Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  Martha sat by the window in semi-darkness, looking out at the night sky. She did not register his presence until he was beside her. Then her face lit up. ‘Joe!’ She glanced around him to check he was alone, then turned to the wireless and twirled the volume button. ‘How are you? How was your day?’

  ‘Long.’

  ‘Did you get something to eat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s some stew left. I’ll heat it up for you.’

  ‘Stay where you are. I’m not hungry.’

  Quinn sat down near a photograph of his mother. Martha was standing by the wall, poised like a ballet dancer. She wore a simple cream pleated skirt. She had washed and curled her hair. ‘Have you seen Aidan?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Didn’t you look in at McSorley’s?’

  He shook his head and she wagged a finger at him. She sat down and put her feet on the window frame. Her skirt slipped above her knee. They watched a group of girls being upbraided by the night-watchman from the hat factory for playing potsy, a kind of hopscotch, on ‘his’ sidewalk. I brek you hank ’n’ feet …

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ Martha asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aidan has a new bottle of whisky. I know where he keeps it.’

  The apartment was spotless. As usual, freshly starched shirt collars stood stiffly to attention along the dresser. The Santini grandchildren clattered up the stairs, singing as they went:

  ‘Johnny on the ocean, Johnny on the sea,

  Johnny broke the sugar bowl

  And blamed it all on me,

  I told Ma, Ma told Pa,

  Johnny got a licking,

  Ha! Ha! Ha!’

  Quinn waited for the door to slam. A shout from their irate grandmother rose to the rafters.

  A gust of wind rattled the windows and the rain began again, in great sweeping arcs. The street-lamps rippled as the kids dashed for cover. Mrs Santini slapped young Paulo, who slipped on the stoop. The janitor’s son, a small, slight boy with thick round glasses, was with him. He bore a striking resemblance to Mickey McIlroy, the least useful member of Quinn’s childhood gang, who didn’t like to play marbles, because it made his pants dirty, and refused to take off his glasses to fight. Aidan had made it his life’s work to protect him, which meant that Joe had spent a lot of time fighting off Mickey’s enemies.

  ‘Did you see Sarah today?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘I found her on the roof. She said you’d let her stay there.’

  ‘You believed her?’

  ‘I know you’re a soft touch. She was soaked to the skin, so I boxed her ears and took her back to the orphanage. I told her if I found her up there at night again, I’d bring her down to Headquarters and you’d lock her up.’

  Quinn did his best to grin at her.

  ‘I had to promise we’d take her down to Coney Island before the end of the week, so you’d better make sure you’re here.’ She spoke with the Irish lilt she’d picked up from his parents. ‘What about you? Did you have a good day?’

  He was silent for a time. Eventually he said, ‘We found Spencer Duncan’s body in the back of a Buick on the edge of Central Park.’

  Her smile vanished. ‘You mean …’

  Quinn watched her intently. He didn’t like her reaction. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he’s quoted in the paper.’ She reached for the late edition of the Evening News, which had been tucked under a copy of the Bible. ‘Here, look, “Bare Bank Books La Guardia Dares … Mayor Walker denied today he’d ever been photographed with Arnold Rothstein or Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano and said it was ‘absurd’ to claim he was a friend of either man. His close aide Spencer Duncan suggested Major La Guardia’s latest allegations were a sign of ‘increasing desperation’ and ‘a sure sign he knows his cause is lost’.” ’

  ‘He may have given a quote to the News but he’s dead now.’

  On the stairs the Santinis had begun their evening music practice.

  ‘First Charlie Matsell, now his buddy over in City Hall,’ Quinn said. ‘Maybe you have an idea why.’ He took out a box of cigarettes and offered her one. They listened to the Melody Boys and smoked in silence. Martha flicked through a magazine. When the song finished, she turned off the wireless. He noticed she’d left the page open at a shot of a long, sandy beach. ‘You thinking of going away somewhere?’

  ‘I often do.’

  ‘Where would you go?’

  ‘Sometimes I dream about that place on Coney Island. I can hear the rain on the tin roof and feel your mother’s arms around me.’

  They had found a kind of refuge at the kuch alein guesthouse after Martha’s adoption, and had stayed on the island all summer, an unheard-of luxury.

  ‘I felt safe there. At night, when it’s dark, I can sometimes still smell her scent and feel my lips brush the skin of her neck. I wake

  up convinced she’s there.’

  Quinn suppressed a stab of nausea.

  ‘I like to remember how she was then,’ Martha said. ‘Everyone was so kind to me. No one ever treated me like that before. Do you remember when you and I went to that fortune-teller in the gypsy tent?’

  ‘It was a dumb idea.’

  ‘Many children! I’d better get a move on, eh?’

  Quinn avoided her eye. ‘I guess …’

  ‘Sarah told me she’d go to school for sure if we bought an apartment there.’

  ‘You figure it’s time to tell her that her father moved on long ago?’

  ‘No,’ Martha said. ‘I don’t think so. We should never tell her that. Sometimes hope, a dream, is everything.’

  Quinn waited. ‘It seems Charlie Matsell was fond of you. You ever consider going some place with him?’

