Prohibition (18 page)

Quinn lounged on the worn leather couch in Doyle’s office. Doyle was wearing his Sunday best: grey pinstripe three piece suit, starched shirt and red tie. He could’ve passed for a banker. Doyle always dressed well, but took extra effort when meeting with Rothman. The gambler always looked like a million bucks.

This was the first chance Doyle had given Quinn to tell him about everything he’d learned since Fatty’s shooting.

Quinn ran through all of it. Johnny the Kid. Zito. The man in white. Wallace. Rothman leaning on Bixby.

He skipped the part about having Zito holed up in a hotel across town and about Wallace being the man in white. He had no choice. Archie might order him to shoot Zito or grab Wallace.

Quinn knew Zito could be useful later on. And the more Wallace ran free, the more they’d find out about him. He only hoped Halloran or Doherty had tailed him last night. Neither had returned his calls.

Doyle chewed his cigar while he listened, slowly swiveled back and forth in his squeaky office chair. “Guinea hit men, shot up fat men, sheeneies with big mouths and the bosses what wants them protected. Dirt mongers paying off debt by dishing dirt.” Doyle shook his head. “We live charmed lives, don’t we, kid?

“Nature of the business,” Quinn agreed. “What do you want me to do about this Bixby situation?”

“I know what you’re thinkin’, but Rothman plantin’ that story with Bixby don’t mean he’s behind Fatty getting’ shot. You see, I’ve known Howard Rothman for almost thirty years. He’s not a direct man and shootin’ Fatty is as direct as it gets.”

He pulled his cigar from the corner of his mouth and pointed the wet end at Quinn. “Now, makin’ Bixby put my name in his column? That’s more Rothman’s style.” Doyle smiled. “Who knows? Maybe this Wallace fella’s our boy. Your man in white.”

Quinn shut his eyes. The jig was up. “How did you find out?”

“I pieced together some things I overheard and whatnot. You never could lie worth a shit, kid. That’s why I trust you.”

Quinn saw no reason to hold back. “Guinan told me Rothman and Wallace were in her club together a bunch of times. I wanted to know more about Wallace before I told you about him. I still think he’s working with Rothman against you somehow.”

Doyle didn’t seem to think so. “Whaddya got on Wallace so far?” “Nothing, except he’s not what he appears to be, but he’s got a lot of money to throw around. I had Halloran and Doherty tail him when he left the Lounge last night. Still haven’t heard back.”

Doyle popped the cigar back into the corner of his mouth. “Bastards are probably hungover from drinkin’ free booze at our place. Goddamned moochers. I’m gonna have to remind Doherty of his place.”

The candlestick phone on his desk rang and Doyle picked up the earpiece and mouth piece with one hand. “Yeah?” He smiled at Quinn.

“That so? Well, send him up in a minute or two.” He replaced the earpiece in the cradle and sat back.

“The Hebrew’s downstairs already,” Doyle pulled a gold pocket watch from his vest. “Tried gettin’ the jump on me by showin’ up early. Let ‘im wait.” He dropped the watch back in his vest pocket. He smoothed down his gray hair even though it didn’t need smoothing.

Doyle cleared his throat. “You know I might have to rap your knuckles in front of him. Make it look like I’m bendin’ his way a little so as he don’t cry about me being unfair. Walker’s right: half of City Hall and the state legislature makes book with the bastard, so I gotta show him a little bit of courtesy, especially with Jimsy talkin’ to Al for me and all.” He cleared his throat again. “You know how it is.”

Quinn shrugged. “Don’t worry about me, boss. I can take a beating.”

Doyle laughed. “You’re damned good at dishin’ ‘em out, too, which is what got us into mess in the first place.” He pulled himself out of his chair and shrugged into his suit coat. “I was right about you from the first day I saw you down in Gleason’s sparrin’ with Lepaski. Right from the start I could tell you was a kid what saw the whole picture. Wish I had more of it around me. Especially now. It’d add class to this organization and I like class. I always says it’s the one thing you can’t have too much of.”

Doyle belched as he undid his pants, flattened his shirttails and zipped them up again. He bellowed for Baker, who was sitting right outside the office.

