by Tom Bradby
The flap on the peephole was whipped back and an eyeball surveyed them. ‘What do you want?’
‘We’ve an appointment with Mr Luciano,’ Quinn said.
The peephole was bolted shut and they heard footsteps fading into the distance. A couple of minutes later, the door swung open. The man who faced them was built like a wrestler, with a broad face and a neat Adolphe Menjou moustache.
They followed him down the hall, past a Negro porter and up the wide staircase to a gilt ballroom, which sparkled with novelty lights. A hundred tables, each decorated with a single gardenia and a crisp white linen cloth, faced a jet-black stage ringed with palm trees. A bar packed with liquor bottles and cocktail shakers ran along one wall. A voluptuous woman with riotous auburn hair stepped aside to let them pass. ‘Hello,’ she said.
Luciano, Owney Madden, Ben Siegel and Meyer Lansky were at a table, deep in conversation. Madden broke off in mid-sentence and turned towards Quinn. He flashed a grin. ‘What do you know? If it ain’t the kid himself!’
Madden stood and offered Quinn his hand. Luciano and the others didn’t budge. They stared at him as if he was excrement on the soles of their shoes. ‘You two know each other?’ Luciano asked. He had a ghastly, vivid gash across his cheek, which made one eye droop. The wound wept clear liquid and he dabbed it repeatedly with a handkerchief.
‘Sure we do,’ Madden said. ‘You want a drink, Detective? You are a detective now, right?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Take a Scotch highball.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Sure you’re okay, kid, but we all need a drink.’
‘No thanks, Owney.’
‘How come you know each other?’ Luciano asked Madden.
‘Relax, Lucky.’ Madden took a sip of his liquor and pulled out a fat cigar. ‘Joe here’s okay. He’s a fighter. I spotted him pounding the ring down at Grand Street and offered to make him into something. I fancied he could knock some sense into that nigger Johnson, until Willard got there first.’ Madden sat back. ‘Jeez, you could have been great, kid! But he turned me down, said he wanted to be a cop, just like his pa.’
‘Is this your place, Owney?’ Quinn said. Madden was an old-time gangster and he was surprised to find him in Luciano’s company.
Caprisi looked like he wanted to bolt for the door.
Madden waved a hand dismissively.
‘I heard you were in down at the Cotton Club.’
‘Maybe. Have you been to take a look?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll fix you a table. You ever heard Louis Armstrong?’
‘Only on the wireless.’
‘He’s playing next week. I’ll get you a table.’ Madden lit his cigar and pointed at Caprisi. ‘Your uncle Moe hangs out there most nights. You should see the broads, Joe. The tan bitches are the best you’ll ever find. It’s even better than Lucky’s place.’ Madden spat out some tobacco. ‘You still fight, kid?’
‘No.’
‘You ever change your mind, come find me and I’ll make you a fortune.’
‘What the hell does he want?’ Luciano growled.
‘There’s no belly on you – like Lucky here. You want to take a seat?’ Madden clicked his fingers at the girl they’d passed on the stairs. She had perfect, bee-sting lips and dark, kohl-rimmed eyes. ‘This is Talulah.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘And you should hear her sing.’
‘I need to talk business with Mr Luciano, Owney.’
‘In a minute. Relax.’
‘We need to talk now.’
Madden glared at him. Then he pushed himself to his feet. ‘You always had balls, kid, I’ll give you that.’ He turned towards Caprisi. ‘How many people do you figure turned down the chance to box for Owney Madden?’ He grinned. ‘I seem to recall you gave Lucky and Ben a whipping. Isn’t that right?’
‘We were kids,’ Luciano said, without humour. The men around him shifted in their seats. Madden laughed again and walked out.
‘Do I need to frisk you?’ Luciano asked.
‘No.’
The Sicilian nodded at the bodyguards and indicated with a flick of a hand that they should follow him.
They went out the back, past the kitchens. A blonde in high heels smoked a cigarette by the rear door. She gave them an anxious smile.
