by Tom Bradby
‘Yes.’
‘Did he explain what kind of incident?’
‘No.’
‘But you guessed?’
‘I really wouldn’t like to say, sir.’
‘Would you tell me what the officer looked like?’
O’Grady frowned. ‘It’s hard to say. He was in uniform.’
‘He was an older man?’
‘Yes. He was stocky, about your height. Irish, too. There was certainly a hint of the old country in his accent.’
‘Thank you, Michael. You’ve been most helpful.’
Quinn stood on the Plaza’s front step and breathed in the night air. He took out Caprisi’s address and tapped the card against his sleeve. He lit a cigarette and sucked in the smoke. A cop’s uniform was the best disguise in the world. No one ever remembered the face. He turned towards the shadows of Central Park.
He couldn’t see any sign of the Gardner and looked for the doorman, but got no more than four or five paces before he felt the unmistakable pressure of a gun barrel in the small of his back.
‘Keep moving, Detective,’ a man growled.
He was bundled down the steps and into the back of a cream saloon that cruised up alongside the kerb. The engine roared and the automobile screeched away down Broadway, a man on each running board. Quinn pushed himself upright in the deep leather seat.
‘Good evening, Joe,’ Meyer Lansky said.
‘Not any more.’ Quinn eased himself forward.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Siegel warned. ‘Lucky just wants to talk.’
‘What kind of talk does he have in mind?’
‘Not the kind you need to worry about,’ Lansky said. ‘Someone’s screwing with us, Detective, and we don’t like that.’
‘What’s it got to do with me?’
‘You’re in the middle, and that ain’t a comfortable place to be. Did you sell that dope to Goldberg?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure about that? The boys at Headquarters say different.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘She’s your broad, though, right?’
Quinn sighed. ‘What is it you want, Meyer?’
‘We want to protect our interests. Are you going to help us do that? Or would you prefer to take a ride out to the island?’
The driver swung the saloon onto the Bowery. The city’s flotsam and jetsam poured in and out of the flophouses and salvation missions. As they reached the thieves’ market, between Houston and Delancey, the lights turned red. A couple of jewellery and watch salesmen approached Quinn’s window, oblivious to the men on the running boards.
Quinn glanced from side to side. ‘Relax, Detective,’ Siegel drawled.
But Quinn knew how road trips to see Luciano usually ended. As the car jerked away from the lights, he lashed an elbow into Siegel’s mouth and threw open the door. The guy on the running board tipped onto the street and Quinn was through. He rolled once on the tarmac, sprang to his feet and was immediately lost in the crowd. He heard shouting behind him and a burst of gunfire. He did not look back.
Tyres screeched and more shouts pierced the cacophony of the night. Quinn knocked over a raincoat banner outside a secondhand store, almost flattened a pair of men who staggered from a flophouse and swung into a salvation mission.
It was packed. It smelt of unwashed bodies and cigarette smoke. Onstage, a preacher intoned drearily beneath a large wooden cross, a Bible clutched to his chest. Men sat on rows of long benches in front of him. Most were fast asleep.
Siegel and one of his men appeared in the doorway. Quinn sprinted onto the stage, past the startled preacher, and out through a door at the back.
He found himself in a narrow corridor, filled with the aroma of onions and cabbage. He sprinted to the kitchen. Siegel yelled at him to stop, but Quinn threw himself across a wide metal table, catapulting a pile of dishes onto the floor. He dived out of the window as machine-gun fire peppered the walls.
He was in a backyard. He reached for a decrepit metal fire escape. Siegel shouted again and bullets pinged off the metal struts. The staircase rattled. Quinn reached the roof of the building and leapt over the parapet.
He ducked beneath a series of washing-lines and scuttled down a ladder into a courtyard. It appeared deserted, but as his foot touched the ground he felt a searing pain in the back of his head and fell to his knees. A man stood above him, machine-gun raised. He pointed the muzzle at Quinn’s chest. His eyes were barely visible beneath the brim of his hat. ‘Get up,’ he said.
