Prohibition

by Terrence McCauley

  Charlie Doherty might’ve had a hangdog look, but his eyes were anything but lazy. His short cropped hair was graying at the temples. His face bore the lines of a man who’d witnessed a lifetime of human frailty and degradation. He had the air of a man who took everything in stride because there was very little in this world that surprised Doherty any longer. It was tough not to like Charlie Doherty.

  He’d also been on Archie’s payroll longer than Quinn. Going on ten years or more. But just like O’Hara, Quinn knew Doherty was still a cop. And he still had a job to do.

  “You criminal types caused quite a ruckus tonight,” Doherty said. “Chief Carmichael’s banging the war drum pretty hard.”

  “How is Andy these days?” Quinn asked. “Haven’t seen him around the club house in a while. Tell him Archie misses his company.”

  “Save the malarkey for your customers,” Halloran advised. “What’re you doing on this side of town?”

  Quinn didn’t mind cops, not even crooked cops. But cops like Halloran were thugs who were too dumb to make good criminals. That made giving him a hard time that much more fun. “I’m out for a stroll,” Quinn leaned against his car next to Doherty. “What’s your excuse?”

  “The Doyle mob got it rough tonight,” Doherty said. “Word is that Terry Quinn was sent out to set things right.”

  Quinn pushed his hat back high on his head, just like Doherty’s. He lit a cigarette and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. “You’ve been reading those dime novels again, Charlie. You always get very suspicious when you read those things.”

  Doherty smiled.

  Halloran didn’t. “Enough bullshit, Quinn. What are you doing over here?”

  Quinn didn’t like his attitude. “I went for a walk. Is that against the law or didn’t you get that far in detective school?”

  Halloran snatched him by the lapels of his overcoat and yanked him off the car. His cigarette fell from his mouth.

  “You smug son of a bitch,” Halloran said. “You always think you’re so goddamned smart, don’t you? Above it all. Well you ain’t above it all any more, stupid. What happened to Fatty tonight proved it.”

  Quinn didn’t like being manhandled. He could’ve done something about it, but Halloran was still a cop. “Get him off me, Charlie, or I swear...”

  “Let him go, Jimmy,” Doherty said from his spot against the car. “He baits you whenever he sees you.”

  Halloran shoved Quinn back against the car. Quinn winked and made a show of straightening his tie for Halloran’s benefit.

  “I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you,” Doherty said. “We were on our way to question Shapiro and Johnny the Kid when we saw you working over his boys. So why don’t you come clean and tell us what the hell happened in there? We’re going to find out eventually.”

  Since they’d probably seen everything, Quinn no reason to stall. “I swung by Shapiro’s place to speak to The Kid about Fatty’s shooting. Shapiro put his boys on me instead. Two got hurt and Ira took a couple of shots at me. He caught one in the shoulder, but he’ll live.”

  “Real neat story,” Halloran conceded. “All wrapped up in a bow.”

  “You saw what happened,” Quinn added. “You tell me if I’m lying.” “That’s pretty much how we saw it play out, too,” Doherty admitted.

  “We saw you leave with The Kid after O’Hara showed up. What’d he tell you?”

  Quinn decided to keep that part to himself. The man in the white hat wasn’t much of a lead, but it was the only one he had. Giving it to Doherty and Halloran would be like pissing it away.

  “He said Shapiro was edgy all day, then told him he was playing in a big money game up at Ames’. Said he didn’t know who Fatty was until the lead started flying. Call me a sucker, but I believed him.”

  “That’s it?” Halloran said. “Nothing else?”

  Quinn shrugged again. “Some people just aren’t too smart. You know what that’s like, don’t you, Halloran.”

  Doherty got between them before Halloran could grab him again. “Let’s you and me go for a walk, Terry.”

  When they had gotten half way down the block, Doherty said, “Why do you keep riding him like that?” Quinn lit another cigarette. “It’s fun.”

  “You ought to lay off him,” Doherty said. “He hates your guts. One day, he might do something when I’m not there to keep him calm.”

  “The day that simp gets the jump on me, I deserve what I get.”