  Her eyes were suddenly cold, hard. ‘You should go to McSorley’s. They’ll be expecting you.’

  ‘I’ve got a picture of you naked, which I found in his desk.’

  ‘Does that turn you on, Joe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then don’t mention it again.’

  ‘There were other men in the photograph.’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  Martha scooped up a sweater and headed for the door.

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Those guys boast to their friends about using broads. They said a few weeks ago they were going to have a real special one they could use.’

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Do you have anything to say about that?’

  She tried to push past him, but he spun her around. ‘You were screwing your boss?’

  ‘You can’t really believe that.’

  ‘There’s a picture of you naked on his bed.’

  ‘I’ve told you – it’s none of your business.’

  ‘That makes you a suspect.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Her tone was brittle. ‘But it might make me a victim if you don’t back off.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You know what happened to Charlie Matsell and Spencer Duncan. You can see the kind of people they were. That’s – that’s what I found out. What do you think their friends are going to do if they hear someone’s been shooting their mouth off?’

  ‘You think this is Luciano’s boys?’

  ‘I don’t know who it is. And I don’t want to.’

  ‘I’ve always said I’d protect you, but I can’t unless you help me out.’

  She stared at him. ‘Will you protect me, Joe? You think that’s what I want?’ Her face was so close he could feel her breath upon his cheek. ‘I used to worship you. You have no idea what it meant to me to be swept up by this family. Because you always had love and security, you can’t imagine how it is to experience neither. I used to watch you skip past me up those stairs and dream of one day living in a world like yours. And when, miracle of miracles, it happened, I was so frightened I didn’t dare speak for a month.’ A tear glistened on her cheek. ‘I followed you. I believed in you. But now I see
you’re like all the rest. This isn’t about protecting me. It’s about you – your ambition, your desire, your needs.’

  ‘You can’t pretend nothing’s happening.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m just telling you it’s none of your business. You have no rights over me.’

  ‘I don’t claim any rights, but tonight this turned into a double homicide. I can’t pretend—’

  ‘Really? That’s not what I heard.’

  He stared at her. ‘Who have you spoken to?’

  ‘If you want to bring me down to the Tombs, go right ahead. Otherwise, I don’t want to talk about it inside the walls of our home. And I certainly don’t want it mentioned in front of Aidan. Is that clear?’

  ‘Do you enjoy making a fool of me?’

  ‘No one’s making a fool of you.’

  ‘How can you pretend nothing’s passed between us?’

  ‘Joe … I don’t belong to you. I never have done. I’m marrying your brother.’ She put on her cloche hat and stepped away from him. ‘Now, go to McSorley’s. If this is how it’s going to be, I don’t want to be alone with you here. You’ll have to move out.’

  He followed her down to the sidewalk. ‘Martha!’

  A bunch of older kids warming themselves around a packing-box fire whistled loudly as she darted past. Quinn growled at them. Martha skipped down the steps into the hole-in-the-wall.

  Quinn forced himself to stride on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE DOOR OF MCSORLEY’S BANGED BACK HARDER THAN HE’D intended. The conversation dipped and heads turned. The owner, Old Bill, raised a hand in ironic salute as the hubbub resumed. He took down an earthenware jug of the filthy ‘near beer’ he’d brewed in the cellar since Prohibition had come into force ten years earlier. It must have been freshly made, because the smell of malt and wet hops was strong. It was mixed with the habitual aroma of pine sawdust, pipe tobacco, coal smoke and onions.

  Quinn dropped a couple of coins on the bar. All around him, between the cobwebs and the paint flaking from the walls and ceiling, there were countless mementoes of the past. There was a copy of the New York Herald with a one-column story on the assassination of Lincoln and the edition of the Times of London that carried news of the battle of Waterloo. There were pictures of Lincoln and McKinley in heavy wooden frames, and the area between the bar and the back bore portraits of jockeys, actors, singers and, above all, the men who had held sway at Tammany. Beside them, an engraving of the rebel leader Kelly being rescued by fellow members of the Irish Revolutionary Brotherhood in Manchester, England, hung in pride of place.

  Like Leisler’s oak, it made Quinn’s father feel at home.

  Quinn eased past a pair of customers standing at the bar and headed for the far wall. His father and brother always sat there. He put his jug on the stove, alongside theirs. In winter, they preferred to drink their ale as hot as coffee. It tasted just about palatable that way.

  Neither his father nor his brother spoke. The atmosphere was sleepy, the air thick, and the rhythmic ticking of clocks seemed to slow time. Aidan picked up his jug, passed Gerry his, and they drained them. ‘Hey, Bill,’ he shouted, towards the bar, and the bartender raised a hand.

  ‘Been home?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She wanted to know where you were.’

  ‘I went to the El station to wait. I heard I just missed you.’

  They were surrounded by friendly faces, but no one came near. ‘We’re thinking of taking a trip up to New Haven to see the football game, Joe,’ Aidan said. ‘A buddy’s loaned me his new Duesenberg Torpedo. She’s a beauty; a bright-red coupé. You want to come?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We’re going on Saturday.’

  ‘Aidan’s got a bet on. He thinks Booth can win it on his own.’

