Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  ‘So, who cut him?’ Quinn knew a little of this world, because he’d tried to nail Ciro Terranova, a thug who headed up operations in the Bronx and Westchester. Frankie Yale was liege lord of Brooklyn and overseer of the produce markets, while Masseria, Luciano, Lansky and Ben Siegel ran a central office in Little Italy.

  Yan shrugged. ‘Maranzano.’

  ‘Who the hell is Maranzano?’

  ‘An old moustache Pete. They sent him over from Palermo to be the boss of bosses, but Joe the Boss and Charlie Luciano told him to go fuck himself.’

  Quinn thought about this. ‘The point is, Charlie Luciano has to have a connection to Wall Street. That’s why his men were there and that’s why they followed me.’

  ‘Well, it would be news to me.’

  ‘Maybe he supplied the dough for these guys to play around with. Maybe something went wrong. Have you ever heard of Charlie Matsell?’

  Yan shook his head.

  ‘He was the swell who got pushed off the building this morning. His file only contained a pair of traffic violations, but it sure attracted some attention upstairs.’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’

  Quinn smiled. ‘I was hoping you might tell me.’

  ‘I have no idea, Detective.’

  ‘If you had to speculate …’

  ‘I’ve been here long enough to know speculation is bad for my health.’ He walked briskly down the line of shelves. ‘If you need anything else, come back to me.’

  ‘There is one more thing. Do you have a file on a guy named Scher?’

  Yan kept walking. ‘First name?’

  ‘We haven’t got it.’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’

  He disappeared from view. A few minutes later he returned empty-handed. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’ Perhaps it was Quinn’s imagination, but Yan seemed older suddenly, the grime of the city etched into his forehead and the lines around his eyes.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Does the name sound familiar to you?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Somebody left a message for Matsell in the hotel last night. It’s maybe nothing. Thanks for checking.’

  ‘Watch yourself, kiddo.’ Stefan Yanowsky’s gaze was steady.

  ‘Sure … Thanks, Yan.’

  A couple of steps down the corridor Quinn ran into Schneider. ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Quinn. How’ve you been getting on?’ Schneider’s brow was furrowed.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I hear you’ve got an ID on one of the dead men?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He’s one of Luciano’s?’

  ‘It seems like it.’

  ‘That doesn’t justify your actions.’

  ‘Er, no, sir.’

  ‘I understand you’re ambitious, but charging across town in pursuit of a tangential connection to a clear case of suicide is nothing short of reckless.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how much those divers cost?’

  ‘No. I mean, not exactly.’

  ‘They were very expensive. Chief McCredie may have hoodwinked the commissioner to the point where he is at liberty to play fast and loose with our budget, and plenty else besides, but I intend to see that changes.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘This matter is now closed. You will be reassigned in the morning.’ Schneider stepped back to allow someone through, then came forward again. He was not the kind of guy who was inclined to respect another man’s personal space. ‘Have you spoken to your father about this?’

  ‘About what, sir?’

  ‘The suicide.’

  Quinn stared at him. ‘No.’

  ‘He’s the precinct captain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You haven’t talked to him about the incident?’

  ‘No. I mean, not in detail.’

  Schneider leant close enough for Quinn to smell the remnants of his lunch. ‘What about the cash?’

  ‘Which cash, sir?’

  ‘I’m told you picked up a suitcase of dollars at Matsell’s place?’

  ‘Oh … yes.’

  ‘You and your Irish buddies planning to walk off with it?’

  ‘No, sir, of course not.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  Quinn hesitated. ‘McCredie has it.’

  ‘Right.’ Schneider marched off.

  *

  Quinn slumped into his chair and glanced at Matsell’s case

  beneath his desk.

  ‘Schneider was looking for you,’ Caprisi said.

  ‘I saw him downstairs. He is one strange guy.’

