Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  ‘Now, sir?’

  ‘Yes, now. You busy?’

  ‘No. I only just went … Of course.’

  ‘Get your coat. It’s clocking-off time, so you won’t want to come back.’

  Mrs Mecklenburg sat on the same bench but her head was bent, as though she was in pain. She did not appear to see them pass. Quinn didn’t ask whether she had heard the news from Syracuse.

  They strolled along the sidewalk against the tide of commuters, with careworn faces, pressing for home. A trolley-bus screeched to a halt, narrowly missing a line of pedestrians, and insults were traded.

  The door of the café banged shut and they slipped into a booth adjacent to the one Quinn and Gloria Duncan had occupied earlier in the day. The trumpeter Jabbo Smith’s ‘Take Me To The River’ was being played on a wireless behind the counter. McCredie ordered ham and eggs over easy, Quinn a cup of black coffee. When it came, he spooned in sugar.

  ‘When did you arrive at Centre Street, sir?’

  ‘Before Noah entered the Ark. And before that shit Schneider, which is how I’ve managed to survive. I know a few tricks he still hasn’t quite mastered.’

  McCredie lifted the curtain and glanced out of the window, then put his briefcase on the table and flipped the latch. He took out a piece of paper. ‘Have you seen the report your partner gave Schneider?’

  When Quinn shook his head, McCredie turned the sheet around and pushed it across the table. He waited while Quinn digested it. There was nothing surprising. ‘Is something wrong?’

  McCredie lit the stub of a cigar and sat back. ‘You’ve worked hard to get here, son.’

  Quinn didn’t know if this was a question or a statement. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘According to records, you first applied for an attachment two years ago.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’ve waited longer than you might have expected to, given your precinct reports. You figure they were holding your father’s experience against you?’

  ‘No,’ Quinn said warily.

  McCredie puffed at his cigar. The waitress brought the ham and eggs and he palmed her a dollar bill with a wink. She slipped it into her pocket.

  McCredie shovelled the food into his mouth. ‘You lost out on the market?’ he mumbled.

  ‘I’ve never bought any stocks.’

  ‘I’m down a grand on the day. I’ll be working till I’m goddamn ninety.’ He pointed at the report. ‘You’ve got to be careful with this stuff, son. You understand me?’

  ‘No, sir, I—’

  ‘Schneider wants you out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He thinks you’re a hothead. I say you’ve got balls.’ McCredie leant forward. ‘You’re smart, kid, and strong. I can use a cop like you. Hell, you might even help me stop Schneider, Fogelman and all those bastards in Vice taking over the force. But look out of the window at the faces of those schmucks traipsing home. What do you see in their eyes?’

  ‘Rainwater.’

  ‘Defeat. They’ve been piling in on margin like every other sucker in this country. And they’ve all been dreaming of a house on the prairie or a beachside home in Florida. Tonight they’re staring ruin in the face. Have you thought about that, son?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, you should. A good cop is aware of the environment in which he lives and of the events that swirl around him.’ McCredie wiped up the remains of his egg with a hunk of bread. ‘Now, if you’re smart enough to have kept your dough in a plain old savings account, then I congratulate you on your foresight. But you need to take a look at the faces out on that sidewalk and think about this report.’

  ‘I’m not sure I—’

  ‘I’m trying to do you a favour, Detective.’ McCredie prodded the paper. ‘What your guinea partner has written here is enough right now to blow this city sky high. People are spooked. The market’s falling. Dreams are dying. There’s panic on Wall Street, even if you and your friend have your heads too far up your backsides to notice. The House of Morgan has not stepped in. Washington is nervous. The commissioner wants the Riot Squad to ring the district at the crack of dawn.’ McCredie’s green eyes were fixed on Quinn. ‘How much do you figure these people trudging home tonight need to know that the second most powerful man in the city, the mayor’s chief aide no less, has been in bed with a bunch of cheap guinea hoods to buy off the respected writers upon whose analysis they have faithfully invested their paycheck and plenty else besides?’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Good, because what you should know is that Schneider has spent his entire life kissing the ass of every politico and Wall Street swell he thought might do him some good. You put something like this in front of him and he flips out. And that means I have to save your hide.’

