Prohibition (23 page)

“Back to Lounge, just like you wanted,” Cain said. “We got a lead car in front and one in back, full of guys ready to go to work if they need to.

Archie ordered you particularly well taken care of.” Quinn perked up. “He’s talking already?”

“Jesus Christ,” Alice spat, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. “You almost got killed and all you care about is Archie Doyle?”

Her voice made Quinn’s head spin. “How is he?”

“Doc said it’ll be a while before he can use the arm again,” Cain said,

“but he’ll pull through just fine.”

Quinn was getting weak again. He needed to know more before he passed out. “Where’s he now? Who’s with him?”

“He was too sick to move, so we kept him at Brownell’s place. Baker’s

keeping an eye on him and I’ve got the place staked out with ten of my best boys.” Quinn was about to ask how he’d placed them. Cain beat him to it. “Five in the house, and the other five spread out around the street in doorways all along the street.”

Quinn’s first instinct was to have Cain drive him over there. But he knew he was in no shape to protect himself, much less Archie. “Good job, Jimmy. And tell Baker he did fine, too. I’ve been hard on him lately.”

Cain reached back and squeezed his arm. “We had a good teacher. Now put your head back down on the pretty lady’s lap and relax. We’ll have you back home in no time.”

A few minutes later, Cain had the car pull into the back alley of the Lounge. He and the driver helped him out of the back seat while five other guys covered the street. They offered to help him upstairs, but Quinn pulled back. He fought a pain spasm and stood strong on his own two feet. He wouldn’t look weak in front of his men.

He lightly put his arm around Alice and said, “I’m fine, boys. Get these cars parked and send word over to Archie that I’m okay. Tell him I’ll be by to see him in the morning.”

“Like hell you will,” Alice declared.

Quinn was too weak to argue. He just wanted to go to bed. Cain and his men looked on as Alice guided him up the back stairs, one step at a time. She fished the keys out of his pants and opened the door. Quinn waived down at Cain and his men before they went inside.

Quinn shut the door behind him and collapsed against the wall in relief. He was exhausted and sweating. The medicine and the warm darkness of the room washed over him. He heard Alice fumble for the light switch.

“Thank Christ that’s over,” he gasped.

A male voice in the darkness said: “It’s not over yet.”

Quinn grabbed Alice and pulled her behind him as his gun cleared his shoulder holster. He aimed at the place in the dark where he thought the voice came from, ignoring the dull trickle of pain beginning in his side.

A lamp flicked on.

Howard Rothman was sitting comfortably in Quinn’s leather lounge chair. Long legs crossed. Gloved hands folded into a gray triangle in front of his nose. He was flanked by two of his goons behind him. Quinn saw that neither man had reached for his gun.

Quinn fought the morphine to keep his pistol level. “What’re you doing here?”

Rothman sucked his teeth. “You’re always so quick with violence. You really should see somebody about these tendencies. Perhaps get some pills to calm you down.”

“People keep telling me that.” Quinn thumbed back the hammer. “I know one thing that’d help me feel a lot better right now.”

Rothman threw his head back and laughed. His goons laughed, too. “You disappoint me, son. I already know you were taken to the Polyclinic for a gunshot wound to the right side. I even know how many stitches they used to patch you up. I know that Detectives Doherty and Halloran leaned on you about what happened at the clubhouse. And we both know Doherty would never let you leave the hospital with a loaded weapon.”

Quinn thought the pistol felt lighter when he’d pulled it. Charlie must’ve emptied it while he was passed out. “I reloaded in the car ride over here,” Quinn lied. The pain started to grow in his side.

Rothman shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Fine. Keep pointing the damned thing if it makes you feel better. I came here to make sure you knew that I had nothing to do with what happened at that clubhouse today.”

“Bullshit. I grabbed one of the shooters, Rothman. He said they were ordered not to open up until you drove away.”

“If I wanted war,” Rothman asked, “would I be here now? If I’d wanted you dead, I could’ve hit you anywhere between here and the hospital, but I didn’t.”

Quinn’s pain was starting to spike. He tried keeping the gun level, but the morphine was winning.

Rothman went on. “Was I sore at Archie for not pinning your ears back? Sure, but that’s no reason to start a war. Wars are bad for business, son, and nothing’s more important to men like Archie and me as business.”

“What about Bixby?”

“So I used Bixby to tweak Archie’s nose by breaking his Golden Rule or whatever the hell he calls it. So what?”

Quinn felt his legs going, but the gun stayed level. “Are you using Wallace to tweak Doyle’s nose too?”

“He’s a shit-kicker with more money than brains.”

“You’re cooking up something with him,” Quinn slurred. “I know it.” “With him?” Rothman laughed. “You can’t be serious. He dresses like a fucking ice cream salesman, for Christsake. Things are slow for him in Georgia so I’m helping him buy his way into a couple of places up here. Upstate, mostly. Why do you think I’m working with him?”

Quinn saw three Rothmans now. “Because Ceretti and Johnny the Kid both said Wallace set up Fatty to take a bullet.”

Rothman looked back at his two goons, then back at Quinn. “The Kid told you that? Before you killed him?”

“I didn’t kill him, but that’s what he told me.”