  Caprisi thrust a sheet of paper at him. ‘I typed up a new report, which he wants to see in the morning. Matsell took his own life after a gambling quarrel. Case closed.’ He pushed across a correcting pencil. ‘I’m sensitive about spelling.’

  ‘Spelling’s the least of our problems. They found an ID on one of the guys they dragged out of the Hudson. His name was Paulo Vaccarelli and he was one of Luciano’s strong-arm men.’

  Caprisi raised his eyebrows. ‘This just gets better and better.’

  ‘Moe Diamond knew Charlie Luciano in the old days. They were enemies, but they knew each other. So, if one of Charlie’s guys followed us up from the office, I figure—’

  ‘It was Luciano’s money they were fooling around with?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Swell.’ Caprisi stood and put on his coat. He pulled a bag onto his shoulder. ‘But we don’t need to amend the report.’

  ‘The report says suicide.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘And you figure that’s right?’

  ‘No, but I know trouble when I see it. Why do you think Schneider’s so keen to have it that the guy jumped?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Exactly. And we shouldn’t want to know. The mayor congratulates us on our excellent handling of a sensitive situation. That’s enough for me.’

  ‘Caprisi—’

  ‘What is it, Quinn?’

  ‘If I got pushed off a building, I’d want someone to ask a few awkward questions.’

  ‘So now you’re the dead banker’s Good Samaritan? That is real affecting.’ Caprisi stepped closer. ‘I’ll tell you where we’re at. I saw the expression on your face when you were around that broad. Adopted sister or not, you looked like you wanted to eat her for breakfast. Well, fine. But I’ve got two months till I get out of here with a pension and I’m not going down with you.’

  He stalked out.

  Quinn pulled over Caprisi’s report and read it. It was clear enough. It was what they wanted.

  He drummed his fingers.

  He got to his feet, put on his own coat, walked onto the landing and down the stairs. The same woman was there, waiting in the hall.

  She watched him pass without a word.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE ENTRANCE TO MCGRAW’S BILLIARD PARLOUR WAS TUCKED AWAY down a dark alley next to the old Herald building. A single lamp created a dull cone of light, and it was so quiet that Quinn could hear rats scurrying in the trash.

  The door was opened by a six-foot-five gorilla in a trenchcoat.

  ‘This is still McGraw’s place, right?’

  ‘It might be.’

  Two more men loomed from the darkness. A lot of security for a billiard hall.

  ‘Is President Hoover here?’

  ‘Beat it, wise guy. We’re closed.’

  ‘I’m here to see Moe.’

  ‘He’s not expecting guests.’

  ‘Tell him it’s Joe Quinn.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m family.’

  ‘You could be his long-lost goddamned sister for all I care. You ain’t gettin’ in here.’

  ‘Just do yourself a favour and tell him it’s Joe Quinn.’

  The man moved towards him. ‘Listen, fella, I ain’t gonna say this to you again. We’re here to make sure Moe don’t receive an
y visitors. So beat it, okay?’ He screwed up his face. ‘You smell like a cop.’

  Quinn took a step forward, so that they were nose to nose. ‘I am a cop. So tell my uncle Moe that I’m here or you’ll spend the rest of the night cooling off in the Tombs.’

  The gorilla edged back. He glanced at his colleagues, who shrugged. ‘Stay here,’ he said gruffly, and disappeared.

  In the gloom, Quinn could just make out the photographs from the Giants’ glory years that lined the corridor. ‘How long you had security on the door?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘You work for Moe?’

  ‘That’s none of your business, either.’

  ‘You guys always this talkative?’

  They glowered at him. The head gorilla came back and nodded for Quinn to follow him.

  The parlour was almost deserted. Moe was in the back, playing pool with the barman. He was bent over the table, his gut resting on the corner pocket. ‘Evening, Joe.’ He took a shot. The balls cracked loudly, but missed the far pocket. Moe puffed his cigar, sipped from the mug of ale beside him and threw Quinn a cue. ‘Take Billy’s place. He’s no challenge.’

