Prohibition (11 page)

Behind all of this loomed Doyle’s mystery project. It was important enough to worry Doyle and that worried Quinn. Archie never got rattled and he didn’t exaggerate. Whatever it was must be pretty big. The faster Quinn found out who shot Fatty and why, the better Archie would sleep at night. He wished Guinan had known where the bastard lived; life would’ve been much easier.

Quinn knew Doyle’s organization had over a hundred guns on the street and a small army of snitches who’d sell out their mother for a cigarette. One word to them, they’d tear the city apart looking for Wallace. But the cops would kick up a storm and Archie couldn’t afford that kind of trouble.

Quinn could look for Wallace himself, but ten different people would give him ten different answers. No one would admit they didn’t know where Wallace lived. He’d waste the whole day.

So Quinn made a phone call instead. Time for Detective Doherty to start earning his keep.

When Doherty came to the phone, Quinn said, “I need you to start asking around about a guy named Simon Wallace.”

He heard Doherty write the name down. “He the shooter?”

“No, but he might be involved,” Quinn explained. “I don’t know exactly how, but his name keeps popping up. I could have my boys look for him, but I know that wouldn’t end well.”

“You’re a lot of things, Terry, but dumb isn’t one of them,” Doherty admitted. “I’ll get the word out and swing by the Lounge tonight. Let you know what I find.”

Quinn hung up the phone and went back in bed. Let Doherty’s people look for Wallace. He’d pay them a nice finder’s fee and get the chance to question them himself. His mind raced, thinking of all the angles. Who was Wallace? Was he even involved? What was his beef with Fatty?

His mind sought answers. His body craved sleep more. The darkness of his mind rose up and enveloped him.

A
FTER A
good sleep, Quinn got dressed for work. He wore a midnight blue tuxedo, silk bow tie, matching cummerbund. And the .45, of course, but the jacket had been tailored to conceal his holster.

Alice always told him the tuxedo made him look more intimidating than usual. She liked the way the tuxedo jacket showed the lines of his shoulders and how the starched collar made his neck look even thicker than it already was. She liked his hair when it was slicked straight back and how it showed off his dark eyes.

Quinn knew she was sneaking into his thoughts again. He reminded himself she’s just a distraction. He pushed her memory away. Tonight wasn’t the time for romance.

It was closer to six o’clock by the time Quinn got to his perch atop the elevated dining area of The Longford Lounge. Normally this was the best part of his day, watching the swaying crowd of revelers drinking and dancing the night away. A couple of fat cats at the bar were treating a client to steaks and martinis. A couple of loud rich boys made passes at a cigarette girl.

Wendell Bixby, nursed a Manhattan at the far end of the bar. The New York American’s star gossip columnist was listening to a pretty young blonde whispering in his ear. Quinn figured Bixby was pumping her for dirt for the next day’s column. The scribbler was always looking for the skinny. He paid well for it, too. Times were tough and there was no shortage of people lining up to give it to him.

Prohibition had turned the place into a gold mine and the Crash only seemed to help business. Bread lines grew longer by the day. Dozens of speakeasies and nightclubs had closed all over the city since the stock market tanked a few months before. The Lounge was one of the few truly swanky places south of Harlem still open. On any given night, customers might see William Powell, Fay Wray, Jean Arthur, Gary Cooper, Babe Ruth sipping Side Cars, martinis or Old Fashions.

The nightly receipts proved the casino in the basement was the real draw. As poor as people were, they always found enough money for another spin of the wheel or the roll of the dice. Lady Luck was always just one card away. Blackjack, poker, craps and roulette. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

The band finished their number and the bandleader introduced a new performer to the stage: Miss Alice Mulgrew.

Quinn didn’t know she was part of the show. He tried to get Fred Deavers’ eye to find out what the hell was going on, but he was busy handling the crowd at the front door.

The Lounge patrons applauded as the spotlight hit her and she smiled her crooked smile. The sequins of her nude colored cocktail dress caught the smoky light. She almost glowed. Her hair was no longer platinum blonde, but black. Short, silky and smooth. Her lips were as red as her skin was white and the dress showed off every curve of her body.

