Jimmy the Stick (24 page)

“Funny way of handling what things?” Charlie Luciano strolled into the room with the usual wide smile splitting his mug. He wore a silk tie and his collar was held down with a slim gold pin.

He buttoned his vest and struggled with a cufflink until Lansky fixed it for him, and explained why I was there.

“Hourigan,” Lucky said. “Yeah, I know him. Big guy. Loud bastard but a fucking straight arrow. You can't talk to him. Nobody likes him. Sounds to me like he was so shitfaced maybe he didn't know where he was or what he was doing in your place. A man like that can't control himself, it don't matter he's got a badge. Nail the bastard, Jimmy.”

SUNDAY, MARCH 6, 1932

NEW YORK CITY

I waited on the steps of the hotel until the Duesenberg pulled up, then told Oh Boy to go to my speak. He stopped by the front door and asked if there was a parking garage in the neighborhood. “I can't leave it on the street, Jimmy.”

“Stay here. This won't take long. I'll escort the ladies inside and we can—”

“No, you're not going to leave us anyplace.” Mrs. Pennyweight glowered at me.

“Look, you've got two choices. You can go in my place, sit down, and have a few drinks on the house. Or you can keep riding around in the car. The joint I'm going to doesn't allow women. Believe me, there's a good reason for that.”

She was having none of it. “We're going with you.”

“All right.” I told Oh Boy to take us down to the Bowery. As we headed south again, I saw that Mrs. Pennyweight wore a self-satisfied little smirk on her face. Connie Nix was drinking it all in. The kid smiled and dozed.

When we were close to the street I thought I wanted, I told Oh Boy to stop. It had been a long time since I'd been in this neighborhood at night, and I wasn't sure we were at the right intersection. The truth was that since I bought the speak, I didn't go downtown that often and got a little confused once I was away from the familiar grid of Midtown. The crowded, twisty little roads of the Bowery and Chinatown made me antsy.

Oh Boy found a place to park under a streetlight. I made sure the glass was open when I spoke to him and Mrs. Pennyweight.

“I've been told the guy I'm looking for has been in a place that's a couple of blocks from here. Been there every night since he busted up my joint. Might not be the same guy. Or he might not be there tonight, I don't know. One way or the other it shouldn't take long to find out. Oh Boy, if anybody pays too much attention to you and you think you ought to move, do it. Just stay in the area and I'll find you.”

I got out of the car. So did Mrs. Pennyweight.

“What the hell. I told you—”

“I don't care what the rules of this establishment are—”

“It's not an establishment, it's a bucket of blood.”

“Fine, then they won't really care about serving women. Dressed as I am, no one will know I'm female. And besides that, you can't stop me.” She was excited and determined. And she was right. There was nothing I could do.

“What about the kid?”

“Nix is armed.”

“Oh hell.” I gave up and started across the street.

On a warmer night, I'd have been more worried. But with the rain and wind, it was raw enough to drive most thugs and drunks inside. No one paid attention to two figures walking carefully across the street, leaning on their canes. As we moved away from the street lamp, I tried to tamp down the nervous excitement building up inside.

First, I needed to figure out where I was. I'd only been to the Drum once, and remembered the place being on a corner, with old-fashioned swinging saloon doors set at a forty-five-degree angle to the street. There was no sign outside, and the windows were painted over. Inside, the walls were yellowed with decades of tobacco smoke. At one time, the Drum had been owned by a guy named Drummond. Now some Mick named Reagan ran it. The speak was roughly divided into the bar in the front section and a room full of wooden pallets in the back where the stewbums could flop or pass out. But I hadn't actually been in the back room, I'd only seen it from the bar. And that visit didn't tell me what I needed to know.

We weren't alone on the street. There were burning cigars behind windows, quick movements in the deeper shadows. Mrs. Pennyweight stayed close. At the next intersection, I could see what I thought was the Drum, a short block away to the north. As we walked past it, I saw the painted windows. Now I needed to know one more thing.

