Prohibition (21 page)

“Where the hell did everyone go?” Doyle asked.

Quinn opened the back door of his car and eased Doyle in. He knew what would happen if Doyle knew about the threat to the Lounge, so he lied. “I didn’t want everyone standing around here when the cops showed up.”

He tried to close the car door. Doyle kicked it open. Even with a bullet in him, he had plenty of strength. “I told you that you never could lie worth a shit, kid. What’s the real reason?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Archie,” Quinn forced the door closed. “It’s just a precaution, is all.”

Doyle reached through the open door window and grabbed Quinn’s blackened shirt. “Goddamn you, where is everyone?”

He knew Doyle wouldn’t let him go until he told him the truth. “An- other crew might be hitting the Lounge. I sent the others over there to see what was going on while I take you to the doctor.”

Doyle let go of Quinn’s shirt and sank back in the seat. In fifteen minutes, he’d aged twenty years.

Quinn ran around the front of the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. He started up the car and leaned on the horn for Baker to hurry up. “Those dirty bastards,” Doyle whispered from the back seat. “Going after my club? Why would anyone wanna do something like that?” Quinn leaned on the horn again. “I don’t know, but I swear to Christ, they’ll bleed for it.”

Baker ran out of the headquarters and jumped into the passenger’s seat. “I let it ring a bunch of times, but there’s no answer.”

Quinn slipped the engine into first gear and pulled away from the curb.

As he sped across Twelfth Street, he kept an eye out for anyone who might be aiming at the car. It was possible that the other crew might be a back up to the first, waiting to finish off anyone left alive from the headquarters.

Then Doyle said: “Take me to the Lounge.”

Quinn knew that was coming. He ignored it.

Doyle pulled himself forward with his one good arm and shouted:

“Goddamn it, did you hear what I said? Take me to the Lounge.”

Baker tried to ease Doyle back in the seat. “Boss, I really don’t think it’s a good idea...”

Doyle slapped his hand away and focused all of his attention on Quinn.

“Do like I told ya, Terry. Do it now.”

“That tourniquet won’t keep you from bleeding to death if we waste time by going to the Lounge. If the club’s been hit, we can’t do much about it now. If it hasn’t been hit yet, we’ve got enough guys heading over there to put up a fight. Either way, you need to get to a doctor and fast.”

From the rear-view mirror, Quinn saw Doyle’s face go scarlet. “You son of a bitch. I can’t believe this is Terry Quinn talking to me now. What about Tommy and Deveraux? What if the band stopped by early to get something to eat before setting up? What if some poor bastard with a wife and kids is in there delivering food when the place gets hit?”

Quinn kept driving. “They’re not my problem. You are and you’re going to the doctor now.”

“But those people are my priority,” Doyle yelled. “That place is my priority. It’s the only thing I’ve ever done in my life that meant something to me and you want me to let some low life sons of bitches take it all away from me just because I have a little bit of lead in my shoulder?”

Quinn kept his attention on the street around them.

“Or maybe you don’t want to go over there because you’ve had enough blood for one day? I never thought I’d live to see the day Terry Quinn turned into a shitless fuckin’ coward.”

Quinn slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a crooked halt into the middle of the street.

Quinn spun around. Doyle’s face was right there, just as blackened as his own. The contemptible sneer had been replaced by a satisfied grin.

“Yeah,” he hissed. “I knew that’d get your attention.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “You really like to push buttons, don’t you?”

“These bastards’ve already shot my best friend and destroyed my clubhouse. I’d rather die defending my own than on a doctor’s table.”

Quinn turned back around. He drove his fist into the seat in frustration.

Then he yanked the car into gear and brought the big Deusenberg back around toward the club.

Doyle’s old smile returned and he sat back in the seat contented. “Atta boy, Terry! I knew ya had it in ya.” He reached down and pulled out one of the two Thompsons he always kept in a compartment under the back seat. He handed one up to Baker and kept the other for himself. He laid the stock on his lap and balanced the barrel out the open window with his good hand.

Quinn caught another glimpse of him in the rearview mirror. The old man was gone. Other than the hole in his shoulder, Doyle looked twenty years younger. Back in the hunt. Heading toward danger.

“Buck up, me boys!” Doyle roared as he slapped the clip of the Thompson home. “It’s time for the Doyle mob to get back some of its own!”

Q
UINN STOPPED
the Deusenberg short in front of the Longford Lounge. Quinn and Baker spilled out of the car. Doyle covered the street with his Thompson from the back seat.

Jimmy Cain ran out of the Lounge and met them in the middle of the street. “I’ve got ten guys spread out along the block and fanned out two blocks in every direction. A mouse couldn’t fart without one of our boys hearing it.”

Quinn was relieved and angry. “Why the hell didn’t anyone answer the goddamned phone?”

“I don’t know, boss,” Cain said. “Everyone’s fine. No one saw nothing unusual all day.”

Quinn saw the men Cain had spread out on the block were all regular boys. They knew how to handle themselves if things got thick.

Quinn noticed Archie had slumped over in the back seat; the Thompson still across his lap.

