Prohibition (4 page)

Quiet suited Quinn just fine.

He never rushed jobs like this. Rushing led to mistakes. Mistakes landed you in jail or the morgue. He always looked over a joint first to get the lay of the land. To see who was who and what was what. When he knew as much as he could about the set up, he made his move.

“Pete’s Billiards” was still etched in faded gold stenciling on the window, even though “Pete” had been dead for years. It was Ira Shapiro’s joint now. A run-down hellhole with a couple of pool tables in the back and a sandwich counter that hadn’t sold sandwiches in years. It was a juice joint for hop heads too down on their luck to drink elsewhere, but somehow scraped up enough to buy some of Shapiro’s rotgut.

The cops left Shapiro alone because he was Howard Rothman’s boy and Howard Rothman was a jack-of-all-crooked-trades. A power broker, more gambler than gangster, more crooked than straight. As an attorney, he’d represented some of the biggest hoods around. When he couldn’t get them off or buy the jury, he greased the wheels of justice and bought the judge instead. Howard Rothman was an enterprising man.

Over time, Rothman was able to buy a piece of the action of every major gambling organization in the state. The rules were simple: take Howard Rothman on as a partner or you got raided. Everyone except Archie Doyle’s joints, of course. By that time, Archie had already grown as big as he’d wanted in the gambling racket. Rothman took the rest. Rothman and Doyle had an unwritten truce.

It was a cozy set up. When the gambling dens needed money, they borrowed from Rothman. When they needed booze, they went to Archie. When the politicians and judges wanted to lay a bet, they went to Rothman.

When they needed votes and protection, they went to Archie.

Doyle ruled the streets. Rothman ruled the cloakrooms. Doyle and Rothman were two sides of the same coin. That unwritten truce had held for the last ten years.

Until tonight. Maybe.

From the alley, Quinn watched Shapiro act out a story from behind the counter, waiving his long, skinny arms while three goons laughed. Shapiro was about five foot ten and too thin for his height. He had black curly hair and pockmarked skin that made him look tougher than he was.

Quinn could tell the men were big, but soft. Probably bullies used to using their size to scare the hell out of normal people.

Quinn hated bullies. Bullies rarely had the balls to face their own weaknesses. Quinn knew his weaknesses all too well. The ring had taught him that. How far he could run in eight minutes. How many jabs he could throw in a three minute round. How many shots he could take to the head before he got dizzy.

How to let a bum hang around long enough to make a fight look good. And how hard he had to hit a man to kill him.

But he’d never learned how to take a dive. And that’s why he was standing in alley on a damp November night, watching four assholes laughing it up in Pete’s Billiards.

They told him to dive for another contender. Quinn beat him to death in the ring instead. Five years ago last month. It felt like yesterday.

They took his license and killed his career. Men like Shapiro and his three goons. Men who placed bets on a game they knew nothing about.

They called themselves tough, but didn’t know true pain. Maybe they’d learn that lesson tonight.

But Doyle’s words came back to him.

Tread lightly.

He’d try. He owed Doyle that much. He owed Doyle everything.

Quinn saw one of Shapiro’s crew wasn’t laughing. A young skinny kid of about twenty or so, sitting alone at the counter. He wore a faded green jacket and held his head in his hands. That must be Johnny the Kid. He looked too scared to enjoy Shapiro’s story.

Other than The Kid, Shapiro and his three goons put the count at four. They looked loose. Happy. Maybe a little drunk.

They’d never see him coming. Until it was too late. Quinn crossed the street.

Shapiro and his three goons stopped laughing when the small bell above the door tinkled as Quinn walked inside and closed the door behind him.

Each of them slid off their stools and formed a semi-circle before him. He saw Johnny the Kid eyeing him over his shoulder from the counter. Poor bastard looked trapped. Scared.

Tread lightly.

“Evening, boys,” Quinn said, looking each man in the eye. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything private.”

“Well, if it ain’t Terry Quinn come in outta the rain,” Shapiro said from behind the counter. “What brings Archie Doyle’s black hand out on a night like this?”