We went around the corner and turned into the first alley. Picking my way carefully, I pushed garbage out of the way and swept it to the side with my stick. There wasn't much light, just enough to see that the alley led back to the Drum. A few yards along, it opened onto a cobblestone yard weakly lit by a single small bulb. Close to us were two overflowing garbage cans. On the far side, three wooden steps led up to a landing and what ought to have been the back door of the Drum. A reeking privy leaned against a wall. Mrs. Pennyweight sniffed, holding a handkerchief to her nose.

“Really, Mr. Quinn,” she whispered, “what are we doing here?”

“We're waiting.” A few minutes later, the door opened and a figure stumbled out. He didn't bother to go down the stairs to the privy but unbuttoned and let fly. Yes, this was the Drum. After he finished and went inside, we left.

Back on the street, she sniffed and said, “What was the purpose of that?”

“When you're going into a place, it's good to know where the back door is. And what's on the other side of it. Now, here's what we're gonna do.”

It looked like Hourigan, the big cop, hadn't changed clothes or shaved since the night he beat me up. The suit was nasty with new stains and ripped seams. He was on a stool at the bar with both paws wrapped around his drink, mumbling into the glass. The bartender ignored him.

Our wet coats steaming, Mrs. Pennyweight and I stood just inside the door and looked into the room through a haze of smoke. On the wall behind the cash register was a poster of a harp and the words
ERIN GO BRAGH
. Maybe ten or twelve elderly rummies were slumped at tables, nursing their whiskey. An open doorway on the back wall led to the room with the pallets.

I took off my coats and hat and handed them to Mrs. Pennyweight.

Hourigan was muttering something about “It's a fucking shame it is when a man can't even get it in his own home . . . ,” spraying brown tobacco spit as he talked. Everybody in the place pretended he wasn't there. As I made my way through the tables, quick and quiet, I remembered Mother Moon's good advice. The last thing I wanted was a fair fight. He must have heard my footsteps because he turned when I got close. I reversed the stick, caught the leg of the barstool with the crook, and yanked it out from under him. His head and elbows banged on the bar as he slid to the floor. The big man struggled to get up and I belted him in the ear with my knucks. He roared as I headed for the doorway in the back room.

Gimping along as quickly as I could, I got past the sleeping men and out the back door. I slipped under the rail of the landing to stand on the cobblestones. Again, the stench hit me hard. The knucks allowed enough dexterity for me to hold my cane with both hands as I checked the space under the railing. Yes, there was enough room if I choked up a little. Stay calm, I told myself. Don't get mad, don't get excited. Keep it under control.

Hourigan shouldered through the door and stopped, peering out at the alley as if he expected to see me running away. The sweeping strike of the cane caught him behind the knees. They buckled and he toppled down to the wet cobblestones. But before I could move in, he rolled away, bouncing shakily to his feet.

I closed in as fast as I could, holding the cane chest high, parallel to the ground, hands at each end. The cop reached for his coat pocket, probably going for the sap he had used before. I switched back to a two-handed grip and smacked the hand in his pocket. The coat tore and the white sap fell to the ground. Hourigan swung at me with a hard roundhouse left. I partially blocked it with the cane, staggering back a little when he caught me on the shoulder. We circled each other. Hourigan was breathing heavily. Even in the faint light, I could see that his angry face was swollen. He coughed and bulled in again. I twisted away, jabbing him in the stomach.

Then the big bastard was on me with a headlock. I turned my head to keep from being choked. He laughed, and I could really feel it when he took a deep breath, his thick left arm swelling as he squeezed.

I jammed the cane between his legs, grabbed the tip with my right hand, and yanked it straight up into his crotch. His arm loosened but not enough. I jammed the stick up again, and then a third time. Something crunched and his arm gave way. The big man staggered backward, bent over, hands grabbing at his groin.

I hit him hard on the ear with the knucks, reversed the cane, hooked an ankle, and pulled it out from under him. Hourigan landed on his butt against the privy, still holding his crotch, gasping for breath.

I leaned close. “Why did you do it? Why did you bust up my place? Tell me, dammit.”

Still trying to get his breath, Hourigan stammered, “She . . . she left . . .”

“What?”

Before I could pull away, a meaty fist snapped up. It caught me on the jaw and popped my head back.