  Doherty chuckled. “Modesty’s not one of your failings, is it?”

  Quinn smoked his cigarette.

  “You know why we never come down as hard on Archie as we have on the others?” Doherty asked.

  “Because Archie owns the mayor, the chief of police and every ward boss in town?” Quinn elbowed Doherty. “Not to mention the interest he’s taken in a certain Vice detective’s career. No offense, Charlie, but everyone knows you didn’t get your shield based on your skills as a policeman.”

  “That’s part of it,” Doherty admitted, “but we leave Doyle alone because he’s smart. At least, he used to be.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Doyle’s never adopted the guineas’ love for violence and he runs tight gambling houses. You don’t run guns or white powder and your booze is cheap and decent.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “Your low profile has been your greatest asset,” Doherty went on. “But nights like tonight don’t help. People are taking notice. People in Albany, like Governor Roosevelt. Now, I know you’re not going to like hearing this, but Archie’s been letting things get out of hand and it’s been going on for a while now.”

  “Bullshit. Archie’s as strong as he ever was.”

  But Doherty had a point to make. “I know you owe the man a lot and so do I, but he’s been in the papers a lot lately. Parties. Show biz people. Sports guys. It doesn’t look good. People think he’s getting soft and someone taking a shot at Fatty tonight proves it. Maybe someone should remind him about paying more attention to business.”

  “This is rich,” Quinn countered. “Some punk takes a pot shot at Fatty and everyone thinks the sky is falling.”

  “Would someone have had the balls to even think about doing shooting Fatty a year ago?” Doherty asked. “Six months ago?”

  Quinn wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

  “This wasn’t an accident, Quinn. It was a warning that if he’s not going to pay attention to the street, someone else will. Like it or not, Archie looks shaky right now. I know it’s not easy to hear, but you know I’m right.”

  “Archie’s still in charge and he’s going to keep being in charge. If people need to be reminded of that fact, I’ll remind them.”

  “You don’t listen so good,” Doherty warned. “I just told you we leave you alone because you boys run a tight shop. You start getting sloppy, then we’ve got to start paying more attention to you.” Doherty lightly poked him in the chest. “And that hurts all of us.”

  Quinn looked down at the finger, then at Doherty. Quinn didn’t like lectures. He liked being poked even less.

  “More attention could hurt a lot of people,” he said. “Wives could find out where their cop husbands really spend their nights. Newspapers might find out just how much Chief Carmichael gets paid off every month.”

  “You bastard,” Doherty said. “Here I am, giving you fair warning and treating you like a friend and...”

  “You’re talking like a goddamned spectator,” Quinn accused. “An innocent bystander watching a parade go by. But you’re not. You’re in that line of marchers right next to us, Charlie and you’d better start acting that way.”

  Doherty tried to say something, but Quinn talked over him. “You were right when you said Doyle’s connected to a lot of people in this town. So if he goes down, a lot of other people go with him. Including Mayor Walker and Chief Carmichael.” Quinn poked Doherty in the chest. “Including you.”

  �
��Christ,” Doherty sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I need information. Do you and the boy genius back there have any leads on the shooter?”

  “No,” Doherty admitted. “No one got a clear look at the bastard. He got away before anyone got a good look at him.”

  Doherty was tough to read, but Quinn figured he was telling the truth.

  With Doherty, you could never be sure. “Let me know if you turn anything up. I’ll do the same. The quicker this goes away, the quicker things go back to normal. Now let’s get back to Halloran. He’s beginning to look lonesome.”

  Quinn started back toward his car when Doherty grabbed his arm. “We work together and we work smart, understand. Anymore bloodshed

  and Albany’s going to get involved. No one wants that.”

  “Bloodshed?” Quinn smiled. “Come on, Charlie. You know I hate violence.”

  QUINN HIT an all night drug store west of Fifth Avenue and called Frank Sanders, letting him know Johnny the Kid was on his way.

  Then he made the call he’d been dreading. Archie. There was no way to sugar coat it and there was no way to avoid it. He just picked up the phone and dialed.