“Just out for a stroll on a soft night in the city,” Quinn said. “Saw the lights on, figured I’d come in here where it’s warm and dry.” He looked at Shapiro. “Hear about Fatty?”

Shapiro put his hand over his heart. “My heart bled when I heard the news. Him and Johnny here were shootin’ pool when it happened. Poor kid came back hysterical. Barely able to talk, even. When I finally got the story out of him, I was floored. We was all floored, wasn’t we boys?”

The three goons nodded at the same time. Quinn had sized up each of them from across the street. The one to his left was a lightweight - short and stocky. He looked mean but had scarred eyes and a weak jaw.

The one on the right was a middleweight. Big hands but his feet were too far apart. He wouldn’t move quickly without shifting his weight. The third one had shifted behind him, so Quinn couldn’t see him. But he wasn’t a threat.

“Bad break for Fatty,” Shapiro sucked his teeth. “Sure, I’ve had my run- ins with the big lug same as everyone else. But the poor bastard didn’t deserve to buy it in a lousy, stinking pool room like that. And him and Archie being boyhood friends and all. Frank Sanders, too.” Shapiro set up a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses from behind the counter. “Hey, you collecting for Fatty’s widow and kids? I’ll be glad to pass the hat amongst my boys if you’d like.”

“He’s not married,” Quinn said. He waited for Shapiro to pour the shots before adding, “He’s not dead, either.”

Quinn watched Shapiro’s eyes shimmy. His hand shook as he put the bottle back on the countertop. “No shit?”

“The bullets missed all the vital organs,” Quinn said. “Looks like he’ll be fine.”

Shapiro managed a quick smile. “And thank God for that. Hey, let’s have a drink on it, to Fatty’s health and all.” He grabbed the bottle and topped the shots. “I just figured he bought the farm after hearin’ the way The Kid told it.” He reached over and gently knocked the Kid in the head. “Must’ve exaggerated some. Ain’t that right, Johnny?”

Johnny flinched and stifled a sob.

Quinn knew he needed to talk to Johnny, but getting him out of there would be tricky.

Tread lightly.

“Looks like Johnny’s still pretty shook up by the whole thing,” Quinn said. “Seeing a guy get gunned down can rattle anyone, especially a young kid like this.”

Quinn managed a small smile of his own. “Blood’s nothing new to a couple of old hands like you and me, eh Ira?”

Shapiro downed his shot.

Quinn left his on the counter. “Maybe I should take him outside for a little walk. Might calm him down some.”

“That’s awful nice of you,” Shapiro said, “but The Kid’s doing just fine. Besides, it’s past closin’ and we’ve got to be getting’ home anyways. I wish you’d come by with the good news earlier. Could’ve had a few snorts to toast Fatty’s good health and all.” He motioned to the other shot glass.

“How about one for the road?”

Quinn felt the man behind him shift his weight. The other two started breathing faster. Quinn knew he was bigger than any of them. Taking down a man his size wouldn’t be easy. They were getting ready to go to work on Shapiro’s signal.

Tread lightly.

“While you’re closing up,” Quinn said, “Johnny and me could step outside to jaw over what happened at Ames’ tonight. By the time you’re done, so will we. Say, I’ll even run him home for you if you want.”

Shapiro offered a crooked smile and poured another shot for himself. “Johnny’s been through enough. Come back tomorrow.”

Quinn wanted to string this out a little longer. See what shook loose. “But everything’s still fresh in his mind. He might remember something important about the shooting. Archie would want me to get it from him before it goes stale in his head.”

The goon with the scared eyes on the left took a step forward. “Ira told you to come back tomorrow.”

Tread lightly.

Quinn ignored him and spoke to Shapiro instead. “I didn’t come here to fight, Ira. I just want to talk to The Kid.”

Shapiro laughed and smacked the countertop. “That’s rich. Archie Doyle sends his chief goon over here in the middle of the night just to ask questions. You bog trotters really make me laugh.”

Quinn said nothing.

Shapiro did all the talking. “I don’t particularly give a shit about what Archie wants. This is the east side, fucko. Howard Rothman’s side. Not yours. I said you can’t talk to Johnny, so you don’t talk to him.”

