Prohibition (15 page)

Wallace laughed. “Well put, sir. I wish they were that frank in Monte Carlo.” Quinn watched his hand move toward the billfold in his suit jacket again. “Shall I pay you or the floor manager downstairs?”

Quinn doubted he’d ever been to Monte Carlo. But he’d have the boys downstairs watch how Wallace played. You could tell a lot about a man by what he played and how he gambled. Just because Wallace liked to take chances didn’t mean he knew how to handle the odds.

Quinn whipped out a slip from the inside pocket of his dinner jacket, signed it, and handed it to Wallace. “Give this to the man at the elevator down the hallway to my right. He’ll escort you downstairs. The cashier will take the fee and give you however many chips you want. Any problems, have them call me.”

Wallace regarded the slip for a moment, then folded it and put it in his pocket. “Thank you so much for your hospitality, Mr. Quinn. Everyone’s been so kind to me since I arrived in New York and, except for that unpleasantness with my bodyguard, tonight has been no exception.”

“New York’s a real friendly town with plenty of action, Mr. Wallace, so long as you’re careful about where you look for it.”

Wallace’s smile dimmed. “Indeed. I’m fortunate to have a great many friends in town to call upon should I need them.” He held Quinn’s gaze as he extended his hand. “Good evening, young man. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again sometime soon.”

The moment Wallace got on the elevator; Quinn got on the house phone and called the floor boss down at the casino. “Hanz,” he said when the man picked up, “there’s a little guy in white on his way down right now. Warn the table boys to watch him closely, but to not screw with his play. Tell them to watch what he plays and how he bets. If you catch him cheating, let it drift so long as none of the other players raises a stink. Just tell me how he does it.”

“Got it, boss,” Hanz responded. “Here he comes now.”

Quinn’s hand shook a little as he put the receiver back on the hook. The bastard was wrapped up in Fatty’s shooting some how. His gut told him to beat the information out of him.

But Quinn figured Wallace was a tougher customer than he let on.

He probably wouldn’t crack, or worse, he’d feed them a phony story he’d already cooked up.

No, the smartest play was to keep an eye on him. See what happens. Quinn knew Wallace was mixed up in all of this somehow. Time to find out just how much, starting tonight.

Sean Baker came over and gave him a gentle punch in the arm. He was in a good mood. “Glad you reeled in a live one with that Wallace fella, eh boss? Bet he’s gonna drop a lot of coin downstairs...”

Quinn was in no mood for jokes. “Don’t you ever, and I mean ever, question me in front of a customer again.”

Baker’s eyes stammered again. “But I thought...”

“That’s the problem, you’re not thinking too good lately. Last night, you kept our boys bottled up in the safehouse instead of being on the street where they could do some good. Tonight, you almost let in a guy who everyone but you could see was packing a gun. What the hell is the matter with you lately?”

Baker didn’t look at him. “I’m sorry, Terry. I just thought he looked like a high roller and you’d want his money is all.”

“Let me do the thinking and you do the doing.” He saw Baker beginning to shake a little and it stopped his anger cold. This wasn’t some punk giving him lip. This was Sean, a reliable kid who’d just made some mistakes lately.

Quinn couldn’t blame him. With Fatty getting shot and everything else that had happened, it was tough for anyone to know what to do. Even Quinn. The words came tough, but they were necessary. “Look, I’m sorry I got mad, but we can’t afford mistakes right now. Understand?”

Baker nodded. Quinn thumped him on the back and said, “Good. Now get back to the front door and try not to let anyone in here with a fucking howitzer.”

Baker straightened himself out and went back to work. Quinn rolled his neck. Muscles popped and relaxed a little.

Quinn took a cigarette from his case and lit it. He held on to the smoke for a long time before letting it go.

He felt like his entire world was falling apart before his very eyes. Fatty getting shot. Doyle’s crazy play for Al Smith in the White House in ‘33. Albany putting a bullseye on Walker’s back. Alice pulling shit in front of everyone. Johnny the Kid hanging on a meat hook. Simon Wallace walking in the place. Baker turning flaky. And Zito, the gunman, quietly holed up in the Chauncey Arms downtown.

Of all the threads in this mess, Wallace worried him most. Sure, he had Hanz and his boys keeping an eye on him downstairs. Then what? He had to know where Wallace was going. But if he had one of Doyle’s men trail him, word might get back to Archie and Quinn couldn’t afford that. Doyle had the White House on the brain. Nothing else seemed to matter.

Quinn got a sharp twist in his gut. He’d never held anything back from Archie before.

Quinn was now on his own.

If he couldn’t use one of his own people to trail Wallace, then who could he trust?

Then the tobacco kicked in. He knew the right man for the job. He headed back out to the bar.

C
HARLIE
D
OHERTY
was on his fourth rum on the rocks. He was woozie, but sober enough. “What’s the place turning into anyhow?” Doherty asked him. “Hell, I can remember a time when you wouldn’t have let a swish like him stand in front of the joint, much less go downstairs.” Doherty flicked his cigarette at the ashtray but missed wide. “Shit, you won’t even let me go downstairs.”