  He knew Archie was a light sleeper and he picked up on the first ring. Quinn told him what had happened with Shapiro. About the fight. About the shooting. He saved the lead on the man in the white suit for dessert.

  Archie seemed distant. He told Quinn not to worry about Shapiro. He told him good work on the man in the white suit. Then he told him ‘Good night’. Click.

  Quinn sat in the booth for a while after hanging up. He’d expected anger, excitement, something. Deadpan wasn’t Doyle’s style. Maybe Fatty’s shooting took more out of him than Quinn thought? Maybe that other plan he was hatching was bothering him?

  Quinn tried to forget what Doherty had said. Maybe Archie didn’t care anymore?

  It didn’t matter. Either way, Quinn still had to find the bastard in the white hat, but it was too early to do anything about it. He decided to kill some time and rest up for a while.

  It was almost five o’clock in the morning when Quinn got back to The Longford Lounge. He sipped black coffee at the bar and read about Fatty’s shooting in the early edition of The New York Journal. He had an apartment upstairs, but was too worked up to sleep just yet.

  The raw smells of the nightclub always relaxed him: stale smoke, spilled booze, body washes and colognes that still hung in the air from the night before, all rushed together to form a unique perfume. It was Quinn’s idea of heaven. Other than the orphanage, it was the only kind of home he had ever really known.

  The Longford Lounge was Doyle’s pride and joy; an old warehouse overdone with oak paneling; mirrors, chandeliers and gold trim wherever they could put it. Quinn thought it was just this side of gaudy, but that’s the way Archie wanted it. And since the place was jammed every night, no one seemed to mind.

  The bar and kitchen officially closed at three o’clock in the morning, but the party continued until well past sunrise for the high-rollers and professional gamblers in the casino downstairs. The casino easily brought in five times more a night than the restaurant ever could. Considering The Longford Lounge was one of the most popular clubs in the city; that was saying something.

  It was one of the few places in town where the booze flowed freely. The cops knew all about it and were well paid to forget about it.

  Quinn sipped his coffee and watched a well-heeled drunk in a dinner jacket stumble on the way out the door. Francois Deveraux, the maitre’d, grabbed the rummy and poured him into a cab. A few hours before, the man had been dressed to the nines for a night of cocktails, dinner and dancing. Now he looked ridiculous in the coming light of a new day. Quinn took another swig of coffee.

  “Would you look at the dumb bastard,” said Tommy Delaney, the head bartender, as he washed the last batch of martini glasses. “All that money and no sense.”

  Quinn might’ve been in charge of the Lounge on paper, but Delaney and Francois ran the place. Delaney had been with the Lounge longer than Quinn and customers loved him. Ladies loved his dark Irish features and pale blue eyes. Men liked his stories and his dry sense of humor. The brogue made everything funnier.

  “How’d we do tonight?” Quinn asked, going back to his paper.

  “Grand,” Tommy said. “No one’s got any money these days, except when they come here.”

  “Anybody ask about Fatty?”

  “Chi Chi and Rascal Parker drifted by,” Tommy offered. “They showed appropriate concern. Wendell Bixby was in, too. Sniffing around for items for that damned column of his. All he got was gossip.”

  “He’d better talk to Archie before he prints anything.” Tommy smiled. “I think he remembers what happened the last time.” Quinn took another hit of coffee. “Let’s hope I don’t have to remind him.”

  Francois Deveraux locked the front door, then took a seat one stool over from Quinn. Deveraux was a wiry man of about fifty, whose hairline had receded to the middle of his forehead long ago. His pencil thin moustache gave him dash. Doyle paid him extra to put on a French accent for the customers, so he did. No one needed to know he was actually Fred Deavers, an old safe cracker and jewel thief out of New Orleans.

  “Thank Christ that’s over,” Fred said, dropping the phony accent. Delaney set him up with his customary Chardonnay. Any man asking for wine would’ve gotten thrown out on his ear. Fred got whatever he wanted.

  “I thought that last group would never leave,” Fred said. “That last one dropped five large on the roulette wheel, and that ain’t the record, either. People are spending like there’s no tomorrow. I don’t know where the money’s coming from.”