The crowd hushed and every eye in the place was on her.

Her eyes skipped over the crowd as the band warmed up. When they settled on Quinn, all thoughts of Wallace and Shapiro and Fatty Corcoran went right out the window. He took another drag and told himself it was just the dress and the lighting. But when she went into her song, he couldn’t help but smile. Someone to Watch Over Me.

He’d told her it was his favorite song the last time they’d gone to bed together.

Alice wasn’t a great singer, but she could sell a song better than most. Her throaty voice gave the lyrics that extra melancholy that always got to Quinn.

And Alice knew it.

He had to remind himself again that she was just a distraction.

Quinn was surprised to see Frank Sanders limping his way up the stairs toward him. Even though Archie had given him control over Washington Heights and Inwood, Sanders looked more like a dock worker than a crime boss. He was a fifty year old flat-faced, chinless Irishman with sad eyes and a sour expression. He always wore a rumpled brown suit, brown tie and a beat up brown fedora plopped on his head.

Quinn had heard all the war stories of when Fatty, Sanders and Doyle were breaking legs for the Dead Rabbits years before. Doyle always said it just as easily could’ve been Sanders’ mob if Frank had wanted it bad enough. But Frank seemed content with running his pool halls and speakeasies, taxi concessions and numbers games up in northern Manhattan.

“Archie sent for me,” Sanders said, skipping the pleasantries. “Some kind of pow-wow he wants with me and Walker tonight.”

Archie hadn’t told Quinn about any meeting with Sanders and Mayor Walker. Then again, it was his place. He didn’t have to tell Quinn anything.

“Any word on the bastard what shot the fat man?” Sanders asked. Quinn already had Zito under wraps and that’s where he was going to stay. If people knew he had him, they’d want to know where he was. Best to keep that to himself, even from Archie.

“I hear it’s some clown named Carmine Zito,” Quinn offered. “But keep that to yourself. The cops are afraid of a war breaking out and I don’t blame them. I’ve got some people running him down now.”

“Keep looking,” Sanders said. “We need to hang that bastard by his balls. You got my message about Johnny? He never showed. Neither did the cab.”

That struck Quinn as strange. “The cab too?” Now Quinn knew Johnny must be dead. “Anyone find them yet?”

“No, but we’re looking. I bet Rothman grabbed him out of revenge for what you done to Shapiro. They oughta give you a medal for that, by the way. Someone should’ve put a bullet in that little bastard a long time ago. He’s still in the hospital, but he’s supposed to pull through.”

Quinn didn’t care about Shapiro. He wouldn’t die from a shoulder wound. It was Johnny going missing that was bothering him. “I should’ve dropped Johnny off at your place myself, but I had troubles of my own with the cops.”

“Which ones?”

“Ours, Halloran and Doherty. They’re worried about what Rothman hitting back over me shooting Ira.”

Sanders waved it down. “Archie’ll square that with Howard. That’s probably part of why he wanted to meet tonight.” Sanders pulled his pants up over his gut. “Circle the wagons. Whip everyone into shape. Who else is coming?”

Quinn figured he’d find out soon enough, so he told him. “I didn’t know anything about it until you got here.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn saw Frank Deavers waving his red handkerchief at him. The standard sign that Mayor Walker had arrived. “Looks like Little Jimsy’s on his way in. You’d better head back and jaw with Archie before I bring him in. It’ll take him a couple of minutes to work the room before we make it back there.”

Sanders went back to see Archie while Quinn went to the front to escort Walker through the crowd. Alice had finished her song and moved off the stage to a long chorus of applause. The band stuck up something lively. Quinn made his way to the door through the dancing patrons at the bar. A few of the regulars tried to talk to Quinn as he moved through. He cut through them without stopping until he reached the front door.

“Our man on his way in?” Quinn asked Deveraux.

Deaveraux leaned in close to Quinn and dropped the French accent. “Walker’s glad handing some civilians on the sidewalk. He’s wearing a white tie and tails, for Christ sake. He don’t know how to play it small, does he?”