Quinn kept his hands open at his side. Loose. Ready. “Archie won’t like that.”

“Fuck him,” Shapiro said. “You bastards sit in your goddamned nightclub expectin’ everyone to kiss your asses. Well not me, brother.” He poured himself another shot of courage and gulped it down. “Help Mr. Quinn find the front door, boys.”

Quinn heard the floorboard behind him squeak.

He snatched the thug with the scared eyes by the neck and threw him into the thug on his right. Both fell back, crashing through tables.

The man standing behind Quinn tried to jump on his back. Quinn shifted and stunned him with an elbow to the throat. The man staggered back, gagging. A left hook that sent him back through the front door glass and into the street.

Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn saw Shapiro bringing up a .38 from beneath the counter. Quinn hit the deck as three bullets smacked into the wooden tabletops above him.

Quinn pulled his .45 as he rolled to his feet, but Shapiro had already hopped the counter. He was fumbling with the lock on the back door.

Shapiro turned as Quinn stood up. Shapiro jerked up his .38 but Quinn fired first. The bullet hit Shapiro in right shoulder, bouncing him off the door before crumpling to the floor. The .38 dropped as he fell and skidded down the hall.

Quinn wasn’t exactly elated. He’d just shot Howard Rothman’s best boy. Rothman wouldn’t be happy. Neither would Archie.

The two thugs who’d crashed through the tables made it to their feet. The smell of gun smoke in the air made them careful. Quinn held the .45

on them and they slowly put up their hands.

Quinn waggled the .45 toward the door. “Go outside and drag your playmate back in here.”

The middleweight dove for Quinn’s gun, but Quinn was ready. He swung it out of reach and brought the butt down hard on the base of his neck. He was out cold before he hit the floor.

Quinn pointed the gun back at the last thug. “What about you?”

“Not me, mister,” the man said as he stepped through the gaping door.

He tried to get the unconscious man to his feet, but couldn’t. He opened the broken door and dragged his friend as gently as he could over shards of broken glass.

“Drag him over next to your boss in the hallway,” Quinn said moved to pick up Shapiro’s .38.

The middleweight was coming to, trying to pull himself up on all fours. Quinn kicked him in the ribs and he collapsed back to the floor. “Drag this piece of shit back there, too. Keeping my eye on all of you.”

He looked over at Johnny, who was cowering at the corner of the counter. “Take it easy, kid. We’ll be out of here in no time.”

Quinn watched the last man standing drag the middleweight into the narrow hallway and take a seat on the floor next to his boss. It was quite a scene. Two of them unconscious. Shapiro shot, bleeding heavily from the hole in his shoulder.

“Fine group of boys you hired, Ira,” Quinn said. “You always did have an eye for talent.”

“Donkey bastard,” Shapiro slurred. “Whaddya think Rothman’s gonna do when he finds out about this? Your life won’t be worth shit by tomorrow.”

Quinn fished out a Lucky from his overcoat pocket and lit it. He knew Doyle wouldn’t be happy, but he’d get over it. If it was worth it. Quinn had to make it worth it.

“Why don’t you want me talking to Johnny, Ira?”

Johnny the Kid whimpered like a sick dog. “Please, God. Please. I don’t

want to die. Not me. Not now. Not here.”

“Shaddap, you goddamned Mary!” Shapiro yelled from the floor. “Keep your mouth shut, you hear?”

Quinn moved to block Shapiro’s view of the Kid. “What are you hiding, Ira?”

Shapiro tried to straighten himself against the back door, but there was too much blood on the floor. His blood and more of it every second. “Fuck you,” Shapiro slurred. “Fuck Archie Doyle...things...are changin’ now...” Shapiro faded and Quinn fired into the door only inches from Shapiro’s head.

The shot boomed loud and woke Ira jumped. “Next one catches you in the belly. What’s all this about things changing?”

As hurt as he was, Shapiro still managed to try spitting at Quinn. “You’ll find out soon enough, you son of a bitch.”