Luciano led them up a narrow staircase. The walls were black and covered with pictures of singers who’d graced the club’s stage: Helen Morgan, Phil Baker, Sid Silvers and Marian Harris. ‘You ever heard Libby Holman?’ Luciano pointed to the photograph at the top of the stairs.
‘No.’
‘You should. She’s playing Saturday night. Bring a girl. I’ll have them reserve you a table.’
Quinn neither accepted nor rejected the offer. As a young man, Luciano had exuded a kind of edgy bonhomie, but having his face cut open by fellow hoodlums out on Staten Island had clearly soured him.
They turned the corner into a room with giant windows overlooking a warehouse. A two-way radio stood on a sideboard below a navigation map, which displayed liquor lanes from Nova Scotia. Luciano did not appear to appreciate the incongruity of inviting policemen into his lair.
Lansky and Siegel slipped in behind them. Quinn and his partner were surrounded. ‘You’ve got business?’ Luciano asked.
‘We’ve come about Charlie Matsell.’
‘Who in hell’s he?’ Luciano’s eyes narrowed. Lansky circled them. He was a small, slight man, with large ears and, like Madden, he moved softly. He lit a cigarette. He didn’t bother to introduce himself to Caprisi.
‘You know Charlie Matsell,’ Quinn said, ‘because you and Meyer invested in his company. You pumped in millions from the olive-oil business and made a killing.’ He waited for a response. None was forthcoming. ‘How d’you do that, Mr Luciano? You pump it into stocks and pay some columnists to ramp the price, like the fixes Rothstein used to run?’
‘It’s not against the law,’ Lansky said.
‘You don’t deny it?’
‘You want to get to the point, Detective?’ Siegel said. ‘Mr Luciano’s a busy man.’ His blue eyes sparkled with life and a smile split his handsome face. He had a quick temper and a reputation not just for resorting to violence but relishing it.
‘Where money’s at stake,’ Quinn said cautiously, ‘people fall out.’
‘You think we whacked Matsell?’ Siegel blurted.
‘He jumped.’ Lansky dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his boot.
‘He was pushed.’
‘And you figure that’s the way we settle our business?’
‘Vaccarelli worked for you. Why was he following me?’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Lansky said.
‘You know why.’
‘I heard some cop chased him into the Hudson,’ Siegel said.
‘A lot of people work for us,’ Luciano added.
‘Vaccarelli was one of them.’
‘And?’ Lansky shot Luciano a warning glance.
‘Why was he following me?’ Quinn said again.
‘If you’ve got an accusation to make,’ Luciano replied, ‘make it.’
Quinn glanced at Caprisi, then back at Luciano. ‘Maybe we can help each other. You had a fix going with Matsell and it’d be bad news for everyone if we blew it, but there’s no need for that to happen. Matsell was making you millions, but someone pushed him off a roof. If it wasn’t you, who was it? Maranzano?’
There was a long silence. Each seemed to be waiting for another to make the first move. ‘That’s a real interesting question,’ Lansky said. He glanced at Luciano, who nodded. ‘Look, fellas,’ he went on, ‘you’re smart guys and we shouldn’t get off on the wrong foot here.’ He sauntered across to the other side of the room and took down a glass. ‘You want something to drink?’
‘No.’
‘Whisky?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Lucky and I, we figure we need a couple of good detectives on the books, intelligent cops wh
o know their way around town and don’t owe any favours. Guys we can rely on.’ Lansky shook his head mournfully. ‘You’re not planning to retire on a cop’s pay like your old man, are you, Joe? Because we figure you’re smarter than that.’
Quinn didn’t answer.
‘Good. We can use a pair of guys like you.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘Five hundred a week says we can. Each. Until you retire. And we’ll pay a handsome Christmas bonus, so you can buy your girl something real special.’
Quinn said nothing.
‘We figure you could use the dough, Joe. Rumour has it your big brother’s on the rack.’
‘Leave him out of this.’
