Prohibition (7 page)

“How’d we do tonight?” Quinn asked, going back to his paper.

“Grand,” Tommy said. “No one’s got any money these days, except when they come here.”

“Anybody ask about Fatty?”

“Chi Chi and Rascal Parker drifted by,” Tommy offered. “They showed appropriate concern. Wendell Bixby was in, too. Sniffing around for items for that damned column of his. All he got was gossip.”

“He’d better talk to Archie before he prints anything.” Tommy smiled. “I think he remembers what happened the last time.” Quinn took another hit of coffee. “Let’s hope I don’t have to remind him.”

Francois Deveraux locked the front door, then took a seat one stool over from Quinn. Deveraux was a wiry man of about fifty, whose hairline had receded to the middle of his forehead long ago. His pencil thin moustache gave him dash. Doyle paid him extra to put on a French accent for the customers, so he did. No one needed to know he was actually Fred Deavers, an old safe cracker and jewel thief out of New Orleans.

“Thank Christ that’s over,” Fred said, dropping the phony accent. Delaney set him up with his customary Chardonnay. Any man asking for wine would’ve gotten thrown out on his ear. Fred got whatever he wanted.

“I thought that last group would never leave,” Fred said. “That last one dropped five large on the roulette wheel, and that ain’t the record, either. People are spending like there’s no tomorrow. I don’t know where the money’s coming from.”

“As long as it’s coming here,” Quinn said, “who cares?”

“True,” Fred said as he took a sip of wine. “How’s Fatty holding up?” “He’ll live,” Quinn went back to scanning the newspaper article on Fatty.

The reporter told the rough details of what had happened. Witnesses had seen two men running from the scene right after it happened, but there was no motive for the shooting. The victim was “Francis Corcoran, an accountant and local businessman from the west side of Manhattan.”

Quinn was relieved it didn’t mention Archie. The Golden Rule still held.

Tommy said, “Chi-Chi Castanengo called. Asked you to swing by his shine stand first thing this morning. Said he had something to tell you.”

Quinn made a mental note to remember that. Chi-Chi always had the best dirt. He might’ve even heard something about the bastard in the white suit. “Did Walker swing by on his way home last night?”

Fred shook his head. “Nope. Guess Fatty getting shot kept him away.”

Quinn wasn’t pleased. Last night was Thursday night. Mayor James J. Walker’s night to hold court at The Longford Lounge. Walker loved the nightlife and beautiful women and gambling in Doyle’s casino downstairs. He enjoyed Doyle’s payoffs most of all and Doyle’s bully boys getting out the vote for him come Election Day.

Without Doyle’s support in public office, Walker would’ve been just another skinny piano player with an easy smile. He should’ve at least called to check on Archie. After all, Walker was only the mayor. Mayors got themselves elected and un-elected all the time. There was only one Archie Doyle.

Walker skipping his weekly appearance wasn’t a good sign. He remembered Doherty’s warning about Archie looking weak. Quinn would have to do something about it.

Tommy brought Quinn out of it by saying, “We did have a bit of variety in our program last evening. ‘Herself’ dropped by. Made quite the spectacle of herself. Again.”

Quinn let the newspaper drop. Alice Mulgrew. Platinum blonde. All curves. All woman. And all hung up on Terry Quinn. He fished out a cigarette from his case on the bar, slid one into the corner of his mouth and lit it.

He held on the smoke before he let it out slow. Christ. Alice always had that effect on men. Lately, she’d been having that effect on Quinn, too.

Alice was the kind of woman that could destroy a man just by being around him. Smart when she had to be. Dumb when she wanted to be. She knew exactly how to play him, but Quinn didn’t give her much credit for that. He wasn’t a complicated man.

She’d been a damned nice distraction to have around, but Quinn didn’t need distractions now.

“What shit did she pull this time?”

“She waltzed in here about eleven or so, asking for you,” Tommy said. “I told her I didn’t know where you were or when you’d be coming back.

She called me a fucking no-good liar, same as always when she’s tipsy and cantankerous. Then she took a spot at the bar and, as regally as she pleased, ordered a dry gin martini straight up with an olive.”