  Quinn walked around the table, lined up a shot, fired and missed.

  Moe surveyed the state of play for a few moments, then cleared the table. When he had finished, he took out a black triangle. ‘Again. Try harder this time. Billy, get the boy a whisky. On the rocks.’

  ‘I quit drinking, Moe. It’s against the law, remember?’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘Of course.’ Quinn took the drink and lit a cigarette. He sat on a bar stool. ‘How many times am I going to have to watch you clear the table?’

  Moe filled the triangle. ‘You start.’

  ‘I know that trick. You break them up.’

  Moe hammered the white into the colours. Two went into the pockets, one spot, one stripe. ‘Damn.’

  Quinn lined up a spot. He put it down. ‘You ever heard of a guy called Scher, Moe?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He called Charlie Matsell at the Plaza last night.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘You figure Charlie had some dealings you and Dick didn’t know about?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Quinn straightened up. ‘How long you had strong-arm guys on the door?’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I guess not. Where’s McGraw?’

  ‘I bought him out.’

  Quinn’s eyes roamed over the line of empty pool tables. ‘So, it’s like a private club?’

  ‘Take the shot, Joe.’

  Quinn missed.

  Moe chalked his cue and circled the table.

  ‘Did you figure out that Charlie was murdered?’ Quinn asked. ‘Is that why you put gorillas on the door?’

  ‘Who says he was murdered?’

  ‘I say he was.’

  ‘You got any evidence?’

  ‘There were footprints on the roof, two sets. Charlie was pushed. And someone put cotton wool soaked in chloroform in his mouth after he hit the street.’

  Moe puffed at his cigar. ‘That’s wild talk, Joe.’

  ‘It’s in the autopsy.’

  ‘Yeah? Who fished out the cotton wool? Some washed-up doctor who was half cut when he dropped it in and didn’t remember?’

  ‘I found it.’

  Moe squinted at him through the smoke. ‘Charlie was a messed-up sonofabitch.’

  Quinn took out Matsell’s pictures and placed them on the edge of the table. He’d been careful to keep them separate from the photograph of Martha, but he still needed to check that it was in the other pocket of his jacket.

  ‘You trying to sell me some dirty pictures?’

  ‘We found them in Charlie’s suite at the Plaza,’ Quinn said.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Have you seen them before?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You figure it’s possible he took them himself?’

  ‘How in hell should I know?’ Moe threw the photographs back across the table.

  ‘Maybe he knew some of the girls.’

  ‘Wise up, Joe. You can buy a set like this on any street corner.’

  ‘Charlie Matsell took a closer interest.’

  Moe chewed his cigar. He pocketed a ball. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘There’s evidence to suggest he did. You think some of the women were tricked?’

  ‘Does it look like it?’

  ‘Did he ever see the girls in the office after work?’

  ‘Ah …’ Moe chalked the end of his cue again. ‘Since I figure you have only a limited interest in Miss Stacey Burrows, what you’re really asking me – again – is whether Charlie had something going with Martha.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He’d have liked to. Wouldn’t we all?’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  ‘Is this a professional enquiry, Joe?’

  ‘I’m just asking a question.’

  ‘Sure you are. But you forget I knew you when your little dark head barely reached my knee. I’ve seen the way you and that girl are together.’ Moe came around the table. He sat on a bar stool, still holding his cue. ‘Joe, I don’t know if Charlie had a thing going with Martha. I sure doubt it. But she’s a grown woman and you’re family, so I say as your friend that you’ve got to think about this. It wasn’t just what her mother did. Your old man took Martha in after he found her selling herself on the Bowery. If you didn’t know that, you should. So maybe none of you’ll ever turn her into the Virgin Mary. Not you. Not Aidan. And especially not your old man.’

  Quinn stared at him. ‘You’ve got no call to be saying that, Moe.’