“But Ira’s got no cause to be talking to Simon,” Rothman said more to himself than anyone else. “I didn’t even think they knew each other.” He drummed the arm rest with nervous fingers. “I need to talk to Archie about this. Where can I find him?”

Now there were four Rothmans. “Yeah. I just might be that stupid, too.” “Then you talk to him. Tell him I’m not gunning for him, but someone’s gunning for both of us. Tell him I’m gonna find out who it is and make sure they don’t get another chance.”

Quinn felt himself weave back against Alice. “Archie Doyle cleans up his own messes.”

Rothman looked him up and down. “Fatty’s in the hospital. Doyle’s shot up and you’re about to pass out. I’ll lean on Ira – hard - then square things with Doherty and Halloran. The last thing I need is those two Irish mopes on my back.”

Quinn watched the bookie stand up. He thought he still had the gun level, but wasn’t sure. “Have your lovely lady here stay by the phone, kid. I’ll contact you in two hours whether or not I find anything. I’ve got my own interest in seeing who shot Archie and why. I’ve made a life out of avoiding trouble and I don’t intend to start courting it now.”

Quinn watched the room got smaller and started to dim. He shifted his weight to stay on his feet. Words came slow like syrup. “I don’t trust you, you yid bastard.”

Rothman winked at Alice as he touched a gloved hand to the brim of his bowler. “Pleasure was all mine, toots. Be sure to take care of your boyfriend, here. He doesn’t look so good. And when he wakes up, tell him a secret for me. Tell him it’s actually Rothmann, with two ‘n’s. I’m Lutheran, not Jewish, and to keep the ‘yid’ cracks to himself next time.”

The sound of his gun hitting the floor was the last thing Quinn heard before he fell forward into the darkness.

Q
UINN WOKE
with a start to the bell. What round was it? It wasn’t like a ring bell, but higher pitched like a telephone ringing. He was drenched in sweat. His side ached. He was in bed, naked beneath the sheets except for the tight bandage around his ribs.

The ringing wouldn’t quit. He tried to get out of bed. The pain felt like a hot poker wrenching his insides. He fell over sideways on the bed and screamed into the mattress.

A light went on but the telephone kept ringing. He heard Alice answer it. She rubbed his head and tried to ease him back into bed. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m so, so sorry. I fell asleep and the phone rang before I could get to it.”

Quinn rolled slowly onto his back and gasped for breath. The wave of pain started to ebb quicker than before. “Who is it?”

“It’s Archie. He wants to talk to you, but I told him...”

Quinn tried to push himself out of bed to get to the phone. Alice put all her weight on him to keep him back down. “Don’t get up, honey,” she pleaded. “You hit your head again when you passed out, so you’re going to be a little dizzy for a while. I’ll bring the phone over to you.”

Quinn was too weak to do anything else but lay there. He’d known pain before. Broken hands, dislocated shoulders, cracked ribs. Concussions.

Nothing like this. It hurt no matter what he did.

Alice rushed back with the phone. He snatched the candlestick phone out of her hand. She handed him the ear piece and helped him prop the phone on his chest.

“You there, kid?” Archie’s voice came over the line strong and clear. “I said are you there?”

“Yeah, barely,” Quinn managed. “I’m sorry that I...”

“Knock it off,” Doyle yelled at him. “You saved lives today, kid. Mine was one of them. You just do whatever Alice tells you and don’t worry about me.”

Quinn didn’t care about any of that. “What about you? You being taken care of?”

“Sure, sure. Baker, Cain, even Doc Brownell did a half-way decent job. For a drunk, he makes a pretty good doctor. Wanted to let you know that Rothman got word to me. Said he ain’t behind all this and that he’s lookin’ into things his own way, too. I’m leanin’ towards believing him.”

Quinn tried but couldn’t focus that hard. “Archie, get up to the farmhouse until everything blows over. We can’t let you...”

“Relax, kid,” Doyle said. “Tomorrow’s the big wake for the five boys we lost. After I swing by to pay my respects, I’ll head up to Millbrook. I promise.”

“Just go up to the farm,” Quinn slurred. “There’s still a five guy chopper squad out there. The city’s not safe for you now.”

Doyle laughed his harsh, hoarse laugh. “For someone who’s supposed to be a tough guy, you’ve sure got a soft spot in your heart for me.”

Quinn’s mouth felt like cotton. He swallowed dry. “I just don’t want to see you winding up dead is all.”

“Ah, this is nothin’. You shoulda been with me back in aught-nine when I had nine bullets go through me and Frankie Sanders in a dance hall on Broadway. I always come out as good as new. This’ll all blow over in a couple of weeks, you mark my words. In the meantime, you get your rest and I’ll swing by tomorrow to see you before my trip north.”

Despite the morphine, Quinn knew Doyle should already be in Millbrook instead of still here in the city. Doyle had to be protected. Quinn couldn’t do that from bed. He had to get over to Doc Brownell’s place. Take charge. He tried to getting out of bed again. The pain his side spiked big and deep. He crumpled back to the mattress, flat.

Doyle called out to him from somewhere in the darkness. Quinn couldn’t answer.

A
T ONE O’CLOCK
the next afternoon, Terry Quinn turned up the collar of his black overcoat and pulled his fedora low on his head. The bitter November wind bit into him as he waited for Doyle in front of McNabb’s Funeral Home. A light rain had begun to fall ten minutes before.