‘If he figures he can wait for the market to turn, he might be in for a surprise,’ Lansky said. ‘We’d hate for anything to happen to him.’
‘Is this what you do now? You buy cops? Who else have you got on your ticket? Schneider, Fogelman and all the guys from Vice? Johnny Brandon?’
‘It’s a good offer for a Mick bastard,’ Siegel said. ‘You should be grateful.’
‘Easy, Ben,’ Lansky breathed.
‘We offer the creep more money than he’ll earn in his whole damned life and he insults us.’
Lansky held up his hand. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.’
‘You figure it was your girl, Detective?’ Luciano asked. ‘Is that what’s bothering you? I heard she was Matsell’s broad. You figure she pushed him off the roof?’
Quinn met his gaze. Luciano smiled.
‘We can maybe help you out, Joe,’ Lansky said, ‘but we’ve got to know you’re on our side. We can do a deal. If he was banging your girl, I can understand you’re upset, but we figure that makes her a suspect and it makes you one too, along with your stupid brother.’
‘Don’t talk about him like that.’
‘What you going to do, Detective? Ride to his rescue like this was some argument over a craps game? Grow up.’
‘Okay,’ Luciano said. ‘This interview is over. You think about our offer and get back to us. But don’t leave it too long.’
Quinn leant against the Gardner. A passing trolley car sent a wave of water cascading over the sidewalk and he jumped onto the hood to let it pass, but Caprisi got a soaking. He lit a cigarette.
‘What was that about your brother?’ Caprisi said.
‘Nothing.’
‘Didn’t sound like nothing to me.’
‘He’s got a lot riding on Wall Street.’
‘How do they know about that?’
‘Word gets around. They were taunting me.’
‘Is that why he came to see you?’
‘My brother’s too smart for jerks like them. He’s not their type.’
‘Sounds like a good guy.’
‘He is.’
‘We should have taken the money, though. Five hundred a month? That’s what I call a wage.’ Caprisi stretched. ‘We’re done here, right? We can go back to base, check in with the boss, see if he’s going to reassign us.’
‘How come you think we’re done?’
‘Lansky’s not wrong. Their fix isn’t against the law.’
‘Last time I looked, murder was still a crime.’
‘But they didn’t whack Matsell. We can’t prove it was a homicide and we’ve got no suspect.’
‘Fixes still have victims.’
‘They’re not our problem.’
‘You ever ask yourself why everyone is so keen for this to be a suicide?’
‘I can think of a dozen reasons. How many do you need?’
‘I have a hunch.’ Quinn went around to the other side of the Gardner. ‘Let’s turn up the heat.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that. What kind of a hunch? And what do you mean – “turn up the heat”?’
But Quinn was already in the driver’s seat and Caprisi had to leap in before he roared away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
QUINN HAD NEVER BEEN IN A NEWSROOM BEFORE, AND WAS surprised to find that the Tribune’s office looked pretty much like his own. It was a large, open-plan room, piled high with newspapers and documents, heavy with cigarette smoke. One journalist sat with his feet on the desk, a telephone earpiece pressed to the side of his head. Another pounded on his typewriter, his face distorted with the effort of composition. Quinn interrupted him. The man heard out the question and pointed to the far side of the room.
Jeremy Norton occupied a corner office with a brass nameplate on the door. He was on the telephone, too, so they slipped in quietly. He had his back to them, but turned long enough to frown at the intrusion, then carried on talking. The room was lined with framed copies of front pages. There was also a photograph of a woman and a group of children in front of a Long Island mansion.
Norton had his feet on the windowsill. He wore handmade shoes, thick red socks and fancy garters. He had a narrow face, with wild, curly hair and thick glasses. Quinn picked up a copy of the morning paper from his desk and leafed through it until he found Norton’s column. ‘The Street’, it was headlined, ‘by Jeremy Norton’.
