“The bullets missed all the vital organs,” Quinn said. “Looks like he’ll be fine.”
Shapiro managed a quick smile. “And thank God for that. Hey, let’s have a drink on it, to Fatty’s health and all.” He grabbed the bottle and topped the shots. “I just figured he bought the farm after hearin’ the way The Kid told it.” He reached over and gently knocked the Kid in the head. “Must’ve exaggerated some. Ain’t that right, Johnny?”
Johnny flinched and stifled a sob.
Quinn knew he needed to talk to Johnny, but getting him out of there would be tricky.
Tread lightly.
“Looks like Johnny’s still pretty shook up by the whole thing,” Quinn said. “Seeing a guy get gunned down can rattle anyone, especially a young kid like this.”
Quinn managed a small smile of his own. “Blood’s nothing new to a couple of old hands like you and me, eh Ira?”
Shapiro downed his shot.
Quinn left his on the counter. “Maybe I should take him outside for a little walk. Might calm him down some.”
“That’s awful nice of you,” Shapiro said, “but The Kid’s doing just fine. Besides, it’s past closin’ and we’ve got to be getting’ home anyways. I wish you’d come by with the good news earlier. Could’ve had a few snorts to toast Fatty’s good health and all.” He motioned to the other shot glass.
“How about one for the road?”
Quinn felt the man behind him shift his weight. The other two started breathing faster. Quinn knew he was bigger than any of them. Taking down a man his size wouldn’t be easy. They were getting ready to go to work on Shapiro’s signal.
Tread lightly.
“While you’re closing up,” Quinn said, “Johnny and me could step outside to jaw over what happened at Ames’ tonight. By the time you’re done, so will we. Say, I’ll even run him home for you if you want.”
Shapiro offered a crooked smile and poured another shot for himself. “Johnny’s been through enough. Come back tomorrow.”
Quinn wanted to string this out a little longer. See what shook loose. “But everything’s still fresh in his mind. He might remember something important about the shooting. Archie would want me to get it from him before it goes stale in his head.”
The goon with the scared eyes on the left took a step forward. “Ira told you to come back tomorrow.”
Tread lightly.
Quinn ignored him and spoke to Shapiro instead. “I didn’t come here to fight, Ira. I just want to talk to The Kid.”
Shapiro laughed and smacked the countertop. “That’s rich. Archie Doyle sends his chief goon over here in the middle of the night just to ask questions. You bog trotters really make me laugh.”
Quinn said nothing.
Shapiro did all the talking. “I don’t particularly give a shit about what Archie wants. This is the east side, fucko. Howard Rothman’s side. Not yours. I said you can’t talk to Johnny, so you don’t talk to him.”
Quinn kept his hands open at his side. Loose. Ready. “Archie won’t like that.”
“Fuck him,” Shapiro said. “You bastards sit in your goddamned nightclub expectin’ everyone to kiss your asses. Well not me, brother.” He poured himself another shot of courage and gulped it down. “Help Mr. Quinn find the front door, boys.”
Quinn heard the floorboard behind him squeak.
He snatched the thug with the scared eyes by the neck and threw him into the thug on his right. Both fell back, crashing through tables.
The man standing behind Quinn tried to jump on his back. Quinn shifted and stunned him with an elbow to the throat. The man staggered back, gagging. A left hook that sent him back through the front door glass and into the street.
Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn saw Shapiro bringing up a .38 from beneath the counter. Quinn hit the deck as three bullets smacked into the wooden tabletops above him.
Quinn pulled his .45 as he rolled to his feet, but Shapiro had already hopped the counter. He was fumbling with the lock on the back door.
Shapiro turned as Quinn stood up. Shapiro jerked up his .38 but Quinn fired first. The bullet hit Shapiro in right shoulder, bouncing him off the door before crumpling to the floor. The .38 dropped as he fell and skidded down the hall.
Quinn wasn’t exactly elated. He’d just shot Howard Rothman’s best boy. Rothman wouldn’t be happy. Neither would Archie.
The two thugs who’d crashed through the tables made it to their feet. The smell of gun smoke in the air made them careful. Quinn held the .45
on them and they slowly put up their hands.