Quinn’s anger spiked. Gin sent Alice off her rocker. “And you gave it to her?”

“Calm down,” Delaney said. “I slipped her the watered down stuff, but the mere idea of good gin was enough to set her off on one of her tirades. How you’re a no good louse and how she...”

Quinn waived him down. “I got the idea.”

Fred took over. “It got so bad that I had to bring her up to your place upstairs. It was the only way to get her to shut up. She passed out after a while. She’s been up there a few hours now.”

Quinn knew he’d regret asking the question, but he had to know. “What was she wearing?”

Fred leaned in close. “Your favorite. The black dress with the pearls. She looked down right edible, if you ask me, and you can punch me in the face for saying so.”

Quinn didn’t want to hit anyone. He wanted to go to sleep. And with a drunken Alice Mulgrew in his bed, the one thing he wouldn’t get was sleep. Gin made her angry. It also made her horny as hell. “She still upstairs?”

Tommy nodded. “In your bed. Right now. You lucky bastard.”

Quinn dropped his head into his hands. He knew the dress. How it showed off every line of her body. Alice was no beauty, but she was striking. Short, platinum blonde hair. Dark black eyes. Full lips. Smooth alabaster skin. She could trap a man for life if he wasn’t careful. And Quinn had always been a careful man.

He wanted to go upstairs, to let her push away what had been a rotten night.

But he’d also lose time in finding the shooter. And that bastard in the white hat, too, if he even existed.

Sure, Alice would’ve been a good time, but loyalty to Archie came first. Always.

Quinn slid off the stool and pocketed his cigarette case. He had a couple of ideas on where to start looking.

“There’s a good man,” Tommy said, watching him stand. “Give her a proper easing out of her hangover.”

“Not today.” Quinn set his hat on his head and started on his way. “Give her a couple of hours to sleep it off, then check on her for me.” He patted Deavers on the shoulder as he headed out of the bar. “I’ll call later to see if anyone’s looking for me.”

Tommy put the glass he’d been washing back on the bar and slapped himself in the head. “Ah, Christ, Terry. I’d almost forgotten to tell you about Frank Sanders.”

Quinn had forgotten about him, too. About putting Johnny the Kid in the cab up to the Heights to see him. It seemed like a month ago. Even longer. “What about him?”

“He called just before you came in,” Tommy said, “but I was so busy with the clean-up that I forgot to give you the message. He said he’s still on the look out for that package you sent, but that it hadn’t arrived yet. Said you’d know what he meant.”

Quinn knew that meant The Kid never made it to Sander’s pool hall. It meant that he’d either been stopped before he’d gotten there or he’d panicked and run away on his own.

Either way, he was probably dead someplace with a hole in his head.

Quinn knew he didn’t owe Johnny The Kid anything. But Johnny didn’t deserve to die.

Quinn stomped out his cigarette in one of the ashtrays on the bar. A great start to a miserable fucking day.

Q
UINN KNEW
every gin joint and joy house in New York City worth knowing. Each one drew its own roster of stool pigeons, snitches, degenerates and gossip mongers who had someone with a theory on who shot Fatty and why. But the La Kaye Club on 45th Street off 6th had something none of the others had: Mary “Texas” Guinan. The woman heard everything. If people were talking, Guinan was listening.

If this bastard in the white suit was a high roller, Guinan would know where to find him.

He could hear her familiar greeting from halfway up the block. “Hello, suckers!” she bellowed to two drunks who’d stumbled into the place in front of Quinn. “We’ve got plenty of gin, gals and giggles to keep you jumping for a while, so come on in and take a load off.”

She was a stout five feet tall, but her stark blonde hair and bright red dress made her look like a movie star. The drunks who’d just stumbled out of the Lounge looked ridiculous in evening wear. But on Guinan, it somehow just looked right.

When Quinn ducked through the door, Guinan forgot all about her customers. “Well as I live and breathe, if it ain’t my favorite tough guy.” She threw open her fleshy arms and pulled Quinn down to plant a big kiss on his cheek. “You big, beautiful hunk’a man, you! Where you been keepin’ yourself all this time?”