Quinn panicked. He reached in through the open window and stabbed two fingers to his neck for a pulse. The heartbeat was there but weak. The red spot on his shoulder bandage had grown larger. His breathing was getting very shallow.

Archie Doyle was dying.

Quinn was about to jump into the car to drive him to the doctor when he heard the distinct wail of police sirens echo in the distance. The bulls were on their way. They were probably making a bee-line for the Lounge after they heard what had happened down at party headquarters.

They’d be looking to question Doyle about the shootout. But if they couldn’t get Doyle, they’d settle for Quinn. Quinn knew they’d tear the city apart until they found one of them. Someone would have to answer for the shootout at the warehouse. Doherty couldn’t just sweep this one under the rug. The answer was simple:

Quinn gives himself up. Doyle gets to a doctor.

Cain had to handle things on the street while Quinn was being questioned. So Quinn grabbed Baker and pushed him into the driver’s seat. “I’ll stall them while you get Archie over to Doc Brownell’s. I’ll call when they let me out.”

“But what about you?”

“Who cares?” Quinn snapped. “Worry about Archie instead. His life’s in your hands now get moving.”

Cain and Quinn watched Baker drive away. Then Quinn turned to face the approaching police cars. They were coming on fast. They wouldn’t be happy when they got there.

“Did your boys run that blind bastard over to the safe house like I told you?” Quinn asked.

“They should be there by now,” Cain said. “But I don’t like the idea of giving you up to the cops, Terry. They’ll be looking to pin what happened today on someone. I’d hate it to be you.”

Quinn waved it off. Archie was all that mattered. “Have your boys make themselves scarce so the bulls don’t get them. Then have them drift back around in an hour or so after the cops clear out. You’d better lay low yourself, Jimmy. I’ll need you running things while Doherty and Halloran work me over.”

Cain reluctantly went to pass the word along to his men.

Quinn stood alone in the middle of the street. Blackened. Sore. His lungs hurt. He’d killed four men and lost five of his own. He didn’t dare mourn them. He knew Archie might die. Quinn would’ve prayed if he thought God wouldn’t fall out of Heaven laughing.

The wail of sirens grew closer.

He patted his pockets for a cigarette and a light. He remembered both were in his suit jacket back at the club house. Damned shame. He really liked that jacket.

He felt himself start to weave. His arms felt heavy. A dull ache settled in his right side. He felt at it with a heavy hand. Damp. Probably water from the roll he took in the warehouse. But he didn’t remember the warehouse floor being wet. He looked at his hand, but it seemed small and further away than normal. It was sticky and red. Blood? It matched the growing stain on the side of his blackened shirt. Must’ve been some of Archie’s blood that got on him.

The ground began to pitch and wobble beneath his feet. Like he was standing on a ship. Police cars screeched around him. Maybe in front and to the sides of him. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t care. He saw a skinny man with a pointy hat who looked a lot like Charlie Doherty in a funhouse mirror running toward him. He was screaming something that echoed in the chambers of his mind.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” he yelled. “What did I tell you about starting a fucking war?”

Quinn wanted to say something, but his tongue wouldn’t work. He showed Doherty his red hand and offered a feeble smile.

He collapsed forward into the detective’s shirt. Darkness was coming. God, let Archie live.

The darkness took him.

S
OMEWHERE IN
that darkness, the past returned. Quinn was on that stool again. Madison Square Garden. His dressing room. Surrounded by cops. Kowalski was supposed to win that night. The Boys had ordered Quinn to lose. Bad things would happen if he didn’t.

Quinn didn’t remember how it happened. They told him he’d hit Kowalski too hard. They told him he sent Kowalski’s jaw into his brain. Kowalski died in the ring fifteen minutes before.

Augie, his trainer/manager, wiped the blood from Quinn’s chest and face. Augie hugged him and cried. “I’m sorry. I let this happen. I never should’ve let you fight. I should’ve thrown in the towel. It’s all my fault. I’m so, so sorry.”

Someone stuck their head in and the cops cleared the room, scattered like roaches. Augie and Quinn alone. Augie’s hands shook while he cut the wrap off Quinn’s hands.

The dressing room door opened and in strode a dapper Irishman in a smart blue pinstriped suit, a matching fedora and overcoat. He stood in the middle of the room. He didn’t speak. He just puffed away on his black Cuban cigar. His jaw cocked up and away at a sharp angle.

His hands were in his pockets.

Augie started shaking worse. Quinn figured this was the guy they’d sent to kill him. Quinn didn’t care.

The man with the cigar finally spoke. “You put on one helluva show out there tonight, kid. Never saw a guy take a beatin’ like that and I’ve seen a few in my day.” He took the cigar from his mouth. “You know who I am?”

“You’re Archie Doyle,” Quinn answered. “The rum runner.”

Doyle laughed. “Sure, I’ve run rum and just about everythin’ else at one time or another. Booze, beer, broads, guns, hemp, dirty pictures, phony real estate. If you can make a buck doin’ it, I’ve probably done it once or twice. Made a good livin’, too and I’m still alive to tell the tale.”

“Congratulations,” Quinn watched Augie finish unwrapping his fists. He