Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  Yan’s eyes burnt into his. ‘You don’t know what you’re getting into.’

  ‘Is my father next on the list?’

  ‘He knows the risk! He always has. Listen to me, Joe—’

  ‘The Bag Man runs it. He’s the guy at the heart of this everyone is trying to protect. Who is he, Yan? Is it Johnny?’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Yan held up his thumb and forefinger, a razor’s breadth apart. ‘You’re this close to oblivion, so you need to wake up. I don’t want to see you go under. You need support. You need allies. Do you have any reporters in your pocket?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then get some! Everyone else has. Have you spoken to Johnny?’

  ‘Why in hell should I want to do that?’

  ‘I’m trying to help you, kid.’ Yan picked up the bottle of whisky.

  ‘You won’t get away with it,’ Quinn said.

  ‘Get the hell out of here. I’ve helped you all I can.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CAPRISI SAT BY A WIRELESS. EVERYONE IN THE ROOM WAS LISTENING.

  ‘Crowds have gathered here on Wall Street to witness this extraordinary spectacle … There are reports already of despair and suicide as men struggle to come to terms with the scale of their losses. The tickertape runs behind, way behind, as brokers deal with an avalanche of orders to sell, sell, sell …’

  Quinn’s eyes were on Caprisi’s hunched shoulders.

  ‘There’s something close to panic.’ The pitch of the announcer’s voice had risen. ‘Chaos and confusion reign as America comes to the conclusion all at once that the time has come to sell, sell, sell …’

  Quinn went over to his partner and Caprisi smiled weakly at him.

  A stenographer flew past. ‘I heard there’s been a riot outside the Exchange,’ she whispered.

  Quinn took a seat. ‘Did you find Mrs Mecklenburg?’

  Caprisi gestured at McCredie’s office. Quinn stood again. He saw Mrs Mecklenburg bent over in a chair, flanked by McCredie, Schneider and Brandon. Mae was trying to comfort her.

  ‘They found the girl’s body?’

  Caprisi nodded.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Nobody’s saying.’

  Quinn sat down again. He put his head in his hands and tried to block out the broadcaster’s shrill commentary.

  Mae came out of McCredie’s office, walked over to him and massaged his neck and shoulders.

  ‘Where did they find the body?’ Quinn said.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘C’mon, Mae.’

  ‘It was dragged out of a canal. Apparently they didn’t fasten the rocks properly into the canvas.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘That’s what they’ve been arguing about. Schneider doesn’t want Doc Carter to perform the autopsy.’

  Quinn made to stand up, but she wouldn’t let him. ‘Take it easy, Joe. It’s not pretty in there. And they’re a little angry with you this morning.’

  Quinn’s eye fell again on the newspaper headline and the Goldberg byline. ‘Do me a favour, will you, and tell me where the body goes? If it does end up with Carter, give me the nod as soon as it’s through the swing doors in the basement.’

  ‘I’ll try, Joe.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He eased her fingers off the back of his neck and went to the bathroom. He ran a basin of cold water and scooped it over his face. He reached for a filthy towel and dried himself. Then he examined his reflection in the glass. His eyes were red with fatigue, his cheeks gaunt and haggard. Stubble coated his chin. He looked like the kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid.

  Quinn stepped out into the corridor and let the door bang shut. He listened to the noise from the main floor: the hammering of typewriter keys, the low whine of wireless sets and the murmur of conversation. It was just possible to make out the traffic on Centre Street far below.

  He picked up his coat, walked down the stairs and hurried to the nearest drugstore phone booth. It took the operator a few minutes to put him through to the right desk at the Sun.

  ‘Goldberg here,’ a distant voice said. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Quinn. Detective Joe Quinn.’

  There was a momentary silence. ‘I wondered when you’d call.’

  ‘You caused me some trouble with that piece this morning. The guys in here think I’m giving you the dope.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to cause you any discomfort. Maybe we should talk. Perhaps I can work out how to keep it away from you.’

  Quinn tapped another nickel against the glass. ‘I can give you half an hour. But it’s a two-way street.’