  McCredie slipped the sheet back into the briefcase and closed it. He pushed away his plate and relit his cigar. ‘That’s it, right? We’re done.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Quinn agreed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Wrong, son. You want to tell me about Goldberg?’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘Schneider thinks different – and so does the commissioner. Johnny wants to put your eyes out. How long have you known the guy?’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  McCredie stared at the clock on the wall. Smoke from his cigar drifted towards the counter. He opened his briefcase again and took out another document. ‘This was compiled by the commissioner’s new Red Squad.’

  A photograph of Martha was pinned to it, a copy of an old studio portrait his father had commissioned for her eighteenth birthday. It must have been lifted from their apartment. The report itself ran to four pages. They had clearly been following her for weeks.

  ‘Some people say she’s your sister and some your girlfriend. Which is it, Detective?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘Then what shall we call her?’

  ‘She’s my adopted sister and my brother’s fiancée.’

  McCredie smiled. ‘Good. Because that means you can drop her. This girl is trouble. She’s a Communist.’

  ‘A socialist.’

  ‘You tell me anyone in Commie Russia knows the difference? She’s a troublemaker – labour reforms, picket-line agitation, some bleeding-heart goddamn refuge for street kids and, worst of all, she’s in with La Guardia.’

  ‘I didn’t know Major La Guardia had become a Communist.’

  ‘Don’t play the smartass with me, son. I’m all that stands between you and a lifetime back in the precincts.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Tell me about her.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘She’s a Communist, right?’

  ‘No, she’s not.’

  ‘That’s not what it says here, son.’

  ‘She wears her heart on her sleeve. She had a tough upbringing. She considers herself fortunate to have been … rescued. She feels passionately that she should spend her life helping others.’ Quinn thought about this. It was certainly what he wanted to believe. ‘She’s … I guess you’d call her an idealist.’

  ‘What’s the difference between an idealist and a Communist?’

  ‘She’s not interested in politics. She’s interested in human beings.’

  ‘She works for La Guardia.’

  ‘Not any more. And she only worked for him for a short time.’

  ‘Take a look at the file, son. She’s met him half a dozen times in four weeks.’

  Quinn turned the page and scanned the rest of the report.

  ‘You understand our concerns?’

  ‘Not really, sir, no.’

  ‘Then you need to wise up. We all know La Guardia would make common cause with the devil if it suited him. So Schneider reckons he put your sister – or whatever the hell she is – into that firm to steal documents that could be used to link the mayor’s office with the Wall Street fix.’

  ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘It’s real, son. That’s
how politics in this city works. And if she or her boss weren’t feeding material to Goldberg and his masters at the Sun, then Schneider figures it must have been you.’

  As McCredie took back the file, his eyes rested on the photograph pinned to the front. Then he slipped it into his briefcase. Louis Armstrong’s ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’ ’ was now being played on the wireless and a waiter turned up the volume. McCredie put his face to the window and waved at someone on the other side of the street. The lamps on an automobile flickered into life and, a moment later, a dark town saloon pulled out of one of the official bays and cruised to a halt outside. ‘Did you hear what else

  happened today, son?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘The commissioner confirmed to us privately upstairs that he’s going to stand down after the election. Schneider wants his job and he’s spent the last year telling City Hall I’m the problem. The word is he’s done a deal with the Bull. If Johnny supports his bid to go upstairs, he gets my job. In the next few days, Johnny adds the Red Squad to his empire, which means this file and a whole bunch of others formally become his responsibility. So, we have to play a smart game here, and right now you’re out on the left field. Do we understand one another?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve got to watch your step. If a jerk like Goldberg gets wind of the Wall Street fix your guinea friend just wrote up, we’re deep in the shit.’ McCredie sighed. He put on his hat. ‘After you’ve been here a while, you’ll learn that survival’s the real deal.’ He stood and shunted the table back. ‘My advice is to dump the broad. A good-looking Headquarters detective like you should be able to hook any woman he wants.’ McCredie slipped on his raincoat and plucked his cigar from the ashtray.