Baker scrambled in, avoiding eye contact with Quinn.

Quinn figured he was still sore about the dressing down he’d given him last night. Quinn would make it up to him somehow.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Fetch the Jew in here, will ya?” Doyle pulled down his vest and swung on his suit coat.

“No need for fetching for he is already here,” Rothman announced as he strode past Baker into the office.

Quinn noticed the differences between the two men.

Doyle the political boss was short and powerful with a thick shock of gray hair.

Rothman the lawyer-gambler was tall and slender and moved like a dancer. He wore a pearl gray overcoat with a matching bowler and suit of the same color. He wore a pale blue tie and silver tie-pin. He had a pale complexion, beady eyes and a long, pointed nose that reminded Quinn of a beak.

Rothman tossed his ebony handled walking stick into his left hand as he extended his gloved right hand to Doyle. “How’s every little thing, Arch?”

Doyle flicked on the charm as they shook hands. “How’ve you been, Howard? Grab a seat. Take a load off.” Doyle motioned to one of the chairs facing his desk.

Rothman lowered himself into one. He moved it so his back was to Quinn.

Quinn smiled.

“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances,” Rothman said. He stretched his long legs along the floor and crossed them at the ankles. Quinn saw his fresh-shined paten leather spats. “That thug of yours caused a hell of a lot of problems for me and my associate.”

“Which associate would that be?” Doyle asked as he sat down. “Simon Wallace?”

Quinn was surprised Doyle mentioned Wallace at all.

Rothman didn’t flinch. “I spoke to Simon this morning. He raved about the hospitality he received in your joint last night. He particularly raved about Quinn.” His smile disappeared. “Too bad the gorilla didn’t show the same decorum to poor Ira in Pete’s the other night.”

Doyle looked surprised. “Shapiro’s first name is Ira? You don’t say. Ira is a good strong name. You know, it’s funny the things you learn about a guy when he catches lead, ain’t it? Fatty Corcoran’s first name is Aloysius.”

“Ira had nothing to do with that,” Rothman said.

“Who said he did? But like it or not, one of Shapiro’s boys was playin’ pool with Fatty when he got shot. Don’t it stand to reason that we’d like to talk to him about what happened?”

“Talking is one thing,” Rothman flicked a thumb over his shoulder toward Quinn. “But that ape went in there with lead on his mind. He sent Shapiro to the hospital with a bullet in his shoulder and two of his boys wound up with busted heads.” He slapped the arm rest of his chair. “Do you have any idea how much money Ira brings in for me every week?”

“I ordered Terry to question The Kid - and only The Kid. I even told him to play nice. Shapiro and his boys started up the rough stuff and things got out of hand. Don’t make it more than what it was.”

Rothman snickered. “My best earner got a bullet in the shoulder and his place busted up. I think things got more than just out of hand.”

“Do I look happy about it?” Doyle asked. “But if Terry says he had to get rough, then I have no choice but to believe him.”

Quinn didn’t know why Archie was coming on this strong, but he was glad. It was the first glimpse of the old Doyle he’d seen in weeks.

“I’m not a heartless man,” Rothman said. “I know you’re fond of Terry and he’s been a good man for you. But Ira’s been good for me, too. I can’t have Quinn putting my help in the hospital and getting away with it. How the hell would I get anyone to work for me if word gets out that I can’t protect my own guys?”

Archie shrugged. “Seems to me like you’ve still got plenty of people who want to work for you. People like Wendell Bixby.”

Rothman laughed. “What makes you think Bixby’s working for me?”

“Bixby said so.”

Rothman shook his head slowly. “So you had your gorilla brace Bixby about the item in his column, eh?” The gambler turned back to face Quinn for the first time. “You must be proud of yourself, champ. First you smack around a pool hustler half your size then you brace some red-nosed scribbler with a weakness for the ponies. What’s next? Squeezing blind newsies for pocket change?”

Doyle didn’t let Quinn answer. “You know I don’t like ink, Howard. Ink draws attention and attention draws Feds. Bixby broke the Golden Rule and suffered the consequences just like everyone else. You having him run that item on me right after Fatty’s shooting was a shitty thing to do.”

