Prohibition (25 page)

Doyle slapped his chair happily as he got to his feet. He came around the desk and Quinn draped the overcoat over Doyle’s shoulders. “Quit worryin’, will ya? Just keep the money comin’ in and goin’ out where it should. I’ll concentrate on getting’ Jimmy and Al on board. You’ll do fine.”

Quinn didn’t think so. “Well, since I’m the boss now, I’m ordering Jimmy Cain to go upstate with you.”

Doyle laughed and patted Quinn on the cheek. “You’re the boss of the gang, sweetheart, not me. Cain stays here. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

Quinn’s mind was flooded with questions about what to do first. Who to talk to. It was all jumbled together in such a knot, all he could think to say was: “Call me when you get to Millbrook.”

Archie Doyle smiled. “Yes, mother,” then closed the door behind him. He’d just left New York’s world of organized crime at his feet.

Terry Quinn now ran New York City.

Jimmy Cain opened the door a few minutes later. The look on his face said it all. “Congratulations, boss.

Q
UINN HAD
Cain drive him to Fatty’s safe house on Twenty-third and Tenth. The brownstone was in the middle of the block and looked no different than the rest of the houses on the street. There were no armed gunmen in front of the building, just a couple of boys with Thompsons in sedans parked at various spots on the street.

Inside, Cain pointed to the first door at the top of the stairs. “We’re keeping your playmate in there,” he told Quinn. “The doctor said the concrete scarred his eyes pretty good, but he’ll get his sight back eventually. I don’t mind telling you that it’s been a chore keeping some of the boys away from him, boss. A lot of them really liked the guys he killed.”

Quinn had always hated complainers. Now that he was running things, he hated them even more. “Tell them to quit if they don’t like taking orders. There’s plenty of guys on the street looking for work who won’t ask questions.”

Cain played it down. “They ain’t bein’ mutinous or nothing, boss. They’re just a little worked up, what with Fatty, Archie and now you being hit. They just want to know when we’re going to start hitting back is all. It don’t look good, us not doin’ nothin’.”

“I know. We’ll hit back when we know who to hit and not a moment before.” He pointed down the hall. “Is that Fatty’s room?”

Cain nodded. “The doctor said he’s still too weak to be operated on formal, but it looks like he’ll be able to live with one kidney after all.” Quinn walked down the hall to Fatty’s room. He rapped his knuckles lightly on the door before opening it.

Fatty Corcoran was lying on his stomach on an old Queen sized bed.

The mattress bowed under his weight. His three hundred-plus-pound bulk filled a good portion of it. He had a large bandage wrapped around his considerable girth and extra padding on the small of his back where he’d been shot. His curly red hair was matted to his head by sweat. The bed clothes were soaked through with perspiration.

Quinn knew Fatty’s wounds could still get infected. His already overused heart could give out from too much pain at any moment. But he was alive for now and that’s all that mattered.

Fatty was dozing. Quinn pulled up a chair next to his bed. He remembered the scene in Zito’s apartment two days before. He’d wake Fatty with a little more compassion.

Quinn nudged the fat man with a gentle shake of the shoulder. Fatty looked up from the pillow-scape dazed and confused. He focused on Quinn, blinking his eyes clear. A vague smile appeared on his big face, like a baby waking up. The two of them had always liked each other.

“Hi ya Terry,” Fatty smiled wider. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Quinn felt himself smiling, too. “Keeping out of trouble, big man?”

“I guess I should call you ‘boss’ now. He reached for Quinn’s hand and squeezed it. “Congratulations, kid.”

Quinn played it down. “I’m just filling in until you and Archie are ready to come back.”

But Fatty’s smile went away. He sank his head back to the pillow. “Archie and I have already had our fair share of come backs, Terry. I can read the writing on the wall. Archie can, too. It says me and Archie better get out of this business in big, red letters.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

Corcoran’s massive bulk raised with a heavy sigh. “I’m not complaining. Archie and me made plenty of dough while the going was good for damned near fifteen years by my count. But the money’s drying up and people are willing to take dumb chances for a buck. I don’t have the stomach for this kind of life any more.” He smiled again. “And I’ve got a stomach for quite a bit.”

Quinn respected Fatty too much to hear this kind of talk now. Self-pity never solved anything. And despite everything that had happened to him that morning alone, Quinn still needed answers on what happened in Ames that night. “Who do you think shot you, Fatty?”

“I can’t think of a soul. Everything’s been going fine, except for Archie’s damned fool idea about getting Al Smith to run for president again.” Quinn didn’t want to get lost in all of that. “What about other parts of the gang? You’ve always been closer to the day to day stuff than Archie. Is there anyone else having problems that might’ve caused this?”

“Not that I can think of. Frank Sanders had some run-ins with some number runners up in Inwood who were trying to cash in on him being away a lot lately. But he handled that himself.”

That caught Quinn’s attention. “Frank’s been traveling? Where to?” “Started a couple of months back,” Corcoran said, “when he asked for Archie’s say-so to expand outside of the City. He’d already gotten as big as he could up in Inwood and the Heights and the only other place he could go is Harlem. But Archie didn’t want a war with the darkies now that he’s pushing Al to run.”