Quinn took a few paces back. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You don’t need to know.’
Quinn glanced over his shoulder, then up at the roof. The guy followed his gaze and Quinn took his chance, swinging his right leg in a high arc. The gun barrel slewed skyward. Quinn smacked him with a straight right to the jaw, then a left and right to the belly and nose. But the guy was tough. He staggered back, raised his weapon and, when the magazine clicked empty, flipped it around and swung the butt.
Quinn ducked, but he wasn’t quick enough to dodge the kick to his groin that followed. He doubled up in pain and spun into the wall.
They sized each other up. Siegel’s man had lost his hat. He had a bald head and scars across both cheeks. His nose was broken and half his teeth were missing. He was twice Quinn’s size.
The guy picked up a broken bar from the metal stair. The first swing caught Quinn across the shoulder. He rolled with the blow and staggered to his feet again. The pain was agonizing.
‘You going to come quietly?’ the man asked. ‘Or you want me to take you in a box?’
‘I’ll come quietly,’ Quinn said. ‘It’s easier that way.’ He edged forwards, nursing his damaged shoulder, but as soon as he was close enough, he struck with a lightning right jab. The man stumbled and Quinn punched twice more. He finished with an upper cut and the guy went down.
There was an open door beside the man’s prone body, but Quinn figured that way led straight to Siegel and his friends. He forced a window on the opposite side of the courtyard and slipped through it. He found himself in a men’s room at the rear of a second-hand clothes shop. He heard voices in the yard. He slid between racks of clothes, which smelt of damp and decay. He looked out of the window and saw Siegel’s driver by the door of the automobile. The Bowery down-and-outs stood and stared.
Quinn heard voices again. He went to the far side of the store and climbed to the top of the fire escape. From there, he was able to jump across to the next building.
He looked back at the uneven rooftops and the angry sky, heard more shouts from the direction of the Bowery, then an automobile roaring away. He sat on the edge of a roof, dangling his legs over the side, then lay down, eyes closed against the pain in his shoulder.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
HALF AN HOUR LATER, HE SLUNK THROUGH CHINATOWN, DEAD BEAT. By the time he reached Canal Street, he was sure he was not being followed, but slipped into one of the convenience stores to check. He looked through rows of brown-paper fans, incense sticks, black slippers and butterfly kites. He smiled at the inquisitive old man behind the counter. The rear of the store was packed with shark fins, squid, blubber and roasted ducks hanging from long metal hooks. The cloying smell caught in his throat.
He stepped outside again and lingered by a group of men playing mahjong. Copper foils tinkled in the breeze.
He hurried past a line of restaurants, turned into a narrow doorway and climbed to the top floor. There was no sign on the battered wooden door and no bell. He knocked once. ‘Who is it?’ Caprisi called.
The door opened. ‘It’s late,’ Quinn said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re damned right it’s late. I’d given up on you.’
‘I’ll go.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’ Caprisi took hold of his arm and yanked him inside. Quinn winced with pain.
‘Christ,’ Caprisi said. ‘What the hell happened? You’ve got blood on your shirt.’
‘It
’s nothing.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Caprisi took his arm, gently this time, and led him to the front room. ‘Sandra!’
A slight, pretty, dark-haired girl appeared. ‘Joe, this is my wife. Sandra, this is Detective Quinn. You’d better get a bowl of hot water and some iodine.’
A small boy, the spitting image of his father, poked his head through a doorway and gazed at the newcomer. ‘Get to bed, monkey,’ Caprisi said. The child withdrew, but popped out again once his father’s back was turned. Quinn winked at him.
Caprisi seated him in a wooden chair. ‘What happened?’
‘Somebody wanted to take me for a ride.’
‘Who?’
‘Meyer Lansky and Ben Siegel.’
‘Christ.’
‘I didn’t like the look of the place we were headed.’
‘They still searching for you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What did they want?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘They follow you here?’