Quinn waggled the .45 toward the door. “Go outside and drag your playmate back in here.”
The middleweight dove for Quinn’s gun, but Quinn was ready. He swung it out of reach and brought the butt down hard on the base of his neck. He was out cold before he hit the floor.
Quinn pointed the gun back at the last thug. “What about you?”
“Not me, mister,” the man said as he stepped through the gaping door.
He tried to get the unconscious man to his feet, but couldn’t. He opened the broken door and dragged his friend as gently as he could over shards of broken glass.
“Drag him over next to your boss in the hallway,” Quinn said moved to pick up Shapiro’s .38.
The middleweight was coming to, trying to pull himself up on all fours. Quinn kicked him in the ribs and he collapsed back to the floor. “Drag this piece of shit back there, too. Keeping my eye on all of you.”
He looked over at Johnny, who was cowering at the corner of the counter. “Take it easy, kid. We’ll be out of here in no time.”
Quinn watched the last man standing drag the middleweight into the narrow hallway and take a seat on the floor next to his boss. It was quite a scene. Two of them unconscious. Shapiro shot, bleeding heavily from the hole in his shoulder.
“Fine group of boys you hired, Ira,” Quinn said. “You always did have an eye for talent.”
“Donkey bastard,” Shapiro slurred. “Whaddya think Rothman’s gonna do when he finds out about this? Your life won’t be worth shit by tomorrow.”
Quinn fished out a Lucky from his overcoat pocket and lit it. He knew Doyle wouldn’t be happy, but he’d get over it. If it was worth it. Quinn had to make it worth it.
“Why don’t you want me talking to Johnny, Ira?”
Johnny the Kid whimpered like a sick dog. “Please, God. Please. I don’t
want to die. Not me. Not now. Not here.”
“Shaddap, you goddamned Mary!” Shapiro yelled from the floor. “Keep your mouth shut, you hear?”
Quinn moved to block Shapiro’s view of the Kid. “What are you hiding, Ira?”
Shapiro tried to straighten himself against the back door, but there was too much blood on the floor. His blood and more of it every second. “Fuck you,” Shapiro slurred. “Fuck Archie Doyle...things...are changin’ now...” Shapiro faded and Quinn fired into the door only inches from Shapiro’s head.
The shot boomed loud and woke Ira jumped. “Next one catches you in the belly. What’s all this about things changing?”
As hurt as he was, Shapiro still managed to try spitting at Quinn. “You’ll find out soon enough, you son of a bitch.”
Quinn wanted more, but a loud banging noise from the front of the pool hall cut him off. He turned to see Officer Liam O’Hara rapping on the busted door with his nightstick.
He was red haired and barrel-chested, with a thick, drooping moustache that covered most of his mouth. O’Hara wasn’t only one of New York’s Finest, but one of Doyle’s finest, too. He’d been on Archie’s payroll for years and was a frequent guest at the Longford Lounge. O’Hara had a habit of running behind on his tab. Quinn had a habit of forgetting about it.
“Well, if it ain’t Terry Quinn himself come downtown to pay us a visit,” O’Hara boomed as he strode into Pete’s. Shards of broken glass crackled beneath his shoes as he walked inside. “Looks like a helluva party.”
“Evening, Liam,�
�� Quinn said. O’Hara might’ve been a crooked cop, but he was still a cop. Quinn stowed his .45 in his pocket to avoid any awkward questions. “Just a minor disagreement is all.”
O’Hara kept kicking glass out of his way, then spotted Shapiro and the other two laying in the hallway. “Sweet Jesus, what happened to them?”
“Beats me,” Quinn said. “I was just passing by when I heard shots. I think it was an attempted burglary.”
O’Hara cocked an eyebrow up at him. “Just passing by, eh?” He looked down at Shapiro. “That how it happened, Ira?”
Shapiro was bleeding badly from the wound. His head lolled around and his words were thick through sagging lips. “Donkey bastards,” he slurred. “Can’t trust them fucks...”
O’Hara peered down at the wound. “It looks like a forty-five slug. That’s the same caliber you carry, isn’t it, Terry?”