Again, Quinn skipped all that. “Where’d Frank travel to?”

“Archie told him he should expand up along the Hudson River; Albany, Poughkeepsie. There’s money to be made in the boonies for a guy with Frank’s talents. But Frank didn’t want that. He said he had a line on something in Kansas City that was about to take off, so he’s been going there to set things up.”

Fatty kept talking, but Quinn didn’t hear a thing he said. The hole in his side began to throb but he focused on staying calm. He was running things now. He had to control his temper. All at once, everything started to make sense.

Frank Sanders went to Kansas City. The chopper squad from the warehouse was from Kansas City. The chopper squad hit blind and almost started a mob war between Doyle and Rothman. With Archie on the lam and Fatty laid up, who should benefit from a mob war? The men who stood behind Archie Doyle and Howard Rothman: Frank Sanders and Ira Shapiro.

Quinn remembered Shapiro mumbling something about Doyle’s days being over after Quinn shot him. He remembered Sanders disagreeing more and more with Doyle lately.

It all made sense. But where did Wallace fit in? Was he Shapiro and Sanders’ go-between. What about Rothman?

His mind was swimming with questions and possibilities Jimmy Cain burst into the room. “Jesus Christ, boss. Turn on the radio quick!”

Quinn flicked on the radio by Corcoran’s bedside. A newsman’s voice came on in mid-report.

“...have no suspects in custody at this time. Once again, gangland intrigue rocks New York City as Howard Rothman, the infamous lawyer, gambler and financier, was gunned down in broad day light. Witnesses report five men in a touring car opened fire on Rothman and two accomplices as they entered Lindy’s Delicatessen on 52nd and Broadway. Police officials suspect this is in retaliation for the attempted murder on crime boss Archibald ‘Archie’ Doyle yesterday afternoon.”

Quinn felt himself get dizzy.

Howard Rothman was dead. And whoever did it made it look like the Doyle mob was behind it. The cops would be looking for him and Archie now. They’d need to parade them around in handcuffs to show Albany they were doing something to stop the violence.

They’d raid the Lounge.

They’d raid the speakeasies and the warehouses and the gambling joints.

They’d hit the Doyle organization hard.

Bye bye White House. Hello Sing Sing.

Fatty looked up at him from bed. “You didn’t order that, did you?”

“No.” But he knew someone who might know more.

Quinn and Cain headed for the blinded gunman’s room down the hall.

Quinn threw open the door and found the man lying on the bed with a large white bandage wrapped around his eyes. He flinched when he heard the door splinter. He threw his arms in front of his face to protect himself.

“Who’s there?” he yelled into the darkness.

Quinn yanked him out of bed by the night shirt and slammed him against a wall. The hole in his side screamed. “Who hired you to kill Archie Doyle?”

“I told you we didn’t know it was Archie’s joint,” the gunman screamed. “We wouldn’t have hit the place if we knew who it was, no matter how much Lenny paid us to do it.”

Quinn squeezed “Yesterday you said Lenny took on a new partner. Who?”

The blind man started crying. “How the hell should I know? Lenny gives orders. He don’t ask for advice.”

Quinn pulled the blind man off the wall and slammed him against it again. His side roared, but he didn’t stop. “Did you ever see this new partner? You’re one of Boo’s regulars. You must’ve seen something.”

“I-I-don’t know. I think I did but that’s only because some of the other boys thought it was him.”

Quinn pushed back the pain from the wound. He broke out into a sweat. “What did the man look like?”

The blind man’s mouth trembled. “I...I didn’t get a good look at his face. I remember he didn’t look like the money daddy type. L...like he could use a few bucks himself. Wrinkled brown suit, an old shirt and this old brown hat looked like he sat on it, walked with a limp...”

The blind man kept talking, but Quinn had heard all he needed. He let the blind man slide down the wall. He’d just described Frank Sanders.

Son of a bitch.

Jimmy Cain slumped in the doorway. “Jesus Christ, Terry. He don’t mean Frank, does he?”

Quinn was drenched in sweat. Pain webbed through his body from the hole in his side. But he had one last question for the blind man. “You said the other group of shooters were supposed to hit the Longford Lounge but they didn’t. Why?”

The blind man crawled back up to his bed. “I don’t know, mister. Both hits were supposed to happen at the same time. M...maybe they got scared off by something.”

Or called off, Quinn thought. By someone. But who?

Then the floor felt like it dropped out from under him. He leaned against the wall to keep from falling over.

That’s why Tommy the Bartender and Deavers never heard the phone ring at the Lounge.

Baker never called the Lounge. Baker called off the other hit squad instead because they’d lost the element of surprise.

And Baker was driving Doyle up to Millbrook.

Quinn ran downstairs to the car. Jimmy Cain followed. Millbrook was a long ways away.

C
AIN DROVE,
speding along back country roads to Doyle’s farm in Dutchess County. The trip usually took two hours. It felt like two years to Quinn.

He’d been hoping he was wrong about Baker. He’d called Doyle’s house from the gas station. No answer. He feared the worst. He knew Baker didn’t have the stomach to hurt Archie but the crew who hit Rothman did.