Prohibition (19 page)

Rothman sat still for a long while. “I’m not happy, Archie.”

“And I don’t give a shit, Howard.” Doyle’s grin held. “What’s more, I don’t have to. I still run this town. Don’t forget it.”

Rothman bolted up out of his chair. Quinn slid his right hand beneath his suit coat, closer to the .45 hanging beneath his arm. Archie didn’t budge.

Rothman glared down at Doyle, eyes narrow and face red. Then he threw back his head and laughed. He stomped his foot, flashing a line of teeth too perfect to be real. He was laughing, but his eyes weren’t.

Quinn’s hand stayed close to the .45.

“Maybe you’re right, Archie,” Rothman dabbed at laugh tears that weren’t there. “You and me have known each other too long to let a little poolhall scrape get the best of us. Just look at us now, two men at the top looking down at the rest of the whelps scrambling for our crumbs. What we do just happens to be illegal, otherwise we’d be admired like Carnegie or Morgan or Rockefeller. I love Rocky. He’s a sucker for taking U Penn and the points.”

“Can’t say I blame the man,” Archie said, “seeing as how I’m guilty of having a few sentimental weaknesses myself.”

“Yeah, especially for dried up old boxers,” Rothman nodded back toward Quinn. “And since we’ll never receive the accolades we deserve, we only rely on our own honor system, an honor among thieves, if you will.”

Rothman made a show of pulling his gloves a bit tighter.

Quinn’s hand stayed near the .45.

“You and I may have started different,” the bookie went on, “but things have evened up now. They’ve evened up closer than you might think. I’m not that scrawny kid chasing ambulances anymore. So the next time you have a beef with one of my people, contact me directly instead of sending one of your donkey goons over to shake things up. I expect that kind of courtesy, Archie, because I’ve earned it. And if I don’t get that kind of courtesy – that respect – I’m going to have to take it.”

Quinn sprang off the couch to teach Rothman some manners.

Doyle’s glare froze him in place.

Doyle slowly started swiveling his chair to and fro again. The piercing squeak cut the air. “You were a two-bit order-taker then, Howard and you’re a two-bit order-taker now. You just have a better wardrobe is all. The tie-pin’s a nice touch, but it don’t change the man who’s wearing it. You’ve got a lot of powerful people makin’ book with you and borrowin’ your money. Good for you.”

Then Doyle stopped swiveling in his chair. “But them same powerful people don’t rely on you to get them elected every couple of years. They don’t call you when they knock up their mistresses or their kids get arrested or to get them off the hook on the q.t. when they fuck up. I’m the one who gets those phone calls in the middle of the night, fucko, not you.”

Quinn watched Doyle rise out of his chair and come around the desk slowly. He stopped square in front of the bookmaker. He was several inches shorter than Rothman, but he was almost twice as broad. “We didn’t choose an easy life, Howard. The best guys like us can hope for is to die in bed.” Doyle’s eyes narrowed. “Threatenin’ me ain’t the best way to realize that hope. It never has been. Get me?”

Quinn watched Rothman trace the inside of his cheek with his tongue, probably because his mouth had gone dry. The bookie broke off the glare and took a small step back. “Well, I guess that’s that, then,” his voice cracked. “Fifteen hundred it is. I’ll expect one of your boys to drop off the dough by the end of the week.” He squared his derby and gave Doyle a two-fingered salute from the brim as he headed for the door.

Rothman didn’t look at Quinn as he strode out of the office and went down the stairs.

Doyle took his dead cigar from the ashtray and relit it. He walked to the window, puffing on his cigar. Quinn walked over and joined him.

Together, they watched Rothman and his bodyguards get into his roadster and drive up the street.

“I don’t know about you, kid, but I’d say that went pretty much as expected.”

Quinn’s head was still buzzing. “I was expecting you to rap me on the knuckles, not kick him in the balls.”

“Yeah, I know, but the smug way he pranced in here got under my skin. I could tell he wasn’t in the mood to talk, so I rode him hard. Besides, I got what I wanted and, in the end, I learned somethin’ in the bargain.”