  “As long as it’s coming here,” Quinn said, “who cares?”

  “True,” Fred said as he took a sip of wine. “How’s Fatty holding up?” “He’ll live,” Quinn went back to scanning the newspaper article on Fatty.

  The reporter told the rough details of what had happened. Witnesses had seen two men running from the scene right after it happened, but there was no motive for the shooting. The victim was “Francis Corcoran, an accountant and local businessman from the west side of Manhattan.”

  Quinn was relieved it didn’t mention Archie. The Golden Rule still held.

  Tommy said, “Chi-Chi Castanengo called. Asked you to swing by his shine stand first thing this morning. Said he had something to tell you.”

  Quinn made a mental note to remember that. Chi-Chi always had the best dirt. He might’ve even heard something about the bastard in the white suit. “Did Walker swing by on his way home last night?”

  Fred shook his head. “Nope. Guess Fatty getting shot kept him away.”

  Quinn wasn’t pleased. Last night was Thursday night. Mayor James J. Walker’s night to hold court at The Longford Lounge. Walker loved the nightlife and beautiful women and gambling in Doyle’s casino downstairs. He enjoyed Doyle’s payoffs most of all and Doyle’s bully boys getting out the vote for him come Election Day.

  Without Doyle’s support in public office, Walker would’ve been just another skinny piano player with an easy smile. He should’ve at least called to check on Archie. After all, Walker was only the mayor. Mayors got themselves elected and un-elected all the time. There was only one Archie Doyle.

  Walker skipping his weekly appearance wasn’t a good sign. He remembered Doherty’s warning about Archie looking weak. Quinn would have to do something about it.

  Tommy brought Quinn out of it by saying, “We did have a bit of variety in our program last evening. ‘Herself’ dropped by. Made quite the spectacle of herself. Again.”

  Quinn let the newspaper drop. Alice Mulgrew. Platinum blonde. All curves. All woman. And all hung up on Terry Quinn. He fished out a cigarette from his case on the bar, slid one into the corner of his mouth and lit it.

  He held on the smoke before he let it out slow. Christ. Alice always had that effect on men. Lately, she’d been having that effect on Quinn, too.
<
br />   Alice was the kind of woman that could destroy a man just by being around him. Smart when she had to be. Dumb when she wanted to be. She knew exactly how to play him, but Quinn didn’t give her much credit for that. He wasn’t a complicated man.

  She’d been a damned nice distraction to have around, but Quinn didn’t need distractions now.

  “What shit did she pull this time?”

  “She waltzed in here about eleven or so, asking for you,” Tommy said. “I told her I didn’t know where you were or when you’d be coming back.

  She called me a fucking no-good liar, same as always when she’s tipsy and cantankerous. Then she took a spot at the bar and, as regally as she pleased, ordered a dry gin martini straight up with an olive.”

  Quinn’s anger spiked. Gin sent Alice off her rocker. “And you gave it to her?”

  “Calm down,” Delaney said. “I slipped her the watered down stuff, but the mere idea of good gin was enough to set her off on one of her tirades. How you’re a no good louse and how she...”

  Quinn waived him down. “I got the idea.”

  Fred took over. “It got so bad that I had to bring her up to your place upstairs. It was the only way to get her to shut up. She passed out after a while. She’s been up there a few hours now.”

  Quinn knew he’d regret asking the question, but he had to know. “What was she wearing?”

  Fred leaned in close. “Your favorite. The black dress with the pearls. She looked down right edible, if you ask me, and you can punch me in the face for saying so.”

  Quinn didn’t want to hit anyone. He wanted to go to sleep. And with a drunken Alice Mulgrew in his bed, the one thing he wouldn’t get was sleep. Gin made her angry. It also made her horny as hell. “She still upstairs?”

  Tommy nodded. “In your bed. Right now. You lucky bastard.”

  Quinn dropped his head into his hands. He knew the dress. How it showed off every line of her body. Alice was no beauty, but she was striking. Short, platinum blonde hair. Dark black eyes. Full lips. Smooth alabaster skin. She could trap a man for life if he wasn’t careful. And Quinn had always been a careful man.