“You talk about living by rules? Your boy shoots up one of my joints and you say he’s right.”

“I didn’t say he was right. I said they was both wrong for what they done. I’m tryin’ to get you to say that, too.”

Quinn watched the bookie uncross his legs and lean forward in his chair. The Lower East Side returned to his voice. “Let me lay it all out for you so we’re both playing off the same sheet music. I got a pool hall property busted up to the tune of a thousand dollars, my best earner laid up with a bullet in his arm and one of the best pool hustlers in the city hung up on a meat hook. Now, I don’t know if it was Quinn who hung The Kid up or...”

Quinn’s temper spiked as Doyle cut Rothman off. “Be very careful about slingin’ allegations, Howard. I could start slingin’ some of my own.”

Rothman sat back in his chair, took a deep breath and folded his hands on his lap. “It’s just a little odd that your boy’s the last one to see The Kid alive.”

“Terry put him in a cab and sent him up to Frank Sanders’ joint in the Heights for his own protection. If you don’t believe me, ask Doherty and Halloran. They seen him do it.”

Rothman laughed. “Doherty and Halloran, eh? You’ve got every bog- trotter with a badge in your pocket and I’m supposed to believe what two more Mick cops have to say?” Rothman sucked his teeth. “I didn’t get this far by being that stupid.”

Doyle’s chair squeaked loud as he settled back. He put the Cuban back in his mouth and drew the smoke in slow. “You and me have been runnin’ the same streets a lot of years now, ain’t we? Probably since we’ve been able to walk. Goin’ on damned near fifty years for me. About the same amount of time for you, ain’t it?”

Rothman slouched in his chair. “I’m not dressed for a stroll down memory lane, Archie. What’re you driving at?”

“Sometimes you and me have been on the same side and other times not. But we always respected each other in the end. Respect is the most important thing in our line of work, ain’t it? Even more important than friendship.”

Doyle continued. “I say things got out of hand that night in Pete’s. You disagree. But we both know he didn’t go in there to kill nobody because if he did, the meat wagon would’ve hauled five bodies out of Pete’s instead of just one smarmy punk with a hole in his shoulder.”

Doyle moved the cigar to the corner of his mouth. “We can go back and forth about this all day long ‘til we’re blue in the face, but I don’t think either of us’ll change his mind. So, out of respect to you and our long association, I’ll cut you a check right now for five hundred dollars from my own personal account to help cover some of the damage caused by the scuffle. I’ll kick in another five hundred to help the sheenie with his shoulder.”

Quinn didn’t know what the hell was going on. Doyle had just given Rothman every reason in the world to get his connections in the legislature to kick hell out of Walker. Why was he doing this?

Rothman didn’t move. “Five. Hundred. Dollars. To cover what Quinn did? That’s an insult, Archie. It doesn’t even cover the cost of the damage to the tables and chairs.”

“Bullshit. Roaches crawl out of the joint to die in the gutter because even they wouldn’t be caught dead in the place and you’re tellin’ me you need a grand to fix it up? If it went up in a fire, you’d be lucky to get a grand from the insurance company for the whole building. Quinn’s good, Howie, but he ain’t that good.”

Quinn watched Rothman get red. “I wouldn’t believe you could be this cold and heartless unless I was hearing it with my own two ears. A man’s time and suffering are worth something. The embarrassment of...”

“Stow the sob story, will ya?” Doyle waived him down. “Next, you’ll be blaming the poor bastard for your mother’s rheumatism and your sister’s crabs. I’ll tack on another five hundred on account of your overwhelming grief and sufferin’ and wounded pride and anythin’ else that’ll make you feel better. How’s that?”

But Rothman didn’t seem to go for it at first. “Money can only repair so much.” Rothman thrust his gloved thumb back toward Quinn. Quinn was beginning to hate that thumb. “I want to know what you intend to do about this?”

Doyle looked over to Quinn. “Terry, you and Shapiro are to play nice from now on, understand?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Quinn smiled. “Maybe him and me’ll play catch in Central Park, once his shoulder heals up.”

Doyle took the cigar from the corner of his mouth and put it in the ashtray. He grinned at Rothman. “See? Now everyone’s friends again.”