“Which was?” Quinn asked.

“That he didn’t have Fatty shot,” Doyle slipped out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair. “I hit him with that Wallace remark first thing and it bounced right off. Didn’t even blink. He didn’t over-explain how he knew Wallace. He didn’t deny it, either. I know he’s a gambler and he didn’t get rich by blinkin’ while holding a lousy hand. But it was just a feelin’ I got off him. A look in his eye. He was angry, not vengeful. He even took the fifteen hundred with barely a squawk.”

Quinn wasn’t so sure. “He’s smart enough to work that into his act, boss. Maybe he didn’t kick up a fuss about the dough because he’s already moving against us?”

But Doyle shook his head. “That’s why I pushed him hard at the end when he made that threat. I called his bluff and he just backed down. That ain’t the way a man ready to start a war acts, kid. I oughtta know. I’ve been in enough of them.”

Doyle sighed and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He went back to looking out at the bleak, colorless warehouse across the street. Quinn saw the fading afternoon sunlight showed deep lines on Doyle’s face. He saw bags under Doyle’s eyes. The boss had been up all night drinking and playing cards. Quinn remembered a time when Doyle could go days without sleep and still look fresh without so much as a ten minute nap.

But Quinn knew Archie Doyle wasn’t a kid anymore. He was no longer a man without limits. Things were changing. The Old Man was growing into his name.

“Rothman didn’t set up Fatty,” Doyle continued. “That leaves this Wallace punk. Let’s put some of our own men on it this time. To hell with Doherty and Halloran. Put a couple of good boys on it who know how to trail a guy, not just blast him. Killing Wallace won’t help us figure out why he shot Fatty. Not yet, anyway.”

Quinn saw the same look in Doyle’s eyes that he’d seen while he was talking to Walker. It wasn’t fear, but it was close. “And do it fast, kid. Because the quicker this goes away, the more likely Al Smith’ll throw his hat in the ring. And now’s the time, Terry. I can feel it in my bones.” He went back to looking out the window. “Now’s the time.”

“Sure, boss. But I need to know where Wallace is before I can put some boys on him. Doherty never called me back, remember?”

“Well the bastard’ll call me back,” Doyle bellowed out at Sean Baker again. “Get Detective Doherty on the phone, will ya?” No response.

“Baker?”

That’s when Quinn heard the tinkling of breaking glass, followed by distant screaming. They were common sounds in that neighborhood, except they sounded close.

Quinn looked out the window and saw a blur of fire pass from the roof of the warehouse across the street onto the clubhouse roof. More breaking glass and more screaming. It took Quinn a second to realize what they were.

Fire-bombs.

Then Quinn saw the heads and shoulders of two men at the roof ledge of the warehouse. They brought around Thompsons and aimed down at

Archie’s office.

Quinn tackled Doyle to the floor as the machine guns opened up.

Bullets shattered the windows and raked the desk where Doyle had just been standing. Quinn and Doyle were covered in wood splinters and glass. Above the roar of gunfire, Quinn heard the screaming of the men he’d posted on the rooftop. The poor bastards were being burned alive.

Quinn crawled on top of Doyle, staying below the window line while trying to shield his boss with his own body.

Large bits of wood and dust from the desk and floor were kicked up as the Thompsons spat lead into Doyle’s office. The leather couch was ripped open by gunfire. Chunks of stuffing and wood were thrown into the air. Old pictures jumped off the walls as bullets punched them until they shattered and fell.

Quinn figured being close to the window kept them safe from the Tommy guns. The shooters were firing from too high an angle to be able to hit them. He knew it was only a matter of time before they lobbed a fire- bomb through the shattered windows of the office. He and Doyle wouldn’t be able to escape the fiery liquid that burned everything it touched.

Quinn thought one of the guns stop firing. The other kept up the assault. Quinn knew a cocktail was coming. He wiggled out of his overcoat and threw it over Doyle’s head.

“I think they’re getting ready to throw a cocktail at us,” Quinn yelled over the gunfire. “My coat’ll cover you in case you get splashed. Just throw it off and keep going if it gets you.”