“Small world,” Quinn said.
O’Hara cleared his throat. He tapped the only conscious Shapiro thug on the shoulder. “What about you, Smittie? Did you see how it happened? Was it a burglar who done all this?” It was more of a statement than a question.
Smittie looked up at Quinn, then at O’Hara and said, “That’s the way it happened, officer. Lousy burglars jumped us. Neighborhood’s been going down hill lately. Gettin’ so a man can’t hardly make an honest livin’ around here no more.”
O’Hara pulled out his notebook and started writing. “Burglars.”
Quinn didn’t like his tone. “That’s what I told you.”
“So you did,” O’Hara said. “So you did. Who am I to say otherwise?”
He spotted Johnny the Kid sitting at the counter with his head in his arms, sobbing. “What about him?”
“He’s nobody,” Quinn said. “Stumbled in here a couple of minutes after me, lit to the gills. I doubt anything he says would make much sense.”
“If you say so,” O’Hara said. “I’m not looking for any trouble.”
“Glad to hear it,” Quinn palmed O’Hara a twenty. “I think I’d better get this boozer a cab and let you boys get to work.”
“You’re a good man, Terry Quinn,” O’Hara said as he made the bill disappear. “If we had more like you, this city would be a beautiful place to live.”
Quinn eased Johnny off the stool and edged him toward the door. “Don’t forget to call a doctor for old Ira over there. He looks pretty bad.”
O’Hara went back to writing in his notebook. “For a pillar of the community such as Ira Shapiro, you can rest assured I’ll do my damnedest to make sure he gets the finest medical care possible – right after I finish writing me notes.”
Quinn placed a large, heavy hand on the back of Johnny the Kid’s neck and steered him out the front door, crunching broken glass on their way as they did so.
Quinn doubted O’Hara would let it go at that and the policeman didn’t disappoint. “Try not to stumble upon any more burglars on your way home,” he called after them. “One mess like this per night is more than enough. And be sure to give Fatty my regards. We’re all prayin’ for him.”
“YOU’RE NOT gonna kill me, are you mister?” Johnny cried.
Quinn steered him west, walking as far away from Pete’s as quickly as possible. He glanced back to make sure no one was following them. “Start talking, Johnny.”
“I don’t know nothin’, mister, honest.” Johnny said. “Mr. Shapiro can tell you a lot more than I ever could.”
“The cops have him, but I’ve got you,” Quinn said. “Tell me what happened back at Ames’ tonight and I’ll let you skate with a couple of bucks in your pocket. That’s a square deal for a pool shark like you.”
“I’m not a shark,” Johnny sniffled.
“Shut up.” Quinn clipped him in the back of the head and shoved him further down the street. “Tell me what happened before Ames’ yesterday.” “I was shooting a couple of games in a joint on Delancey when I saw Mr. Shapiro arguing with some guy outside on the street.”
“Who? What’s his name?”
“I don’t know, I never saw him before.”
“Then what did he look like?”
“A little taller than me. Older, too. Wore a white hat and a white suit, too.”
Quinn stopped cold. It was the same guy Ceretti had described. “What’d they talk about?”
“I couldn’t hear,” Johnny said, “but the guy in white did a lot of pointing and yelling. I never saw Mr. Shapiro take guff like from anyone.”
“Then what?”
“The man in white took off and Mr. Shapiro came back inside. Told me to get some rest because we had a big money game that night. The kind of game that could put me in the money if I did good.”
Then Johnny started with the tears. “I swear I didn’t know that fat man worked for Archie Doyle, mister. No one told me nothing about him.”
Johnny started to buckle. Quinn grabbed him by the back of the neck and kept him moving. “Did you see this clown in the white suit at Ames’? While you were shooting pool with Fatty?”
“He might’ve been there. I don’t know. When I play, I don’t look around, mister. Ask anyone.”
Quinn knew the truth when he heard it and he was hearing it then. He was either too scared to lie or the best actor since Lionel Barrymore. Quinn shoved the hustler against a building and pulled out a pad and pen from inside his overcoat pocket. He scribbled a name and number on a sheet of paper, ripped it off and handed it to the hustler.