  ‘Of course. When?’

  ‘Now. And it needs to be somewhere no one will see us.’

  ‘There’s a café on the corner of Lafayette and Houston. I’ve never seen a cop there. If you arrive first, take a seat at the back, away from the windows.’

  Quinn put down the receiver. His hands were shaking again. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and turned north. By the time he got to the café, Goldberg was already in the corner, half hidden behind a cloud of smoke. He held up his mug of coffee and waved at a waitress to indicate she should bring another.

  They shook hands. The reporter adjusted his spectacles.

  They waited for the waitress to bring the coffee. ‘You think it’ll stop raining soon?’ Goldberg said.

  The waitress arrived. ‘You want anything else, boys?’

  They shook their heads. Quinn gave her a dollar and she left them.

  ‘I heard you found the body of the missing girl,’ Goldberg said. ‘You got any details on the case? It sounds interesting.’

  ‘You’ll have to call Hegarty.’

  Goldberg smiled. ‘Okay, Detective. I get it.’ He leant back. ‘You asked for a two-way street. What is it you want to know?’

  Quinn flipped his copy of the paper so the headline was face up. ‘Slain Walker Aide: Link to Wall Street Fix. Conspiracy to Ramp Stocks Cheats Millions.’ He pushed it across the table. ‘Who’s giving you this stuff?’

  ‘I can’t talk about that.’

  ‘It’s La Guardia, right?’

  ‘You can guess all you like, but it’s confidential, same as it would be if anyone asked about this meeting.’

  ‘La Guardia knew about this fix long before Matsell’s body flopped onto Wall Street.’

  ‘You sure of that or just guessing?’

  ‘I’m sure. And so are you.’

  Goldberg stubbed out his cigarette and took off his glasses. He had dark, intelligent eyes. ‘If you’re asking me in my capacity as a City Hall reporter, I’d say Major La Guardia knows about a lot of things. But proving them is another matter altogether.’

  ‘Did you know he’d been trying to hook Spencer Duncan?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you, if you were in his position?’

  ‘You figure Duncan would have turned in the mayor?’

  Goldberg gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘What would he have said? You think our friend Jimmy knew about the fix? Of course he didn’t. He’s too smart to know about anything. He floats along on a cloud of eau-de-Cologne, while guys like Spencer run along behind to pick up the tab. Laughing Boy Jimmy is a symptom of the problem, but not the problem itself.’

  ‘So who is?’

  ‘I thought you’d have worked that out by now.’ Goldberg twirled his glasses. ‘You want to run a racket, you need to square off the cops, right? And there are big rackets in this town. Even if La Guardia got rid of Jimmy and shoehorned himself into City Hall, he’d still have to break Centre Street.’

  ‘Who does he have to break?’

  ‘You’re the detective, Mr Quinn.’

  ‘So that’s who Lucky Luciano pays off?’

  ‘Lucky Luciano and all the other slime,’ Goldberg said. ‘But what would I know? I’m just a reporter looking for a story. So, you want to give me some dope on your case? You got a suspect yet? Spencer Duncan was quite a target.’

  Quinn sipped his coffee. ‘No.’

>   ‘What about our friend Mr Chile Acuna?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘So? You must have something.’

  ‘Spencer Duncan kept a list.’

  ‘What kind of list?’

  Quinn took out the papers and pushed them across the table. ‘He called it his insurance policy.’

  Goldberg looked through it. ‘There are no real details. It could be anything.’

  ‘We have a witness.’

  Goldberg scrutinized him. Quinn wondered if he could tell he was bluffing. ‘What kind of witness?’

  ‘Someone who can tell us where the money came from and into whose accounts it was paid.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It was collected in Centre Street from the rackets. Spencer Duncan made sure the men in City Hall got their take.’

  ‘So these numbers are all for guys at City Hall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘But you’ve got names?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Who’s your witness?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that either.’

  ‘Is he willing to go on the record?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Before a jury?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Goldberg whistled. ‘These are monthly payments?’ Quinn nodded. ‘Jeez, they’re big numbers. Have you spoken to La Guardia?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘I’m a cop, not a politician.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re going to be a cop in need of friends if your buddies find out this is what you’re on to.’