But Doyle fought the overcoat. “What about you?”

“I’m right behind you,” Quinn screamed into Doyle’s ear. “Head for the door.”

A fire-bomb sailed through the gaping window and exploded in the middle of the office. Liquid flame shot all over the room. The splintered desk had shielded Quinn and Doyle from the liquid, but was now in flames. Both had seen this ploy enough times to know better than to run right away. The cocktail was meant to make them run for the door so they could be picked off by the gunmen.

The room quickly filled with black smoke and the gunfire stopped. The bastards were either reloading or waiting for their shot. Quinn took advantage of the break and the thickening smoke. He popped his head above the windowsill and saw the two men on the roof of the warehouse across the street, about two stories above him. They were slapping fresh ammo drums into their rifles.

Quinn pushed Doyle toward the door. “Crawl toward the hallway. I’ll keep ‘em busy for a while. Move!”

Doyle took his cue as Quinn rose on one knee and fired four times up at the ledge. One of the shots ricocheted off the ledge and sent chips of cement flying into one gunman’s face. Quinn saw him fall back from the ledge. Quinn ducked just as the other one raked the room again with machine gun fire.

All of the old targets got hit again. None of the bullets reached Quinn. The smoke was getting thicker by the second. His eyes burned. His lungs ached.

The machine gun roared.

Bullets slapped plaster and wood. Quinn buried his face in the sleeve of his jacket and moved toward where he thought the door was. He’d make a run for it once the last gunman stopped to reload again.

When the gunfire finally stopped, Quinn started crawling. The smoke was billowing now, darker and thicker even along the floor. But the doorway wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He tried not to panic. He knew people got disoriented in fires.

But things got strange fast. He knew the door couldn’t be far, but his body was getting heavier. Then the floor felt like it was where the wall was supposed to be. Everything began to spin and Quinn’s legs gave way. He collapsed onto the shards of glass and laid still. He’d take a quick rest and try again in just a second. It was a little cooler on the floor anyway. Calm and quiet, almost peaceful.

He saw a hand with stubby fingers reach through the smoke, grab him by the collar and drag him into the hallway.

No sooner had he hit the hallway floor when another cocktail flashed and exploded in the office. A red ball of flame and heat exploded. The stench of burning plaster and wood snapped Quinn out of it and made him gag dry.

Quinn looked up and saw Archie dragging him into an open closet in the hallway. The door partially blocked the thick smoke from reaching them.

“Layin’ down on the job ain’t your style, kid,” Doyle coughed over the gunfire and flame, his face blackened by smoke. “I thought you was givin’ up on me.”

Quinn hacked a couple of dry coughs and pointed down the stairs. They helped each other off the floor and scrambled down to the lobby, crouching low as they moved.

The smoke wasn’t as bad on the ground floor, but five of Doyle’s men were crouched in the hallway, trading gunfire with shooters in the first floor of the warehouse across the street.

Doyle found Jimmy Cain ordering men to different parts of the first floor. “What’s the situation?” Doyle screamed to him over gunfire.

Cain’s face had also been blackened from the smoke. He also had a nasty cut on side of his face. “Looks like they took out our guys on the roof with fire-bombs, then opened fire on your office from the roof top of the warehouse. We tried getting’ over there, but three more guys opened up on us from the ground floor of the warehouse. They clipped three of our boys out front. They’ve got us pinned down pretty good, too, but we ain’t giving up yet.”

Quinn knew a couple of fire-bombs of his own would clear them out of the first floor. But this was Doyle’s political headquarters. He never kept booze around in case the feds raided it. The bastards across the street probably knew that, too.

Another long volley of gunfire from the warehouse made them duck. Bullets raked the plaster walls and tore through the air above their heads.

“Is the back way clear?” Quinn shouted.

“I don’t know,” Cain said. “But we ain’t been hit from that direction yet, so it might be.”

Doyle bolted down the hallway toward the back door before Quinn could stop him. Quinn, Cain and two extra men ran after him.

Quinn got between Doyle and the back door. “I can’t let you go out there, boss.”