“I’m around,” Quinn said. “Been busy.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said. “Your joint’s one of the few still makin’ money these days. Would you just look at the two shitbirds I coaxed in here. Have you ever seen a sorrier pair? You know times are tough when you can’t hardly make a dishonest living peddlin’ hooch and pretty gals.” Her painted face grew a little darker. “Heard about what happened to poor Fatty last night. How’s he doing?”

Quinn kept the details to a minimum. “Pulling through as well as a guy with a bullet in him could.”

“Fatty’s a pain in the ass and a drunk,” Guinan said, “but he’s basically good people. Any idea who did it?”

“Maybe,” Quinn said. “That’s why I’m here.”

She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “Still a conversationalist, aren’t you, kid?” She smiled as she linked her arm through his and pulled him inside. “Let’s sit for a spell and see what we can do to help you and Archie out. Anything for you two. Anything at all.”

It might’ve been almost six in the morning outside, but it was still happy hour inside the La Kaye Club. There were a dozen or so people in various stages of drunkenness from all walks of life. Some sipped straight shots. Others nursed glasses of Archie Doyle’s beer. A couple of showgirls known as Guinan’s Graduates were putting on some kind of floorshow.

Calling it a floorshow was a stretch. The stage was only big enough for five girls to wiggle around a bit. The whole place was a cramped and hot and close. The Longford Lounge’s smell had a hint of opulence and joy amid the corruption of excess. La Kaye had an underlying stench of desperation, like the old gym where he used to train.

Guinan plopped her sizable bottom on a barstool, but Quinn kept standing. He never sat when he drank and he knew he’d be drinking with Guinan.

She pounded on the bar until she got the bartender’s attention. “Lenny, two shots of whiskey a piece,” she ordered, then lowered her voice. “The good stuff. Not that piss water we peddle to the rest of the saps.”

Lenny didn’t look happy. “Mr. Kaye don’t like you drinking while you’re working.”

Guinan took a swing at him but Lenny ducked. He grabbed the closest bottle of whiskey and slid four shot glasses at them before retreating to the other side of the bar.

“You’d think with all the people outta work these days, I could get some decent help around here,” Guinan said as she poured the two shots herself.

“Like the old sayin’ goes: If you want something done right...” She toasted Quinn with her glass and they drank.

The burn hit the back of his throat and went all the way down. It wasn’t the worst whiskey he’d ever tasted, but it was close.

Guinan licked her chops and set the glass down with a slap and poured two more. “Mother’s milk. So, what do you want to know?”

Quinn began, “When I started shaking the trees about who shot Fatty, I heard about a new guy in town. He’s definitely not the shooter, but he went through a lot of trouble to set up that game with Fatty. He may or may not be involved, but he’s not on the level either.”

“Not on the level?” Guinan laughed. “In this town? Shit, Terry. He’d stick out more if he wasn’t crooked. What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn said, “but he’s probably about five six or so. Stocky. Brown eyes. Beard and moustache. Wears a white suit and hat. Probably a high roller or likes to act...”

When Guinan stiffened, Quinn realized he’d hit something. “You know him.”

Guinan futzed with her shotglass and avoided eye contact. “Sounds like a guy I know – at least, know a little.”

“Who is he, Mary?” Quinn asked again. “It’s important.”

“Must be for you to call me by my right name,” Guinan said. “He says he’s from Savannah, but his accent slips when he’s drunk. Sounds more like a Connecticut Yankee then, but I can’t be sure. Goes by the name of Simon Wallace, or at least he does whenever he’s in here.”

Now the bastard in white had a name: Simon Wallace.

Quinn wanted more, but he knew Guinan would dry up if he pushed her too hard too fast. Tread lightly still applied.

“Tell me about him.”

“Not much to tell,” Guinan said. She took another shot and refilled her glass. Quinn left his untouched.

“He’s been in here a couple of times over the past six months or so whenever he’s been in town. Brings a bodyguard who’d just sit there while Wallace drank. Makes a lot of noise about how he was a sportin’ man who made his livin’ on gamblin’. Judgin’ by the way he throws money around, the boy’s got to have an income from somewhere.”