  ‘I hope I just made one. Are you going to write it?’

  Goldberg’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yeah. I’ll have to be a bit circumspect with the detail because you haven’t given me any, but you’re a Headquarters cop and you’ve said you’re on the level, so sure. It’s a hell of a tale. You should speak to La Guardia, though. When this hits the stands, they’ll figure out where it’s come from and they’ll destroy you.’

  ‘They’ll try to do that anyway.’

  *

  Caprisi was still hunched over the wireless set. He hadn’t moved a muscle. Mrs Mecklenburg and McCredie, Schneider and Brandon had not budged from the corner office either.

  ‘Tony, we need to go.’

  ‘Listen, Joe.’

  ‘I can hear. We’ll take a look, see what’s going on.’

  ‘Everyone’s waiting to be assigned. The boss wants to move some of the guys onto the Mecklenburg murder. We’re meeting at half past.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll be back by then,’ Quinn said, without conviction.

  Caprisi went to get his coat. ‘Where are we headed?’

  ‘I told you. Wall Street.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not in the mood for sightseeing. I can tell.’

  ‘I want to visit a tailor.’

  ‘A new suit. Just what I need,’ Caprisi said.

  Quinn couldn’t get the Gardner anywhere near the Exchange: the whole area was sealed off by uniform cops and filled with a rapidly swelling crowd.

  They parked up and wove past a succession of white, dazed faces, picking up snippets of hushed gossip as they went. Organized support is coming … Morgan and the banks are going to buy at lunchtime … Did you sell … ? I heard Lehman Corp and Blue Ridge are down twenty-five each … No one will give any more margin …

  Some mounted cops appeared anxious, their horses skittish and ill-tempered. A handful of photographers had reached the front of the crowd and a motion-picture crew was setting up on the steps of the Subtreasury Building.

  A man stumbled out of the Exchange like a bomb victim, his collar torn open. As he passed, a woman took off her wedding ring and threw it at him. ‘You want more margin?’ she yelled. ‘Here’s your margin!’ The ring hit him just beneath the eye, but he gave no sign of having noticed.

  ‘You okay, Tony?’ Quinn asked.

  Caprisi did not respond.

  Quinn left his partner where he was and worked his way around the crowd towards the entrance to the Exchange. People spilled from every brokerage-house doorway. Those at the back craned their necks for a glimpse of the action.

  Quinn pressed his face to a window. Everyone was shouting and trying to reach the clerks’ booth. They yelled at the young kid managing the green quotation board, but he was too shocked to reply. A clerk stood up, telephone receiver in hand. ‘Radio at fifty-two,’ he yelled, and the crowd gasped.

  The news travelled like the wind, out of the brokerage house and along the street. A Chinese man shoved past, a dead cigar glued to his lips. ‘The sonofabitch sold me out,’ he muttered.

  Quinn edged forwards.

  ‘Montgomery Ward is down to fifty-five,’ a voice rasped beside him. It came from a tall, stooped man.

  His wife was fashionably dressed in a fur-trimmed coat, and her expression said it all. ‘What about Westinghouse?’ she hissed back.

  ‘I couldn’t see.’

  ‘Then get back in there.’

  ‘There’s no way in. It’s hopeless.’

  ‘Tell them who you are!’

  The man removed his Homburg to reveal a rim of grey hair soaked with sweat. ‘We should stand pat. That’s what he told us.’

  ‘He called in the margin!’

  ‘Selling out is for pikers. If we stand pat, we’ll be okay.’

  The woman turned her sour face and looked through Quinn towards the Exchange.

  He retraced his steps and found Caprisi by a brokerage-house window. He had to shake him hard before he took any notice. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  ‘I have to stay.’

  ‘Come on. It’ll do no good. You’ll just torture yourself.’

  ‘Radio is down fifteen and still falling.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Even US Steel’s heading south and I’ve got a packet of it.’

  ‘Tony, if you can gain anything by standing here, then do. If not, let’s get away.’

