Prohibition (14 page)

Quinn wondered what Doherty would’ve thought if he knew Doyle was planning on owning the White House, too. He probably wouldn’t believe him. Quinn wished he’d be lying. “Just make sure your boys in blue remember who’s buttering your bread. The good wind still blows from Archie Doyle’s direction, and until that wind changes, he’s still the boss.”

Doherty nodded slow. “For your sake, I hope that wind doesn’t blow into a storm.”

Before Quinn could answer him, Baker was at his side and handed him back his keys. “I put Miss Mulgrew on the bed and came right back. She was wailing pretty loud when I left.”

“Let her. No one’ll hear her from up there.”

Baker whispered up to him. “I tried telling you before that there’s a man outside who’s asking for you personally, boss. He wouldn’t give his name but said you might know him. I figured he was a friend of yours.”

“Wonderful.” Quinn stabbed out his cigarette in Doherty’s ashtray. “When it rains, it pours, don’t it, Charlie?”

The detective smiled a boozy smile. “Every cloud’s got a silver lining, or so they tell me.”

Quinn followed Baker to the entrance where Deavers was waiting for them. “Sorry about this, messieur,” Francois Deveraux said in character, “but a gentleman insists on bringing an associate inside with him who is not properly dressed.”

Quinn stepped through the curtain. He stopped dead when he saw who it was.

T
HE MAN
was just how Quinn had pictured he would be. About five feet six inches tall. Around fifty years old. A light brown beard trimmed to give his fleshy face the illusion of a jaw line.

A white, broad brimmed fedora tilted to the left. He held himself with a forced elegance, with one hand dipped in the pocket of his white cashmere overcoat. The other hand held a black walking stick that supported his weight. He had a strangely passive expression, like he was making an effort to look bored.

Quinn knew this was the man he’d been looking for. Simon Wallace. This was the man in white.

The ex-boxer in Quinn wanted to drag the bastard downstairs to beat a confession out of him. His pride was wounded because this man had the balls to walk into his place not twenty four hours after Fatty got shot.

But Quinn knew Wallace must’ve come there for a reason. He’d let the man make whatever play he’d come there to make.

He could always beat the hell out of Wallace later.

“I’m Terry Quinn,” he extended his hand to Wallace. “What seems to be the problem?”

The man in white regarded the large hand for a moment before shaking

it lightly. It was the limp kind of handshake that pissed Quinn off. “This French poodle you have guarding the door barks at me every time I attempt to bring my associate inside with me.”

Quinn sized up the associate. He looked like the muscle that Guinan had described that morning. A little taller than his employer but much broader and thicker. He wore a dark cap, a gray turtleneck and a blue pea coat that had seen better days. Quinn bet he was a bully boy from one of the slaughterhouses along the east river.

Quinn remembered what Doherty had said about finding The Kid on a meat hook. He bet there was a connection.

“Francois is only enforcing a standard policy we have here at The Longford Lounge about proper attire,” Quinn explained. “Your associate isn’t wearing a coat and tie, so he can’t be allowed into the club. You, however, meet our dress code and are more than welcome to join us inside, Mister...?”

The man in the white hat ignored the question. “Then you must have some kind of shirt, tie and jacket on reserve that he could borrow?” “No.”

Baker tried to pull Quinn to the side. “Terry, I think this guy could be a real high roller. Can’t we...”

Quinn ignored him and spoke to the man in the white hat. “Your associate also violates our policy against having firearms in the club.”

The man’s left eyebrow rose. “What makes you think he’s armed?” “The bulge on the left side of his coat. If I’m wrong, dinner’s on me, but if I’m right, he’ll have to wait outside for you until you’re ready to leave; if you decide to come inside. I can assure you our staff is more than capable of providing you with a safe, enjoyable evening.”

The man tapped his walking stick against his leg for a moment, then looked up at Quinn. “I suppose these terms are non negotiable?” He tilted a billfold out of his inside jacket pocket.

“Your money’s good at the bar. Not with me.”

The man turned to his hired muscle and sighed. “I’m dreadfully sorry about this, Carl, but you’ll have to go for a walk. Meet me in front in about two hours.”

Carl did as he was told without saying a word. The man in the white hat faced Quinn and held his hands out from his sides. “Now that I’m completely at your mercy, Mr. Quinn, may I please finally go inside and have a drink?”

Quinn motioned to the cloak room. “By all means. Would you like to check your hat and coat first, Mister...?”

The man in the white pulled off the glove of his right hand one finger at a time. “Wallace, Simon Wallace, an entrepreneur late of Savannah and many parts west. I understand you’ve been looking for me.”

Quinn worked to keep his expression from changing. The link to Fatty’s shooting was standing right in front of him. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wallace.”

He watched Wallace hand over his walking stick and hat to the coat check girl first, then pulled off the other glove one finger at a time with great ceremony. He slipped out of his overcoat and laid it on the half door. He smiled and gave her a little bow when the girl handed him his ticket.

Quinn saw that Wallace had had a lot of practice at acting like he had money. He’d seen plenty of to-the-manor-born types and this wasn’t it. There was something different behind the man’s small brown eyes, something hard and permanent that couldn’t be hidden by a phony accent and fancy clothes. It was something that came from going to bed hungry more than once. From scraping and fighting to stay alive. Quinn knew the look well. He saw it every time he looked in a mirror.