‘I lost them in the Bowery.’
‘You sure, Joe?’
‘I’d never have brought them here, Caprisi.’
‘Of course not.’ Caprisi pursed his lips. ‘Sorry, Joe.’ He followed his wife into the kitchen.
The front room was tiny, but a tall window offered a view of the street. It was open a fraction. The curtains were shabby and worn, the upholstery and carpets threadbare. There was a small table in the corner and a cheap print of Niagara Falls. A crucifix took pride of place above the fireplace. There was no wireless set. No books or magazines.
When Caprisi returned, Quinn pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll go,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have come here.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Joe.’
‘Maybe they are still looking for me.’
‘Sit down. Sandra will never let you back out there.’
Caprisi forced Quinn into his seat. Sandra knelt before him with a bowl of hot water and a cloth. She unbuttoned his shirt and cleaned his graze with brisk, unselfconscious movements. Up close, she looked tired, the skin around her eyes pinched and tight. Her husband poured two glasses of whisky.
‘What did they hit you with?’ Caprisi said.
‘An iron bar.’
Sandra squeezed the cloth into the bowl.
‘How did you get away?’
‘I ran.’
‘Do you run as fast as you fight?’
‘Faster. I’m a natural-born coward.’
‘Your trouble, my friend, is that you’re nowhere near coward enough. What did they want?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘What did they say they wanted?’
‘They didn’t.’
‘What do you think they wanted?’
Quinn looked out of the window at the black night. ‘They’re worried that this group of men will fall apart and their rackets will go with it.’
Sandra finished her work and buttoned his shirt.
‘Thank you,’ Quinn said.
She smiled and retreated to the kitchen. Caprisi lit a cigarette and offered him the packet. They listened to her clearing up. After a few minutes, she hurried down the corridor. ‘I’ve left the sheets out.’
‘It’s all right,’ Caprisi said. ‘I know.’
‘I’m sorry it’s not very comfortable, Joe. I said perhaps you could have little Johnny’s bed …’
‘I’ll be just fine right here, ma’am. It’s a whole lot more than I deserve.’
‘Thank you for looking after him,’ she said, and gestured to her husband. ‘I know it’s not easy, and I—’
‘Goodnight, woman!’ Caprisi said.
‘Mind you don’t keep our patient up too long,’ she added. ‘He’s tired.’ She went out and pulled the door to.
Quinn took a sip of whisky, settled into the chair and stretched out his legs.
Caprisi saw his boy and scolded him, but the kid ran forward and leapt onto his lap. Caprisi ruffled his hair. ‘This is my partner, Joe Quinn.’
The little boy stared at him with wide eyes. He didn’t dare speak. Caprisi kissed him on both cheeks and sent him on his way again. ‘To sleep, this time!’ he demanded.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Quinn said. ‘He wants to be a cop.’
‘I’m trying to put him off.’
‘So did my dad, but it didn’t work.’
They sipped in silence. Quinn didn’t want to think about his father any more. ‘Is that a picture of one of your brothers I saw on McCredie’s wall?’
‘Yes.’
‘How come they knew each other?’
‘McCredie went out to Shanghai in ’twenty-five to teach them how to fight organized crime, but he was the guy who ended up getting the lesson.’
‘How long was he there?’
‘A couple months.’
‘They were friends?’
‘They were shot at together a few times. It’s not the same thing.’
‘When was your brother killed?’
‘’Twenty-six, just before I left the precincts. I wanted to cut it at Headquarters to make him proud.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘But who wants to work in a place where your colleagues spit at you in the morning, or where Johnny the Bull and his friends can kick the living daylights out of you and walk away? Without you, would I even be here tonight?’
Quinn hadn’t realized the legacy of the Rat Squad still preyed so heavily on his partner’s mind. ‘Someone else would have helped.’
‘No, they wouldn’t, Joe,’ Caprisi said quietly. ‘At times like this I just need to remind myself there’s a world far away from Johnny, Charlie Luciano and the whole damned lot of them.’