“That’s the name and address of Sander’s Billiards up in Inwood. Go there and ask for a Frank Sanders. Give him that piece of paper and tell him I sent you. He’ll take care of you after that.”
Johnny didn’t even bother to look at the piece of paper. He folded it over and put it in his back pocket. “Why do I have to go all the way up there?”
Johnny flinched when Quinn went to clip him again. “Because I told you too, stupid. And because there’s nowhere else for you to go. If you head back to Shapiro, you’ll wind up in a body bag. He’ll figure you told me something, even though you didn’t.”
The Kid looked like he was going to cry again. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair’s got nothing to do with it. You’re better off without him anyway.”
Quinn spotted a cab from the Bradley Cab Company and hailed it. Bradley Cab was one of Doyle’s companies, so Quinn knew Johnny would make it up to Frank’s joint alright.
Quinn pushed The Kid in the back seat, then threw a couple of twenties at him. “Take that and keep your head down if you know what’s good for you. Have Frank call me once you get settled.”
The driver recognized Quinn and started with the small talk, but Quinn cut him off. “Take this kid up to Frank’s place and step on it. Anyone gets in your way, run them over.”
Quinn slammed the door shut and watched the cab take off along Third Street until it disappeared into the early morning fog. No one was tailing it.
Quinn hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by letting Johnny live.
He probably should’ve plugged Johnny just like he’d killed Ceretti. To send the right message for all the wrong people. But Ceretti was different. He was in the Life. He should’ve known better than to set up a pool game for Fatty without asking questions. Greed and stupidity got him killed.
Johnny wasn’t in the Life yet. He was just a dumb kid who got caught up in the middle of something he didn’t understand. And, despite his reputation, Quinn didn’t like killing people just for the hell of it. Murder could become an easy solution for most problems. Murder could become a habit and habits made you sloppy. Sloppy got you killed.
Quinn had enough bad habits already.
Johnny the Kid deserved a chance for something more than the Life.
Something better. Quinn had blown his chances for something more. The Life was all he had left.
It was all he really wanted and he damned himself for it.
QUINN KNEW he had to get to a phone and call Doyle. There was probably a payphone in the
drugstore across the street, but it was closed.
There were some speakeasies around, but this was the east side. They were all Rothman’s dives. Word about Shapiro would be getting around. He had to get back to the west side and fast.
Quinn decided to drive back home to the Longford Lounge and call Doyle from there. He knew Doyle would be sore at first, but The Kid’s information on the man in the white suit made it almost worth it. Find him, find why Fatty took a bullet.
Quinn’s pocket watch said it was past three-thirty in the morning, that uneasy, undefined part of the day that was no longer dark enough to be night, but not bright enough to be morning. The back end of twilight. The prelude to dawn. Quinn loved this time of day. It defied exact definition and rules.
Ambiguity had always been a close friend of his.
He stayed alert as he walked back to his car. Rothman might already have some boys on the prowl looking to even the score for Shapiro. But the only thing he heard was the creaky wheels of a horse drawn milk wagon on its way to the warehouse to pick up its first shipment of the day.
When Quinn turned the corner off Third Avenue, he saw two men in long overcoats lingering in the middle of the block near his car. The much bigger one was standing next to the streetlight near his Roadster.
The shorter of the two was leaning against the hood of the car. Hat pushed back high on his head, smoke from his cigarette drifted up, mingling with the light from the street lamp. Both men looked at him as he got closer. He recognized them by their shapes before he ever saw their faces.
“Evening, Detective Doherty,” Quinn said to the man leaning against his car. He looked at the larger man. “How’s it going, Halloran? Ready for another day of swiping apples from guinea push carts?”
Detective ‘Big Jim’ Halloran lived up to his name. He was Quinn’s size, but a few years older and a few inches softer around the middle. His long, lantern jaw set on edge and his, thin lips grew thinner. “Not yet, wise guy, but I know an old maid who’s gonna get her lights put out if she keeps running her mouth like that.”
“Don’t mind my partner,” Doherty said. “He’s not used to being up this late. He’s kinda cranky.”
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