There was a reason why Wallace wanted to be seen as a lightweight. There was a reason why he’d come to the Lounge. Quinn had to know why. For Fatty Corcoran’s sake. And Archie Doyle’s sake, too.

“I believe this is your first visit to the Lounge before, Mr. Wallace.” Quinn escorted him inside.

“Yes. But the Lounge’s reputation for quality of service and gaming has reached the shores of San Francisco and the parlors of Savannah and Louisiana.”

“You said you’re from Savannah. Where you are from originally?” Wallace smiled. “I said I was a man of many parts, Mr. Quinn.” Quinn let it go. “You also mentioned you’re an entrepreneur. What kind?”

“A very successful one, I assure you. In many industries far too numerous to mention. Lately, I’ve prided myself on being a man of action, one who takes time to enjoy the more exciting aspects of life.”

“Is that what brings you to New York?” Quinn asked as they moved toward the bar. “Action and adventure?”

“If that’s what one seeks, what better place in the world than here?” Wallace found a spot at the bar and caught Tommy’s attention. “A Manhattan, straight up and sweet.” He didn’t look to Quinn to pay for it. Quinn didn’t offer. “I’m particularly looking forward to availing myself of the many places of entertainment in this town.”

Quinn saw this guy liked to talk. Quinn loved talkers. They told you everything if you let them run their mouths enough.

“One place you might like,” Quinn suggested, “is Texas Guinan’s Le Kaye Club on Broadway. Ever been there?”

Tommy served Wallace his Manhattan, before he could answer. He picked up the rock glass and sipped. Pinky extended.

Hand shaking just a little.

Wallace regarded the tan liquor as he swallowed, then smiled warmly. It was a smile more of relief than pleasure. The first real expression the little bastard showed yet. Wallace didn’t just enjoy that drink. He needed it. That information could be useful somewhere down the line. Just like Zito.

Wallace licked his lips. “Your man makes a damned fine drink, sir. The only thing I prefer to good liquor is a good game of chance. And to answer your question, not only have I heard of Tex’s club, I’ve been there several times. A charming little place, but a bit too loud for what I’m looking for this evening.”

“And what might that be?”

“Risk, Mr. Quinn,” Wallace’s eyes flashed big. “Action gets my blood rushing and quickens my senses. And as I was saying before we were so pleasantly interrupted,” he said, hoisting his Manhattan, “I understand your Lounge has one of the finest gaming floors this side of the Mississippi.”

Quinn wouldn’t admit to having a casino downstairs to a complete stranger. Especially not to a stranger who probably had a hand in shooting Fatty. He decided to prod him a little. “What’s your game, Mr. Wallace?” He let the question hang for a moment. “Poker? Roulette? Blackjack? Craps?”

The man sipped his Manhattan again. “I’ve always had a particular fondness of cards with a terrible weakness for blackjack.”

Quinn saw his shot and took it. “I would’ve marked you for a pool player.”

A twinkle appeared in Wallace’s eyes. “I’m afraid I’ve always seen billiards, or pool as you put it, as a sport for the rougher set. But I find all games of chance invigorating. Don’t you?”

Quinn shook his head. “Never liked chance. I like taking matters into my own hands.”

Wallace bit his lower lip. “There’s something to be said for a man brave enough and bold enough to try to control his own destiny, I suppose. But I’ve always found that attempting to control destiny – fate, if you will - is often dangerous and, if I may say so, foolish. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not me.” Quinn bent a fraction of an inch closer to Wallace. “I’ve never been smart enough to know when to quit.”

Wallace didn’t back away from the larger man. His eyes moved over Quinn’s face. “Most boxers don’t,” Wallace toasted him.

Quinn stood upright and smiled. The little bastard couldn’t resist showing what he knew. “You saw me fight?”

“I have fond memories of reading about your ring career and was sad to see it end much too soon and on such a tragic note.” Wallace quickly waved off the moment with a toast. “Ah, to the bravery of youth, sir. And now that I think you’re quite sure that I’m not a Treasury Agent sent to raid this establishment, I understand you have a gambling establishment on the premises. I wish to play.”

The little bastard has balls, Quinn thought. “It’s only open to members of The Longford Lounge and its guests, but can be used by non-members for a small service fee.”

“Ah, yes,” Wallace said. “The ever present ‘fees’ of such places. How much?”

“One thousand dollars. Cash on the barrelhead. No personal checks or IOUs accepted.”

Wallace raised his eyebrows. “You call that a small fee?”

“Whatever it is, it’s non-negotiable. We allow only the most serious clientele in our game room. The fee splits the pretenders from the real thing. Something you’ll appreciate if you decide to play downstairs.”

Wallace sighed. “A wise policy. Are there any other accoutrements I might expect with said fee?” He gave a rakish grin. “Particularly those of the female persuasion?”

“I run a square joint, Mr. Wallace. Booze, broads and blackjack are a dangerous mix. Besides, the cops in this precinct don’t like call girls or cat houses, so we keep out of that business. If you want company for later, the floor manager downstairs might be able to have something sent over to your hotel. But while you’re in here, your wick stays dry.”