  ‘Sir, what happens if the murders of Matsell and Spencer Duncan are connected?’

  ‘They’re not.’

  ‘But suppose we’re wrong. Two guys have been murdered in two days, so what happens if it is the same killer and he has other victims in mind, maybe other men who are connected to the mayor?’ He saw a flash of doubt in McCredie’s eyes.

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  IT WAS FIGHT NIGHT IN HARLEM AND THE BUCKS AND SWELLS OF New York’s twilight world had cruised well north of the roaring forties. Limousine headlamps the size of searchlights backed up from the sporting club. Bejewelled women and dandies tripped up the steps into an auditorium packed to the rafters.

  It smelt of sawdust, sweat, cheaply brewed ale and cigarette smoke. Wiseguys yelled odds from their booths. Negro kids darted up the aisles with cigarettes, sweets and fight programmes. Quinn found his seat – the three next to it were empty – then walked one row along, climbed to the back and bought a bag of boiled sweets and a programme.

  The first fight was between Johnny Logan and Luigi Marsillo. The purse was two thousand dollars and a percentage of it was being donated to the Olympic boxing fund. Quinn cracked his teeth on a boiled sweet and watched the fighters warm themselves up. Logan looked stronger and fitter and was the four-to-one favourite, but Marsillo’s manager was Vic Raymond, and Pete Hartley was in as referee.

  So, you could bet your life it would be Marsillo.

  Quinn dabbed the sweat from his brow. The heat beneath the steel rafters was ferocious.

  The bell sounded and Johnny Logan danced into the centre of the ring. Both fighters ducked and wove for a few seconds, then Logan hit his opponent so hard he went down. Marsillo was stunned. Vic Raymond surged against the ropes and roared his anger, jumping up and down like he was dancing on coals. Since he was barely five feet tall, weighed more than two hundred pounds and had a round face with only two teeth showing, the effect was comical.

  Marsillo got to his feet. He kept his opponent at bay until the end of the round, but next time out got knocked flat twice in quick succession. He tried to fight back. He went down once in the next round and twice in the one after. The crowd began to roar for the fight to be called off or Johnny to finish him. Vic Raymond screamed synthetic abuse at the referee, his face twisted with fury.

  Quinn took off his jacket and sat on it. He kept half an eye on the empty seats.

  The bell sounded the final round. Quinn watched Marsillo for signs of fatigue. He was holding up well, given he’d hit the canvas half a dozen times. Logan was tiring and Marsillo got a couple of decent jabs to his jaw. One caught the corner of an eye and drew blood. From this distance, it didn’t look too bad, but the referee saw his chance and was in like lightning. Logan tried to shove him off, but Hartley clung on and waved for the medic. It took them only a few seconds to decide the fight should be called off.

  The crowd erupted. Bottles were thrown. Abuse was hurled at Hartley and Raymond. Marsillo shrugged on his robe and was bundled from the ring.

  Quinn sucked another sweet.

  The main bout pitted Sandy MacDonald against Harry ‘Kid’ Brown and as the two fighters emerged, a tall, elegant blonde climbed up towards the empty seats. Despite the heat in there, she was wrapped up in a shiny new raccoon coat.

  The new referee announced the bout to loud cheers.

  Quinn moved down to join her. ‘Mrs Duncan.’

  Cool blue eyes scrutinized his face. ‘Detective. What a delightful surprise.’

  He handed over the ticket he’d found in Spencer Duncan’s wallet. ‘I was curious to see what kind of a guy went to a fight alone.’

  ‘As you can see, he would not have been alone.’

