George did the rest. After that, they would get paid and go home, have a steak dinner. Easiest money they’d ever make. No one would be hurt. Iris would laugh when it was over. She would tell the story forever. She loved adventure. This was her kind of thing.
The first problem was that Alice was there. Alice didn’t usually go along with her mother for her car rides. Iris probably got defensive because of her daughter—she probably fought back to protect Alice. Iris somehow got dead and wound up floating on Lake Champlain.
And then there was the kid—little Dottie Epstein. She should never have been in the dome that day. No one was. And she had jumped down that hole herself, out of fear. She busted her head in the fall. It was horrible to see. George had no choice but to finish the job.
And Andy and Jerry proved to have a little more upstairs than he had given them credit for. They jumped him when he turned up that night to get Iris and Alice and bring them back. They had hidden them away, and they wanted more money. The whole thing was out of control from the start. Two people dead, and Alice still missing.
Alice. His kid. Not Albert Ellingham’s. His kid.
Andy and Jerry had done a good job of hiding themselves for almost a year. There had been no sightings of them at all. Then, out of nowhere, one of George’s sources had called him a week ago to tell him that he’d seen Jerry near Five Points. George had come back to New York at once and had been working street by street. If you spread enough paper around Little Italy, someone would know something.
He took a taxi back uptown to Twenty-Fourth Street, where Albert Ellingham had one of his many Manhattan pieds-à-terre. Albert Ellingham bought apartments and houses in the way other people bought fruit. This one had been a rumored haunt of Stanford White, before he was shot on the roof of Madison Square Garden during the performance of a musical called Mam’zelle Champagne in 1906, over thirty years ago now. White was a creep who deserved what he got. The guy who shot him was a creep too. So many creeps in this town.
The apartment was small but perfectly outfitted. There was a handsome bedroom, a safe for cash, a modern little kitchen that never got used, and a first-rate radio. George turned this on the moment he came inside. The sound of a symphony filled the room. He didn’t care what was on—he just couldn’t handle the silence. He sat down in the dark room, coat and hat still on, lights off, and watched the falling snow. He ran through it again in his mind, for the thousandth time.
If Alice had not surfaced, there had to be a reason. Of course, she could have died with her mother, but that felt wrong to him. It would be easy to keep a kid, especially a kid like Alice who was small and gentle. You couldn’t ask for a sweeter child. He had played with her often. She showed everyone her toys and dolls, and always gave a hug and a kiss. She would take his hand and follow him around the grounds sometimes. She would be easy to hide somewhere. She wouldn’t even have to be very well hidden. Change her clothes, cut her hair, she could be any kid at all.
Little Alice. Now, his every memory of her had new meaning. His daughter. He had put her in harm’s way. It only made sense that he, her father, would come and rescue her again.