  ‘It’s the real world, kid. And I’ll tell you something else. Your mother—’

  ‘Leave her out of it.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, I was sure sorry for what happened to her. She was real sick by the end, that’s all you can say. She’d faded so far. But she was once a very beautiful woman – you know that?’

  ‘Did Charlie ever take Martha out after work?’

  ‘Relax, Joe. This is headed nowhere.’

  Quinn slipped off his stool and scooped up the photographs. ‘Moe, if you want to tell me what’s going on, maybe I can help you.’

  ‘Nothing’s going on.’

  ‘Then how come you’ve got three five-hundred-pound gorillas on the door?’

  Moe put down his cue. ‘You should tell your old man. Maybe he’ll think about it.’

  ‘Think about what?’

  ‘Getting himself some protection too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You just tell him your uncle Moe said, “Watch out.” He’ll know what I’m talking about. That’s all I’ve got to say.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything else, Joe. You just tell him that. And if you won’t, then get Aidan to. He’ll listen to your brother.’

  ‘What am I supposed to warn him about?’

  ‘He’ll understand.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  QUINN LOOSENED HIS TIE AND SLIPPED OFF HIS COLLAR. ‘I’M NOT listening!’ he called.

  ‘Liar! You can hear every word.’

  He pulled a thick sweater over his head. On the dresser, there was a line of fresh starched collars. Since he didn’t like to wear a shirt and collar so stiff they could have patrolled the streets alone, Quinn had offered to iron his own, but she would have none of it. This was the way his mother had always done things and there was no way on earth that Martha would try anything different.

  ‘Joe!’ she called, but he didn’t move. ‘If you look at yourself any longer you’ll shatter that mirror.’

  He wondered if he still knew the man staring back at him.

  He ducked through to the main room. She was bent over the hob. He nudged her aside, picked up the coal shovel and fired up the belly of the stove. ‘You
should use the gas,’ he said. But he knew she wouldn’t because his mother had always insisted it was too expensive.

  ‘I didn’t have any dimes.’

  He reached into his pocket, found one and pushed it into the meter. He saw there was a pile in the jar.

  ‘You should put something on your hair,’ she suggested. ‘That way, you could hold the tufts down.’

  ‘I like tufts.’

  ‘Then no wonder you don’t have a girl.’ She laughed at him, but her smile faded as she read his expression. She stirred the stew in the pot and brought the spoon to her lips. ‘It tastes okay,’ she said, with ill-disguised surprise. ‘You want a soda?’ Before he could answer, she picked up the newspaper. ‘See here? They chose my question.’

  ‘What question?’

  ‘I sent in a question for “The Inquiring Photographer”. I got five dollars! Are you ready?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘What is your pet driving peeve?’ She rolled her eyes and put a hand on her hip. ‘That is the question our enquiring photographer put to people today, sent in by Miss Martha Quinn of Seventh Street.’

  ‘It’s a fascinating question.’

  ‘It is. Mr Royal W. Healey, the manager of the Astoria Hotel, says that “It is the fellow who drives right down the centre of the road at a speed of twenty miles an hour and refuses to move over to the right side of the road so the faster-moving automobiles can pass. The name for such a driver should be ‘roadhog’.” ’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Are you a roadhog, Joe?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘When are you going to take me for a ride in that new Gardner?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘What about Mrs E. L. Bouchet of Flushing? “I am annoyed most by the motorcycle cops who hide around corners and behind bushes, waiting to give someone a summons for going thirty or thirty-two miles an hour. I don’t mind the manly cops who stay out in the open as a protection to other drivers.” ’ She looked at him. ‘Are you a manly cop, Joe?’

  He wondered who she thought this performance was kidding. ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  ‘And finally, there is Mr Anthony Di Leonardo, who “doesn’t like the fellow in back of me who honks his horn continuously, particularly when I’m doing the right thing and there is nothing else I can do. It makes me feel like getting out of my car, ripping his horn out and hitting him on the head with it.” ’