Yesterday’s market chaos is a signal to me that we may be on the verge of a once-in-a-lifetime buying opportunity. Others have said it. I have said it. But I’ll say it again: the fundamentals of this economy are sound and the market will soon be heading squarely back into bull territory.
Norton hung up the earpiece and whipped his feet away from the window. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Did you forget to knock?’ Despite his Ivy League appearance, Norton’s accent betrayed southern origins.
Neither Quinn nor Caprisi answered.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Detective Quinn. This is my partner, Detective Caprisi.’
Norton smiled. ‘Are you needing investment advice, gentlemen?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Did you speak to my secretary?’
‘She was on the telephone.’
Norton stood. ‘Well, if you’d like to make an appointment, perhaps—’
‘This is a homicide investigation, Mr Norton, so if you could spare a few minutes of your valuable time …’
‘I see. And of course, if I can be of service, I’d be only too happy to oblige. But—’
‘We’d like to ask you one or two questions,’ Caprisi said.
‘About Unique Investment Management,’ Quinn added.
Norton blinked. ‘Who?’
‘One of its directors, Charlie Matsell, was pushed off a building on Wall Street yesterday.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘You didn’t know about it?’
‘No.’
‘We thought it would be the talk of the street.’
‘Maybe you should speak to the metro desk. Now, if you—’
‘Sit down, Mr Norton.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Please take a seat. We could be a few minutes.’
‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid I have a job to do.’
‘Sir, just a few minutes and we’ll be out of here.’
Jeremy Norton sat. He spread his hands and gave a weary Jeez-I-guess-all-the-good-guys-should-help-the-cops kind of smile.
Quinn grinned back at him. ‘I’m real sorry, sir, I guess you’ll probably think we’re dumb, but my partner and I, we don’t know too much about Wall Street. We need some advice.’
Norton looked at them indulgently.
‘You didn’t know these guys at Unique?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘But if I told you what they appear to have been doing, you could explain it for us, right?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘We heard they made a fortune by ramping up the price of real obscure stocks, then selling out before they crashed.’
‘I’m afraid I’d have to know the details before I could offer any sensible assistance.’
‘But you’ve heard of guys doing that, right? It’s what you might call common practice?’
‘Not common practice,
no.’
‘But it’s not against the law?’
‘Not illegal, no, but—’
‘Unethical?’
‘Yes.’ Norton leant forward. ‘Gentlemen, with the greatest respect to you—’
‘Hold on a second, sir.’ Quinn pulled the sheaf of paper out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. ‘One more question and we’ll be out of here. Do you recognize this account number?’
Norton looked as if he might faint. ‘I don’t believe—’
‘That’s your account, sir.’
‘No – I—’
‘You’ve been taking money from Unique. We’d like you to tell us what they were paying you for.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Quinn folded his arms. ‘Be real careful, or this is going to get tough.’
‘You’ve no right—’ He reached for the telephone. ‘I shall call my attorney.’
‘What are you going to tell him? That you’ve been taking Unique’s money to tip their stocks? And they’ve been paying you a handsome sum to do it?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You want to know where all those dollars came from?’
‘This is absurd.’
‘The dough they offered you came straight from Lucky Luciano.’
Norton’s eyes widened.
‘So, if you’d like me to explain to your editor over there or, better still, a reporter on another newspaper why you’ve been getting two thousand dollars a month from one of the city’s most notorious hoods, then the pleasure will be all mine.’
Norton’s hand dropped away from the telephone. ‘Unique is an investment house. I advise them.’
‘Sure you do.’ Quinn glanced at a photograph on the wall. The mansion, the fancy automobile: in these terrible moments, it was all under threat. ‘Look, Jeremy, I’ll be straight with you. We’re not interested in your goddamned column or anything you put in it. You tell us what we want to know and we’ll be out of here in a heartbeat.’
‘I don’t know anything about Unique.’
‘What did they pay you for? You must know that.’
‘I advised them. I …’ He adjusted his glasses and breathed in deeply. ‘I mean—’
‘They invested in stocks and you tipped them?’ Caprisi said.