Hourigan's feet scrabbled on the ground as he tried to stand. No, not stand. He was pulling at his pant leg and reaching for an ankle holster. He had the little revolver in his hand when I cracked his mitt again with the stick, and the gun went off. He dropped the weapon and let out a high, thin scream.

There was a bleeding hole in the middle of his shoe. The scream became a sob, and then wracking, uncontrollable spasms. He slumped back against the privy, chest heaving, crying like crazy as he stared up at the rain.

Mrs. Pennyweight appeared beside me and I could hear the rummies crowding onto the landing. Even the bartender was there.

I put on my coats and hat, and said, “Do you have a phone?”

The bartender shook his head.

“Can you get to a phone?”

He nodded.

“Call the cops. Tell 'em one of their guys is here.”

As we walked back up the alley, Mrs. Pennyweight asked what Hourigan had said. “Did you learn why he sacked your establishment?”

“Yeah, dammit, I think I did.”

SUNDAY, MARCH 6, 1932

NEW YORK CITY

It was three thirty in the morning. I was finally coming down from the excitement of the fight when the Duesenberg stopped in front of my place. Oh Boy stayed with the car. The rest of us headed to the front door.

Fat Joe Beddoes looked at me through the little spy door. He grunted, “About fucking time you got back.”

I ushered the women inside and said, “I've never seen him so emotional.”

Frenchy roared, “Goddamn, boss, you're here,” as Marie Therese kissed me. I did a quick head count. Eight at the bar, three couples in the booths, nine at the tables. Well, it was a nasty night. The regulars nodded to me, looking curiously at the women and the little boy as we walked to a corner table. Connie Nix giggled at the painting behind the bar. Mrs. Pennyweight ordered scotch. I ordered an Irish, and an Irish and ginger ale for Connie. No cherries for the kid. When Marie Therese brought the drinks, I told her to sit down.

“I found the cop, Hourigan. He won't be bothering us anymore.”

She was worried, nervous. “That's great, Jimmy.”

“Connie's not around, is she?” I turned to the women. “This is another Connie.”

“No,” Marie Therese said, a bit too quickly.

“And she's not coming back.”

“I can't say anything about that, Jimmy.”

“It's all right. I know what happened.”

Marie Therese looked relieved and guilty at the same time. Connie Nix and Mrs. Pennyweight obviously didn't know what I was talking about.I explained for their benefit. “A few months ago, a young lady named Connie Halloran came to work here as a waitress on the recommendation of her very good friend Marie Therese. I started seeing her socially and we had some good times. The only problem is that her name isn't Connie Halloran. It's Hourigan.”

“I didn't know until last night, Jimmy, I swear I didn't.”

“Don't worry. Water under a burning bridge.”

And that was the truth. I wasn't even angry. The moment I heard him say “she left,” everything fell into place. Hourigan was easily twice her age, maybe more. Probably married her when she was fifteen, then stuck her in a cramped apartment in the Bronx while he went to work at all hours and stayed out to drink with his friends. She must have been with him that night when he and the other cops came in with their wives. Maybe it was the only time she got out. Maybe after that little taste of fun, she wanted more. He said no. Or maybe he came to my place with his girlfriend and she found out. For whatever reason, they had a fight. He yelled, he smacked her. She left and found her way back here, where Marie Therese took in another stray.

Maybe at first Hourigan figured she'd come back, and didn't let on to the other cops that she'd run off. But word got out. It always does. And then he got lonely, angry, and embarrassed, and when he found out where she was, he decided to do something about it. Maybe that Tuesday night he planned to drag her back home. Then, when he didn't find her, he decided to close me down. Or maybe he knew she was screwing the boss. Hell of a thing.

So now I needed a new waitress.

I gave Mrs. Pennyweight and Connie Nix a cleaned-up version of the story, not mentioning the important parts. But I think they saw through me.

On the way out, I asked Frenchy if he needed money to keep things moving. He said they were fine until the end of the month. I said I ought to be back before then although I realized I had no idea how long it was going to take. When was Spence coming back? How long would it take him to do whatever he had to do with exploratory wells? Hell, I didn't even know what an exploratory well was.