  ‘Look at it, Joe. Look at what’s going on.’

  ‘I can see. There’s a stampede, but maybe the herd will switch direction this afternoon. There’s nothing you can do.’ Quinn took his arm and led him firmly towards the Gardner.

  As he fired the engine, Caprisi’s eyes were still locked on the Exchange. ‘I’ll be a cop until I die,’ he said.

  Quinn checked the address of the tailor and turned east onto Cedar Street. ‘What made you such an optimist all of a sudden?’ he asked, but his partner wasn’t in the mood for anything that resembled levity.

  It took them a little time to find the tailor. The brass plate saying ‘Jacob Zwirz’ was tiny and nailed to a wooden panel on the left of the door. His shop was at the south end of the Swamp, sandwiched between a leather merchant and the old Beekman tavern. It was deceptively spacious, with bolt upon bolt of cloth stacked along each wall. There were photographs of famous clients – ‘tailor to the stars’, a sign announced beneath them – and pride of place was given to a picture of Jimmy Walker in a brand new morning suit and spats.

  Zwirz was a wiry old man with a mop of unkempt grey hair. Quinn watched him convince an uncertain customer that a particular cloth would suit him perfectly. Once the man had left – satisfied, having dithered for an age – Zwirz turned his attention to the new customers. ‘Gentlemen, how may I be of assistance?’

  Quinn took out his wallet. ‘I’m Detective Quinn, and this here is my partner, Detective Caprisi.’ The air of welcoming bonhomie evaporated. ‘We’d like a word in private, Mr Zwirz.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ The tailor made a show of taking out and examining his gold pocket watch. ‘Perhaps I could come down later.’

  ‘I’m afraid our business can’t wait. Do you have somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘But I have an appointment with the mayor.’ Zwirz gestured at the photograph on the wall.

  ‘Then he will have to wait.’

  ‘But—’


  ‘He won’t mind,’ Caprisi said quietly. ‘Maybe you heard his aide was murdered?’

  Zwirz puffed out his cheeks. He draped a protective arm around the young boy behind the counter. ‘This is my son, Joshua.’

  Quinn and Caprisi nodded.

  ‘You man the shop,’ he said to the kid. ‘I will only be a few moments.’

  Zwirz led them up a flight of stairs so narrow that Quinn almost had to turn his shoulders sideways. ‘He’s a good boy, my son,’ Zwirz said. ‘I tell him over and over again the secret of our business: never forget a face. A father must guide his son in this world. Is that not so?’

  Quinn offered him an unconvincing smile.

  ‘Do you have children, Detective?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One day, perhaps.’

  They reached a small room lined with leatherbound ledgers. There was a table at its centre and a small desk upon which stood a photograph of Mayor Walker arm in arm with Charles Lindbergh.

  ‘You make all Jimmy’s suits?’ Quinn asked.

  Zwirz grunted as he searched a drawer.

  ‘Then you must be a rich man.’

  The tailor sat down and pointed at the two seats opposite him. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  Zwirz took down a bottle and three glasses from the cupboard in the corner and poured them some liquor anyway. ‘Naturally, I’m a great supporter of the police department,’ he said.

  ‘You make the commissioner’s suits, too?’ Caprisi asked.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

  ‘You must be getting along nicely.’

  ‘Not any longer.’ Zwirz flicked a switch on a box wireless. He twisted the dial until they heard the steady drone of an announcer. He sucked his teeth.

  ‘You also made suits for a man called Charlie Matsell,’ Quinn said.

  Zwirz blinked. ‘I don’t recall the name.’

  ‘Well, here’s a couple more for you to think about. Early this morning, we found Dick Kelly and Moe Diamond in the back of an automobile parked at a meat-packing plant on the East River. Like Charlie Matsell and Spencer Duncan, they were wearing suits tailored by Jacob Zwirz, and both are very dead. Do you see the connection?’

  The tailor turned towards the solitary window.

  ‘What we’d like, Mr Zwirz,’ Caprisi said, ‘is for you to tell us what you know of these four men.’