  ‘You didn’t see him on those runs against Army.’

  ‘Everybody and his kid brother is scoring against Army. I’ll lay you five dollars Al Marsters’ll block him out.’

  Bill interrupted their discussion to place a pewter jug on the stove. Quinn reached into his pocket for some change, but the bartender wouldn’t take it.

  Aidan picked up a leather wallet and took out some papers. ‘Joe, you just have to sign here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your share of Mom’s estate. It’s only a few dollars, but I’ve paid Dad. I need to put the rest of the money into your account.’

  Quinn scanned the page.

  ‘You okay?’ Aidan asked. ‘You don’t look well.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘They just need your signature.’

  Quinn scribbled it, then pushed the paper back across the table.

  ‘I spoke to Herman about the rent. He wanted a ten per cent raise. I told him to go to hell.’ Aidan put the papers back in the wallet. ‘I’ll beat him down.’

  ‘Aidan’s persuaded Shipley to bankroll his first showroom,’ Gerry said, his voice filled with pride. Shipley was an old friend who’d built up a successful auto-repair business.

  ‘Maybe,’ Aidan said. ‘It’s not for sure, but he called me up today.’ He glanced at his brother. ‘I’ve a lot to thank Joe for.’

  ‘His bloody snoring for a start,’ Gerry said.

  Quinn didn’t laugh.

  Aidan got up and headed for the men’s room.

  Quinn waited for his father to speak, but he was watching the fire and tapping his foot on the floor. ‘I need to talk to you, Dad.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I need to talk to you outside.’

  Gerry frowned. ‘You’ve got something to say, son, say it here.’

  ‘I’d rather it was outside.’

  Gerry didn’t move.

  Quinn glanced about him. ‘Did you ever get into any trouble with Moe?’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  Quinn hesitated. ‘Something he said tonight.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About …’ It was hard to find the right words.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you were involved in something. Maybe it got out of hand.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘It had to do with broads. He talked about Martha.’

  Gerry went very still. ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘He said you played the good guy, but were as much a part of it as he was.’

  ‘He was drunk.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I hope he’s not your witness.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about a witness. I know you left Centre Street suddenly and I just—’

  Gerry thrust his head forward. ‘Now, you listen to me. Moe Diamond is a proven liar. He’s a filthy, despicable human being and neither your mother nor I have had him in the house for more than a decade. If I’d had my way, he’d have been strung up from a lamp-post for daring to come to her funeral.’

  ‘He was real worked up about it. He said you’d know what—’

  ‘He’s a liar. A fantasist. You either believe him or you believe me.’ Gerry fixed him with a ferocious glare. ‘That’s it. There’s no more to say.’

  Aidan reappeared and landed heavily in his chair. ‘Not breaking anything up, am I? No shop-talk. That’s the rule.’

  ‘Give us a minute, Ade,’ Quinn said.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more,’ Gerry said. ‘Is that clear?’

  ‘Dad—’

  ‘That’s it. That’s all there is to say.’

  ‘About what?’ Aidan asked.

  ‘Leave it, Ade,’ Gerry said.

  Quinn sighed. ‘Did you hear about Spencer Duncan?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gerry said.

  ‘He was Charlie Matsell’s last visitor. You know that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Word gets around.’

  ‘Did someone tell you what happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He had a knife wound in his chest and a shallow cut to the thr
oat. His pants were around his knees.’

  Gerry sipped his ale. ‘The cut to the throat is the mark of a vendetta. It’s an old Sicilian tradition.’

  Quinn heaved himself forwards. ‘Did you know Charlie Matsell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s just that if he was part of the same crowd that you and Moe were in, then—’

  ‘There never was a crowd. And I said drop it.’ He stared at his son. ‘In fact, drop the case.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve been around long enough to tell you that it smells to hell and back.’

  ‘I can’t just walk away.’

  ‘You want to know how this ends? Sooner or later you’ll hit the wall.’

  ‘What wall?’

  ‘The wall they’ve built around themselves and those who serve them. Just look at the names on the ticket. It’s their world. Leave it to them. Join Ade in his showroom. He’d take you on any time.’

  ‘Martha’s involved. I can’t just—’

  ‘I’ve pulled her out. We should never have allowed her anywhere near them. Any of them.’ Gerry kicked the door of the stove shut, so hard that the room fell silent.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MARTHA DIDN’T SAY A WORD, BUT HE KNEW SHE WAS STILL ANGRY.

  The table was cleaned aggressively, plates banged down.

  ‘You’re mad at me.’

  ‘How could I possibly be mad at you?’

  ‘Dad won’t give me any answers either.’

  ‘To what? The eternal questions of life? The square root of fourteen million?’ She turned to him. ‘Are you going to say anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you are angry. And so am I.’

  Quinn moved to the cupboard above the stove, took down Aidan’s bottle of bootlegged whisky and a glass, then went to his room. He poured a huge measure, lit a cigarette, opened the window and sat on the edge of the bed. A few minutes later, he threw the stub into the courtyard, lay back and waited for the alcohol to take effect.

  He listened to Martha outside his door. After a few minutes, the sound of crockery chinking ceased and she switched on the radio.