“You and your men have the run of the pool room during the day and after hours,” Quinn reminded, “but at night it’s paying customers only. Besides, I’ve got something better for you to do.”

“Oh yeah?” Doherty showed in drunken interest. “Like what?”

“Like following up on a lead on who might’ve hung The Kid on a meat hook tonight?”

Doherty’s buzz evaporated. “Tell me.”

“Your boyfriend in the white suit, that’s Simon Wallace.”

“The guy we’ve been looking for all day?” Doherty slid off the barstool and buttoned his jacket with boozy resolve. “Let’s go grab him.”

Quinn put his hand on the detective’s shoulder and guided him back to the stool. “He’s not going anywhere for a while. Besides, Wallace is a crafty son of a bitch who’ll just give you the run around if you corner him like a criminal.”

“Not if I drag his ass down to the station and have Halloran work on him for a few hours,” Doherty said.

Quinn shook his head. “I’d have my own boys doing that right now if it would do any good.”

Doherty smiled. “I thought you hated violence.” Quinn smiled too. “All right, smart guy,” Doherty said. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Have Halloran follow the little bastard to see where he flops next. Halloran’s not good for much, but he’s pretty good at tailing people. Normally I’d send one of my boys to do it, but I don’t want word to get out that we might be interested in him.”

Doherty thought about it a moment. “Holding out on Archie, eh?”

Quinn already had an answer for that. “I’m just not wasting his time by getting his hopes up.” He almost believed it himself. “When I find out more about who Wallace is and what he’s up to, I’ll let Archie know.”

Doherty seemed to buy it. “We’ve got a better chance of figuring Wallace’s game if we watch him from afar anyway. I’ll go find Halloran. He’s probably still walking around the block after that steaming you gave him.”

Doherty stopped and stumbled a bit on his way to the door. “That was some good thinking, Quinn. You would’ve made a pretty good cop.”

“I’m not that much of a business man. I’ll leave police work to you more enterprising types.”

Doherty went to find Halloran and Quinn took his spot at the bar.

Tommy cleared Doherty’s glass and wiped the spot clean. “It’s a night of characters, eh, Terry?”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Quinn crunched out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. “Set me up with a Cutty, neat.”

Tommy froze in mid-wipe. He looked carefully at Quinn. “Terry, are you sure you’ll be wanting to start in with the spirits so early in the evening? Why not leave them alone until after closing?”

Quinn glared at the bartender.

Tommy cleared his throat. “You know how it makes you sometimes.”

Quinn’s glare held. Tommy reluctantly retreated to fetch the drink. “And don’t water it down like you usually do. I just need a little to take the edge off is all.”

Quinn lit another cigarette and breathed the smoke deep into his lungs.

He wondered if Tommy was right, then decided he was dead wrong. After the night he’d had? One drink wouldn’t hurt.

Tommy placed the glass of Cutty in front of him and moved away.

Quinn let the drink sit while he took in the Lounge. His lounge. Heads were bobbing to the smooth beat of the band. Dancers swung around the dance floor. Quinn found his own head bouncing to the rhythm of the drums. For a minute or two, Quinn didn’t think about presidents, mayors, gunmen or bosses. Right now, there was just rhythm.

The rhythm of the music. The rhythm of his club. The rhythm of his casino downstairs.

That was all Quinn really had. And for now, that was all he really wanted.

T
HE WORLD
slowly came back to Terry Quinn.

He wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t awake, either. He was too much of one and not enough of the other. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been like this. A few seconds? Minutes? What little feeling he had in his head felt like it was laying on something soft. A pillow? Probably.

Feeling gradually returned to his neck. Then his arms. Then his chest.

They were on something soft too. His arms were stretched out from his sides. On a bed? Definitely. He made fists with his hands. They didn’t hurt. Good. He probably hadn’t hurt anyone last night.

But felt drafty and cold. Almost naked. He didn’t have the energy to open his eyes.

But he heard someone groaning in the distance.

Maybe he had hit someone after all? He couldn’t remember who it was. He didn’t try. He had a soft, quiet place all to himself and his head didn’t hurt yet. He knew he should enjoy this peace while it lasted.

The headache was going to be a doozie.

His eyelids parted. A wood paneled ceiling came into focus, just like the one in his bedroom. He realized that this was his bedroom and his own bed.

But where the hell was that groaning coming from?

His head felt like it was made of glass. It would break if he moved it. He moved his eyes instead. He following the ceiling down until it fell away from view. He looked down further and saw a woman on top of him.

Her head arched back. Her arms on the bed behind her, grinding herself around his erection. Her neck had one small brown beauty mark on it. There was another one on the inside of her left breast. His eyes trailed down her body, where he found another beauty mark on her thigh. He recognized her right away.

Alice.

She moaned again. She grinded harder and faster. She threw her head forward. She brought her arms around to his shoulders to support her weight. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was drawn into a sneer. She ground him harder now. She made a sound halfway between a squeak and a moan. He felt her nails dig into his shoulder.