‘How much longer do you have before you’re out?’
‘Two months, all being well.’
‘What needs to be well?’
Caprisi swirled the liquid in his glass. ‘You’re not interested in Wall Street, are you, Joe?’
‘Not much.’
‘Try to keep it that way. Once upon a time people like you and me didn’t even know what a stock market was.’
‘You’ve a lot riding on it?’
‘Dumb, eh?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe not.’ Quinn leant forward. ‘Are you all right? You don’t look well.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Come on, man. We’re in this together. If there’s something on your mind …’
‘There’s nothing on my mind.’
‘That’s not the way it looks to me.’
Caprisi drained his glass. ‘Every morning I wake up feeling sick. And that never goes away. At night, I sit here and drink until I’m too numb to care any more. Maybe I should thank you. This investigation is the only thing that’s kept me sane.’
‘The market always comes back, doesn’t it? Isn’t that what they say?’
‘Perhaps, but if we could predict the future, we’d all be rich.’
‘How deep in are you?’
Caprisi smiled sadly. ‘Joe, my dad doesn’t want me to be a cop any more. He’s lost two sons and it’s broken his heart. Like I told you, he’s asked me to get out, come home and run the family store. He’s old, tired and needs to take it easy. He deserves to, despite what I told you. And I want to do that for him. My little sister helps him with the place and we could run it together. Sandra doesn’t like it here and is sick of me being a cop. She wants to go home, too. I’ve told you what I think of life in Centre Street, my partnership with you aside.’
‘So what’s to stop you?’
‘Times have been hard up there. My dad hasn’t run the place too well. There’s debt, a lot of it. The store and the diner have to be spruced up, and I need to clear the loans and get the sharks off my dad’s back.’
‘So you put your savings into the market?’
Caprisi bit his lip. ‘Everyone said it was a one-way bet. I shouldn’t have listened. Maybe if I was as obsessed with my work as you are, I wouldn’t have had time to take any notice. The trouble is, Joe, once
you’re in you can only go deeper. I lost some dough. There was bad luck and a few dumb choices, courtesy of our friend Jeremy Norton and his buddies. So then your broker says go in on margin and hit this big and you’ll make it all back and more …’
‘And have you?’
‘No. I went in, but I haven’t won.’
‘But it’ll come back.’
‘Maybe, but not in time. My broker called me in. If the market doesn’t turn up tomorrow, then I guess … The truth is, I’ll be finished, Joe.’
‘But you can’t have everything you’ve got on the market.’
‘Everything and more. We’re fools, all of us. The whole damned world went mad for a few moments there and now we’re going to pay for it.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I look at my boy, I look at Sandra, and I just don’t want to think about it.’
‘We can do something. Lean on your broker, buy some time.’
‘I already did. He’s hurting too, Joe. It’s the way it is.’ His face was ashen.
They listened to Sandra in the bathroom. ‘Does she know how deep you’re in?’ Quinn whispered.
‘Not yet, but she knows we don’t have two cents to rub together.’
‘You figure you should tell her?’
‘I can’t bring myself to. She’s been looking forward to going home for a year.’
‘Maybe we can find a way to help.’ Quinn breathed deeply, then met his partner’s eye. ‘Tony, I’m real sorry. I took some of that dough from Matsell’s apartment.’
‘I know.’
‘But you needed it more than I did. You could have taken it. I stole it to help my brother. But,’ he waved his hand around the
apartment, ‘you have a family and—’
‘Joe, it’s okay, really.’
‘I’ll turn myself in to Schneider in the morning.’
‘Don’t be a damn fool. Schneider will assume it was McCredie and they’ll blame each other, same way they always have. No one will know.’
‘You will.’
‘I’m your partner.’
‘And that’s enough?’
‘In this case, it is.’
‘I’ll find a way to help you. I can—’
‘It’s all right, Joe. It’s my problem.’
‘No. It’s our problem.’