  ‘I thought you hated his guts, ma’am.’

  ‘It’s Gloria – for the last time. And who says I didn’t?’

  The bell went. They watched Sandy and the Kid exchange blows.

  She waved at a kid and palmed him a hundred-dollar bill. ‘Place it on Sandy and bring me the ticket.’ She peeled off another note. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘You might want to go for the Kid,’ Quinn said.

  ‘You know something I don’t, Detective?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She nodded to the boy to indicate he should go with Quinn’s advice, then turned back, brushing his leg as she did so. ‘Is this what you expected to find, Detective?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then there are more surprises in store for you.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  She lit a cigarette. One leg rested easily against his. The tempo of the fight tailed off and the two men circled each other. Sandy MacDonald was managed by Champ Segal, who was on his feet yelling something at his fighter or the referee, maybe both. The Kid stepped in and knocked MacDonald flat.

  The crowd roared. Men waved their hats.

  A couple entered the auditorium, the man in a baggy suit and a black Stetson. He bowled forward like a bull elephant. The tall, graceful woman glided after him in a simple pleated white skirt and sweater. Fiorella La Guardia took the seat next to Quinn. He had a strong, lived-in face, resolute rather than handsome, with a square jaw and bright blue eyes. Quinn took the proffered hand.

  ‘I guess you must be the detective. We weren’t expecting you.’

  Martha sat alongside Gloria Duncan. She avoided Quinn’s eye.

  Sandy MacDonald was on his feet again. He charged at the Kid and flailed ineffectually at his upper body. He’d deteriorated dramatically since Quinn had last seen him fight and there seemed little need of a fix. MacDonald opened himself up with an unwise thrust at Brown’s jaw and the Kid knocked him flat again.

  ‘What brings you here, Detective?’ La Guardia said.

  ‘I was thinking perhaps I should ask you the same question, sir.’

  ‘I like a good, clean fight.’ La Guardia wasn’t smiling. ‘That what we’ve got here?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  La Guardia turned to his right. ‘Did he tell you who to wager on, Gloria?’

  ‘He said I should go for the Kid.’

  ‘Then he’s a smart man, maybe the kind we can do business with. What do you say, Mr Quinn?�
�

  ‘It depends what kind of business you’re in.’

  ‘A fine answer.’ La Guardia ran a hand over his jaw. ‘Well, it’s simple. I don’t want to prove that the mayor is a liar because I want to take his place. I want to prove it because he is a liar and the corruption he encourages is a cancer that’s destroying this city.’

  The bell sounded for the end of the round and Champ Segal darted into the ring to retrieve his fighter. MacDonald looked close to the end of his strength. He staggered and slumped onto the stool. Segal poured a bucket of water over his head.

  ‘They should give the guy a break,’ La Guardia said, ‘or the Kid will kill him.’

  ‘What line of business are you in, sir?’

  The politician placed his Stetson on his knee. ‘I’m a debt collector, Detective.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘The kind that operates for the city of New York.’

  ‘Whose debts do you collect?’

  La Guardia gave him a thin smile. ‘Are you telling me, my friend, that you’ve never asked yourself how the mayor, on a salary of twenty thousand a year, manages to travel the world first class, for months at a time, in the style of an oil millionaire?’

  ‘That’s not really my affair, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘I’m a city detective.’

  ‘You’re a New Yorker. You’re a citizen of this town.’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘What if there was a connection with a case you were working on? Would it be your affair then?’

  ‘Is there?’

  La Guardia laughed. ‘Why do you think your department, with all its swanky automobiles full of celebrity cops, couldn’t crack the Rothstein case? The city’s most notorious gambler and criminal is gunned down on the sidewalk and we still can’t pin it on a single damn hood.’

  The bell rang again and MacDonald stumbled out. The Kid looked reluctant to put him out of his misery.

  ‘This is goddamn murder,’ La Guardia grumbled. ‘Someone should put a stop to it.’