As if on cue, Mayor James J. Walker strode into the Lounge with a beautiful brunette on his arm and a big grin on his thin face. “Whaddya know and whaddya say, boys?” He whisked off his top hat and tossed it to the hat check girl. “Where’s the party?”

Quinn gave the bandleader the signal and the band struck up “Will You Love Me in December, As You Do in May”, the song the mayor had written as a young man in 1905. A cheer went up from the customers and everyone strained their necks to see the man the papers had dubbed “The Night Mayor of New York City”.

Walker slid the black mink stole from the brunette’s shoulders, revealing a tall, thin girl in a sleeveless black evening gown and pearls. Walker was in white tie and tails with a white scarf around his neck. He pumped Deveraux’s hand and the brunette swooned as the maitre ‘d laid on the French. Then the mayor shook Quinn’s hand.

“ ‘Lo, kid. How’s the crowd tonight? Nice and mellow or drunk and rowdy?”

“A little bit of both, your honor,” Quinn replied.

“Fine, fine. That’s just the way I like it,” Walker then turned his attention to the young woman on his arm. “Darling, I forgot to introduce you. Terry, this is my good friend Betty Compton, the brightest star of the New York stage.”

Quinn had met her several times before, but Walker never remembered. Quinn made a show of bowing at the waist. “Always a pleasure to see you, Miss Compton.”

“That’s what I always tell her every morning, ain’t that right, baby,” Walker laughed, playfully elbowing Quinn in the stomach. “Well, no sense in putting off temptation any longer. Why don’t you lead the way, my good man, so we can get down to the serious business of drinking.” He turned back to the small group that had followed him in. “Once more into the breach and all that, eh, boys?”

Quinn led the mayor, Miss Compton and the entourage of Walker’s sycophants through the crowd. The mayor had a meeting with Doyle, but was in no hurry at all. Once “Will You Love Me” played out, they broke into a rendition of “Sidewalks of New York”, the song from his mentor, Governor Al Smith’s presidential campaign of 1928.

Walker shook every hand and slapped every back he could reach. Quinn was amazed how he remembered all the regular’s names and even some of the strangers too, as though he’d remembered them from that time he saw them. Everyone wanted to like him and to think of him as one of their own. Walker was happy to oblige.

Everyone knew Jimmy Walker was owned lock, stock and barrel by the Tammany Hall machine in general and to Archie Doyle in particular. He was as crooked as they came, but no one seemed to mind. If anything, they seemed to respect him for his honesty about his dishonesty.

When Quinn finally got Walker to his table, Walker pulled Quinn aside. “Does Archie need to see me right this second or is he busy with other things because I sure could use a couple of drinks first?”

Quinn knew Walker’s version of “getting settled in” involved two or three glasses of champagne. He didn’t know why Doyle wanted to see him, but he was sure he’d want Walker sober. “I think Mr. Doyle was hoping to see you as soon as you arrived.”

Quinn saw Walker’s frown, then added, “I’m sure we have champagne brought to the back room.”

Walker’s frown disappeared. He made a flimsy excuse to his table about needing to meet with some pesky constituents. He kissed Betty’s hand before he followed Quinn to the back room.

The little man trotted along side Quinn and tugged on his arm. “Listen, kid, between you, me and the lamp post – what the hell is going on? Someone goes after Fatty last night; you almost kill Shapiro right after. Word has it he might lose an eye.”

Quinn loved rumors. “I winged him in the shoulder, sir.”

“Whatever,” Walker said. He’d never been big on letting facts change his mind. “My phone’s been ringing off the hook all day long with people wondering if hell’s about to break loose. You know I love Archie like a brother, but he should’ve played it smart and headed to that horse farm of his until all this blows over.”

Quinn led the mayor to the meeting room at the back of the club. “Mr. Doyle figures it’s safe to act like its business as usual, and from what I’ve seen, he’s pretty good at figuring things.”

“I sure hope so,” Walker cautioned, “because I’d hate like hell to hear his name read at mass in the morning.”