COURIER D.W.
— $100
OTHER:
RELOCATE SAFETY-DEPOSIT CONTENTS TO MONTREAL BRANCH
FILE GRIEVANCE: EVANS
DISCUSS WALLY: EVANS
I run my finger down the lists, curious. “Dom Sub” is in both lists. Dom is short for Dominic, which is Italian like Mr. Carboni, but Dom could also be short for Dominion. That would make sense, since a lot of this is to do with real estate and banking. And if it is, what if Sub means subbasement? Is he keeping something down there? Like what? Whatever it is, I might see it in the chambermaids’ room, but there are loads of other places to hide things. What could it be?
It seems to me the “in” list must mean “money in.” So if he sells something, that’s how much cash he gets for it. What in the subbasement—if that is what he’s talking about—is worth $2,200?
Scariest of all is that I know some of the names on that list, don’t I? Evans? Wally? Courier D.W.? Could be I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am. The most frightening is “Courier D.W.” My stomach curdles, seeing that. ’Tis Damien, I’m sure. He’s to be paid $100. That’s enough to buy half of Dublin, I’d wager. I’ll never ask where it came from, for I know it’s dirty. Frankly, I don’t know why Damien would stay working at the hotel if he’s making money like that with Mr. Carboni. Mind you, Mr. Carboni’s job comes with a world of risk.
The second name on the list that I know is Evans, which shows up twice. It worries me to no end that it’s Mrs. Evans. The first time she’s mentioned is to do with “interference,” and I wonder if that’s about me. The second is “file grievance.” What’s it all mean?
And then… I don’t know any Wally, but sure, hadn’t Bianca said that Mrs. Evans and Mr. Carboni had talked about a Wally? And Mrs. Evans had looked afraid?
My head’s swimming with questions as I flip through the pages. Ah, this would be a treasure for the police, no doubt. Not that I’d give it to them. Not a chance. I’m not getting in the middle of any of this. No more than I am already, I mean. And nobody but me knows that I know any of it. I keep turning pages, and when I reach the back cover, I notice the book feels unbalanced. It almost falls from my hand. That’s when I spot a slit in the leather, a sly wee pocket. I reach into the opening and my fingers touch something small and metal. I pull out a brass key.
A sound in the washroom alerts me—the rattling of loose pipes again, and I am suddenly back where I belong: in the room, cleaning, not somewhere else, playing with secrets. My hands shake as I drop the key back into its pocket, then lay the ribbon where it originally marked the page. I place the book back where it belongs, fighting the impulse to slam the drawer shut.
Once it’s been closed without a sound, I rush to the washroom and I get scrubbing. I’m no more than a regular chambermaid cleaning the washroom, I tell myself. I have never snuck a peek at any sort of list written by the city’s king of gangsters. No way. I know nothing about a gun or strangenumbers or anything. My hands shake madly, and I grip the cleaning cloth tighter. I shouldn’t have seen that book in the first place. I feel sick.
I’m scrubbing the toilet when I hear another sound travelling through the pipes. I’d swear on Granny’s life, it’s men talking, though I cannot make out what they’re on about. That’s all right. None of this is my business. Except—
I pull away with a gasp. Maybe I’m mad, but I’d swear ’tis my name I heard just now. My name, then laughter. Holy Mother, who is it that’s talking about me? And why? And where is it coming from?
I back out of the room when I’m done. My stomach is rolling again, and I feel off-balance. The bathroom is spotless, but my mind is spinning. I brace my body against the doorframe, calming myself.
Listen now. No one but me and Mr. Carboni know about the book and what’s in it, whatever it is. God help me, I want to forget it, but I cannot stop seeing the names and numbers. The dollars he’s written recently are much bigger than what was on the old pages. I also can’t forget that grin on Mr. Carboni’s mug when he stuck his thumb in his chest and told Bianca and me:This guy is about to get rich beyond your wildest dreams.
And what’s the little key for? There were no markings on it at all.
Good Lord. What have I gotten myself into? What am I to do?
I never did tell Mrs. Evans about Mr. Carboni’s pistol. I’d not have told her about the ten dollars if she hadn’t seen it herself. But this book now. If I go to her about it, she’ll be angrier than a hornet, knowing I’ve snooped. I could lose my job. ’Tis only that her name’s there. Maybe it means nothing. There must be a boatload of Evanses out there. But what if itisabout her? Seems more likely to me. She did tell me, didn’t she, that her husband died because of Mr. Carboni. And there’s that mysterious Wally. As much as I want to stay out of it, not saying anything to her seems like a dangerous gamble.
I have one other worry: Bianca. If she gets that loan she told me about, the one I warned her about, then her name will show up on his list. There’s one Fiore on there already, though it’s crossed out. I can’t help thinking of her father and wondering…
I have to do something, but I’m weary to my bones. My body craves my bed, and my eyelids keep jumping. Bianca’s right. If I keep all this inside of me, I’ll bust apart.
Mrs. Evans, sure, she deserves to know. When I am done my day, I knock on her office door, and she invites me in.
“How are you, Miss Ryan? Are you faring all right without your granny?”
