by Tom Bradby
‘I don’t know! I swear it!’
‘Think!’
‘I – please—’ He was choking, so Quinn released his head.
‘Did you see any of the men? Were they visible in any of the other shots?’
‘All the pictures were the same. They were just of the girl.’
‘Were there any … acts like in this set over here?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Certain.’
‘They were all of the same girl, lying on the same bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she drugged?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Did she look as though she might have been?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Did she have her eyes open? Look – here.’ Quinn held up the picture in front of him. ‘She has her eyes half closed. Were they all like that?’
‘Yes – I believe so.’
‘The man who brought the film to you, had he been in before?’
‘No.’
Quinn put the picture back in his pocket and relinquished his grip on the pharmacist, who slumped against the wall and began to cry. Quinn stood over him. ‘Now listen to me, Nathan. I am Detective Quinn. If the man who brought in this roll of film ever comes back to your store, you’re going to call me. You’ll ask to be put through to me at Centre Street, and if I’m not there, you’ll leave a message with a lady called Mae Miller. Have you got that?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Have you got that, Nathan?’
‘Yes.’
‘When I come down here, you’ll have the guy’s name, his address and a picture-perfect description. And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, or you fail to call me, I’ll cut your balls right off and put them in this paper cup here. Is that understood?’
He nodded miserably.
‘Just one more thing. In your professional opinion, Nathan, what kind of camera took this?’
‘A Box Brownie.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Yes. It’s blurred. Studio portraits are of much finer quality.’
‘Thank you. That’s what I thought.’ Quinn smiled. ‘Have a good evening. And enjoy the ballet.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
QUINN WENT TO MCGRAW’S PLACE FIRST, BUT IT WAS BOARDED UP AND shrouded in darkness, so he got back into the Gardner and headed north to Harlem.
The evening had barely begun, but the subway disgorged a steady stream of white folk dressed in black. Limousines and cabs stood beneath the lights of the nightclubs, and bejewelled revellers tripped over uneven sidewalks on their way between the two. There was a queue outside the Cotton Club. Quinn pushed his way to the front, which didn’t impress the doorman. ‘What do you want?’
‘To see Owney Madden.’
‘You got an appointment?’
‘Tell him it’s Joe Quinn.’
The man gestured to one of his colleagues, who disappeared up the stairs. A few minutes later, he returned to escort Quinn onto the floor of the nightclub.
Balloon lamps spilled dull light over crisp white tablecloths. A troop of lithe Negro girls danced on the stage, but the evening hadn’t yet come to life. Half the tables were empty.
Owney Madden sat beneath an artificial palm tree next to a giant African drum. A pair of waiters hovered close by. A pile of papers was spread in front of him and he was making entries in a leatherbound notebook. He looked up, but his manner was not as welcoming as it had been earlier. ‘Take a seat, Joe.’
‘I was looking for Moe, Owney.’
‘Sure. Sit down.’ He clicked his fingers at a waiter. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Get my friend a Scotch highball.’ Madden returned to his notebook. ‘You should never run a nightclub, kid, you know that? Every sonofabitch is trying to steal from you. It’s worth it, though, right,’ he waved at the stage, ‘just to have your pick of flesh like that?’
Almost at a run the waiter brought Quinn a Scotch. Quinn palmed him a dollar, but Madden snatched it away. ‘Don’t show me up.’ He closed his book. ‘I figured you’d be back.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t screw with me, kid. We both know why.’
‘Did you hear about Duncan?’
‘Yeah. A lot of people are going to be very upset about that.’
‘Why?’
‘Work it out.’
‘Do you know who killed him?’
‘If I did, you think I’d tell you?’ Madden lit a cigarette and offered the case to Quinn.
They watched the dancers filter off the stage and the band stand up to acknowledge a ripple of applause.
‘What’s Luciano’s connection to these killings, Owney?’
Madden kept his eyes on the last of the girls.
‘You don’t know, or you won’t say?’
‘What’s that story about the goose that lays the golden egg? Like a fairy tale.’
‘It’s a fable.’
‘Right. A fable. That’s what it’s like. You get it?’
‘No.’
‘If you have a goose laying golden eggs, maybe the goose doesn’t always behave the way you’d like, but you’ve still got to keep it safe. That’s Charlie’s angle. That’s our problem.’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘You don’t want to know, and if you ever find out, Charlie and his boys will have their say for sure. And, trust me, it’s hard to swim in concrete boots.’ He clicked his fingers at the waiter again. ‘Hey, another drink for my friend here. And make it a large one.’
‘Duncan was in on this fix, Owney.’
‘So what? Wall Street’s for suckers.’
‘That means the mayor could be too.’
‘You can’t prove that.’
Quinn hesitated. ‘There’d be nowhere to hide if it blows.’
‘How’s it going to blow? Are you going to blow it?’
‘If La Guardia gets a sniff of it—’
‘La Guardia! Don’t talk to me about that prick. Mr Goddamn Honest-as-the-day-is-long-holier-than-thou-you’d-better-believe-I’m-going-to-be-mayor-of-this-city La Guardia. What’s honest about refusing to talk to hardworking businessmen, eh? You tell me that. What’s honest about refusing to even goddamn sit down with us?’
‘You’re Mayor Jimmy Walker’s men, Owney.’
‘We’re businessmen, kid. What happens if he wins? What happens if some nut blows the little fix you’re on to? Then Jimmy loses and all bets are off, that’s what. So you need to be careful, real careful.’
‘What was it the goose did that you didn’t like, Owney?’
‘That’s enough, kid.’
‘Did he and his friends use a girl in a way someone didn’t care for?’
‘I said that’s enough.’
‘We’ve got two bodies. My partner thinks they were victims of a Wall Street fix. I figure there’s more to it than that.’
‘Why don’t you ask your pop? He was once king of the Centre Street cabal, right? Or is he too ashamed to talk about it?’ Madden’s eyes glinted. ‘You keep out of it. That’s my advice. And if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll take it. Your uncle is upstairs, sleeping it off. He’s been shitting himself since yesterday afternoon.’ He clicked his fingers a third time at the waiter. ‘Show this kid up to the blue room and clean up if there’s a mess. So long, Joe. Look after yourself.’
‘Are you going to the Kid Brown fight tomorrow night?’
‘For what? The Kid couldn’t make that goddamn nigger Willard break sweat. Now if you want to fight, you give me a call. It’s a whole lot safer than being a cop. And a whole lot better paid.’
Madden moved away from the table. Some of the customers tried to engage him in conversation, but he brushed them aside.
Moe Diamond was asleep in a small private lounge upstairs. The lights were off, bottles were strewn across the floor and the place stank of stale booze.
He was flat on his back, his mouth wide open. He was sweating and delirious, grumbling and muttering to himself.
Quinn reached out to touch him and Moe awoke instantly. Wide, frightened eyes stared unseeingly at him.
‘Moe, it’s me, Joe.’
‘Oh … Joe.’ He sat upright. ‘That’s good,’ he gasped. ‘I’m pleased to see you, Joe Quinn. That’s all right.’ He searched for an unfinished bottle, found one and gulped.
‘Were you expecting someone else?’
‘No. Yes. No. It’s just that, er, I thought …’
‘You’re not making sense, Moe.’
He hung his head. ‘Jeez, it was just a heck of a bad dream, you know?’
Quinn squatted down among the debris around him and cleared away a few of the bottles. ‘You should go easy on this stuff.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘You okay? You don’t look so hot.’
‘Well, that’s a fine way to talk to your uncle Moe. I ought to clip your ear, whippersnapper.’
Quinn forced a smile. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’
‘An estate in Connemara with a harem of beautiful girls.’
‘The journey home would kill you.’
‘Nonsense, I’m as fit as a fiddle.’ Moe tried to stand, but slumped back into the chair.
‘You want me to get you some water?’
‘Water? Pah!’
They watched one another in silence. Then Quinn said, ‘What’s going on, Moe?’
‘There’s nothing going on.’
‘Owney says you’re frightened.’
‘Owney two-bit hustler Madden says that? Remember, Joe, it was me who introduced you to Rothstein. Now there was a man!’ Moe picked up a glass from the carpet and poured a slug of whisky. ‘Here, have a drink. To the old country.’
‘The old country,’ Quinn echoed, without enthusiasm.
‘To Mr Pearse and the heroes of 1916. And let us piss for ever more on the grave of Mr Michael Collins. I knew him, conniving little fucker that he was. Not that you give two brass farthings, of course, but your father does and your mother did too, when she’d had a drink.’ Moe seemed to realize what he’d said and lowered his glass. ‘I’m sorry, Joe.’
Quinn nodded.
‘I had to come to the funeral. You understand that, don’t you? I know your old man claims he can’t bear the sight of me, but she was a great woman.’
‘I’m happy to hear anyone say so.’
‘No, c’mon, I’m not just saying so. I know how it was, but … we all bear the guilt, Joe. We do.’
‘How’s that?’
‘It was a tragedy what happened to her, so it was.’ Moe’s accent grew broader when he was in his cups. ‘She was a great girl. Nobody wanted her to get hurt.’
‘How did she get hurt?’
There was a long silence. ‘It was just a shame she got sick, such a beautiful woman. Were you there with her at the end?’
‘I guess so.’
‘I’m sorry, Joe. Sure, it must have been terrible. Was there any warning?’
‘I heard a cry and ran up to the roof. She was lying on the sidewalk.’
‘You had no idea she was going to …’
‘No.’
‘Of course, you don’t want to talk about it. I understand. She was a different woman those last years … Tragic. There’s nothing anyone could have done. You mustn’t blame yourself, Joe.’
‘Charlie Matsell had a photograph of Martha in his desk.’
‘So he should. She’s a beautiful girl.’
Quinn took the picture out and dropped it onto the table between them.
‘Good God,’ Moe said.
‘Have you seen it before?’
‘No. God in heaven …’ Moe raised his head. His eyes were wary.
‘You know anything about it?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Look close and you can see at least three men around that bed.’
‘Jesus, Joe. I can’t see …’
‘You know Jeremy Norton?’
‘I know who he is. He’s not much of a columnist, in my opinion, but—’
‘He was in on your fix, just like Spencer Duncan. Duncan saw him a few weeks ago and asked if he’d like to be cut in on a real good broad they were going to use. Know anything about that?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Quit playing the innocent, Moe. It doesn’t suit you.’
‘And being a ball-breaker doesn’t suit you. If your mother knew you were—’
‘I’m guessing she never got to find out how you used to visit that apartment in the basement and stick your fat fingers down Martha’s knickers.’
‘For God’s sake! To think of all the times I used to take you out and—’
‘Something’s been happening to make a guy mad enough to want to kill two men in two days. Both of them were in on your fix.’
Moe’s cheeks were flushed with fury. ‘Did your father put you up to this?’
‘What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Did you tell him what I said last night?’
‘Yes. He said you must have just got out of the asylum.’
‘Did he? Well, you tell him tonight that if they come for me, he’s next.’
‘Why would he be next?’
Moe grunted something inaudible, got to his feet and stumbled towards the cupboard. He found what he was looking for, poured another glass and took a huge swig. ‘Mr Holier-than-thou. Mr Oh-so-bloody-honourable. That’s the biggest goddamned lie there is! I knew he’d put you up to this.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘He’s in as deep as the rest of us! He’s just as much a part of it.’
Quinn felt pressure build in his head.
‘You can work it out, kid. You’re an intelligent boy. I’m not going to have him throwing the morality book at me.’
Quinn mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘The old man’s difficult sometimes, but he’s the most honourable man I know.’
‘Honourable men do dishonourable things, Joe.’ Moe’s eyes blazed. ‘Then they like to pretend they’re paragons of virtue to conceal their shameful little secrets. He thinks he’s better than the rest of us but he’s not.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘Oh, yes, I am. Why do you think he took that girl in? Why did he pick Martha off the street? You ever asked yourself that? Look at her. I told you already. You can take a girl out of the Bowery, but you can’t—’
‘That’s enough.’
‘Your mother knew the truth and that’s why she got sick, so I’m damned if I’ll have him judging me!’
Quinn pocketed the photograph. ‘He was there. That’s what you’re saying?’
Moe snorted. ‘I’m saying I’m damned if I’m going to sit here and listen to you telling me he’s judging me!’
But Quinn was already on his feet. In the corridor he pressed his face to the cool stone wall and listened to the music of the jazz band drifting up the stairs. His heart was thumping like a jackhammer.
He made his way to the bathroom, shoved a cubicle door back against the wall and battled to stem the waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.
‘I say, old man, are you all right?’
Quinn straightened. A man with too much hair was bent over a line of white powder. ‘Fancy a toot? It clears the palate.’
Quinn didn’t answer.
‘I said, fancy a toot? It’ll cheer you up no end.’
‘You’re English?’
‘Absolutely!’
‘Ever been to this city before?’
‘No!’
‘Heard of a place called the Tombs?’
‘Only just discovered the Cotton Club.’
Quinn took hold of the guy’s shoulder, grabbed his hair and smashed his face on the marble surface. ‘This is cocaine, I’m a cop, and the Tombs is the kind of place where boys like yo
u get fucked from dusk till dawn, so beat it!’
The man’s face was now as white as the powder that coated his bruised cheekbone. His leather shoes squeaked as he fled.
Quinn took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror.
Hollow eyes stared back.
Twenty minutes later, Quinn parked the Gardner outside the front of the El station. He got out and stood on the sidewalk. The rain ran down the steel pillars that supported the train tracks and a group of young boys argued over a craps game. One caught sight of a familiar figure on the wooden steps and lurched forward with a cry. He had the umbrella up before his father’s feet had touched the sidewalk. The pair set off, arm in arm, into the night.
Quinn went into the Italian store on the corner and shuffled around in the warmth until he found a Chinese parasol. He bought it, stepped onto the sidewalk again, put it up and listened to the rain pattering on its brittle exterior.
Another El arrived and unleashed its tide of commuter traffic. Even the kids in the craps game looked up. ‘Dad!’ one cried. Then
he, too, was gone.
The rain dripped onto Quinn’s boots, but he made no move.
He could feel his father’s hand tightening around his own. He could feel the warmth of his grip in the darkness …
‘Joe?’ Mae Miller was beside him, her forehead creased. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Sure.’
‘Are you waiting for someone?’
‘Er … no.’
Mae had a bag of shopping under her arm. ‘I saw your father come off the El a few minutes ago. Aidan picked him up in that fancy new automobile.’ Her smile faded. ‘Are you really okay, Joe? You don’t look well.’
‘I’m fine.’
She seemed reluctant to move off. ‘That was terrible news about Mr Duncan. The boss is in a real state. He was still there when I left, with the men from City Hall burning his ear.’
Quinn didn’t answer.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Joe.’ Her gaze lingered. ‘Goodnight.’
‘’Night.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
QUINN SLIPPED THE LATCH AND ENTERED THE APARTMENT QUIETLY. The volume on the radio was turned up high and he recognized the relentless beat of the Melody Boys. He hung up his coat and dropped his keys into the bowl.
