He wanted to go upstairs, to let her push away what had been a rotten night.
But he’d also lose time in finding the shooter. And that bastard in the white hat, too, if he even existed.
Sure, Alice would’ve been a good time, but loyalty to Archie came first. Always.
Quinn slid off the stool and pocketed his cigarette case. He had a couple of ideas on where to start looking.
“There’s a good man,” Tommy said, watching him stand. “Give her a proper easing out of her hangover.”
“Not today.” Quinn set his hat on his head and started on his way. “Give her a couple of hours to sleep it off, then check on her for me.” He patted Deavers on the shoulder as he headed out of the bar. “I’ll call later to see if anyone’s looking for me.”
Tommy put the glass he’d been washing back on the bar and slapped himself in the head. “Ah, Christ, Terry. I’d almost forgotten to tell you about Frank Sanders.”
Quinn had forgotten about him, too. About putting Johnny the Kid in the cab up to the Heights to see him. It seemed like a month ago. Even longer. “What about him?”
“He called just before you came in,” Tommy said, “but I was so busy with the clean-up that I forgot to give you the message. He said he’s still on the look out for that package you sent, but that it hadn’t arrived yet. Said you’d know what he meant.”
Quinn knew that meant The Kid never made it to Sander’s pool hall. It meant that he’d either been stopped before he’d gotten there or he’d panicked and run away on his own.
Either way, he was probably dead someplace with a hole in his head.
Quinn knew he didn’t owe Johnny The Kid anything. But Johnny didn’t deserve to die.
Quinn stomped out his cigarette in one of the ashtrays on the bar. A great start to a miserable fucking day.
QUINN KNEW every gin joint and joy house in New York City worth knowing. Each one drew its own roster of stool pigeons, snitches, degenerates and gossip mongers who had someone with a theory on who shot Fatty and why. But the La Kaye Club on 45th Street off 6th had something none of the others had: Mary “Texas” Guinan. The woman heard everything. If people were talking, Guinan was listening.
If this bastard in the white suit was a high roller, Guinan would know where to find him.
He could hear her familiar greeting from halfway up the block. “Hello, suckers!” she bellowed to two drunks who’d stumbled into the place in front of Quinn. “We’ve got plenty of gin, gals and giggles to keep you jumping for a while, so come on in and take a load off.”
She was a stout five feet tall, but her stark blonde hair and bright red dress made her look like a movie star. The drunks who’d just stumbled out of the Lounge looked ridiculous in evening wear. But on Guinan, it somehow just looked right.
When Quinn ducked through the door, Guinan forgot all about her customers. “Well as I live and breathe, if it ain’t my favorite tough guy.” She threw open her fleshy arms and pulled Quinn down to plant a big kiss on his cheek. “You big, beautiful hunk’a man, you! Where you been keepin’ yourself all this time?”
“I’m around,” Quinn said. “Been busy.”
“So I’ve heard,” she said. “Your joint’s one of the few still makin’ money these days. Would you just look at the two shitbirds I coaxed in here. Have you ever seen a sorrier pair? You know times are tough when you can’t hardly make a dishonest living peddlin’ hooch and pretty gals.” Her painted face grew a little darker. “Heard about what happened to poor Fatty last night. How’s he doing?”
Quinn kept the details to a minimum. “Pulling through as well as a guy with a bullet in him could.”
“Fatty’s a pain in the ass and a drunk,” Guinan said, “but he’s basically good people. Any idea who did it?”
“Maybe,” Quinn said. “That’s why I’m here.”
She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “Still a conversationalist, aren’t you, kid?” She smiled as she linked her arm through his and pulled him inside. “Let’s sit for a spell and see what we can do to help you and Archie out. Anything for you two. Anything at all.”
It might’ve been almost six in the morning outside, but it was still happy hour inside the La Kaye Club. There were a dozen or so people in various stages of drunkenness from all walks of life. Some sipped straight shots. Others nursed glasses of Archie Doyle’s beer. A couple of showgirls known as Guinan’s Graduates were putting on some kind of floorshow.
Calling it a floorshow was a stretch. The stage was only big enough for five girls to wiggle around a bit. The whole place was a cramped and hot and close. The Longford Lounge’s smell had a hint of opulence and joy amid the corruption of excess. La Kaye had an underlying stench of desperation, like the old gym where he used to train.
Guinan plopped her sizable bottom on a barstool, but Quinn kept standing. He never sat when he drank and he knew he’d be drinking with Guinan.
She pounded on the bar until she got the bartender’s attention. “Lenny, two shots of whiskey a piece,” she ordered, then lowered her voice. “The good stuff. Not that piss water we peddle to the rest of the saps.”
Lenny didn’t look happy. “Mr. Kaye don’t like you drinking while you’re working.”
Guinan took a swing at him but Lenny ducked. He grabbed the closest bottle of whiskey and slid four shot glasses at them before retreating to the other side of the bar.
“You’d think with all the people outta work these days, I could get some decent help around here,” Guinan said as she poured the two shots herself.
“Like the old sayin’ goes: If you want something done right...” She toasted Quinn with her glass and they drank.
The burn hit the back of his throat and went all the way down. It wasn’t the worst whiskey he’d ever tasted, but it was close.
Guinan licked her chops and set the glass down with a slap and poured two more. “Mother’s milk. So, what do you want to know?”
Quinn began, “When I started shaking the trees about who shot Fatty, I heard about a new guy in town. He’s definitely not the shooter, but he went through a lot of trouble to set up that game with Fatty. He may or may not be involved, but he’s not on the level either.”
“Not on the level?” Guinan laughed. “In this town? Shit, Terry. He’d stick out more if he wasn’t crooked. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn said, “but he’s probably about five six or so. Stocky. Brown eyes. Beard and moustache. Wears a white suit and hat. Probably a high roller or likes to act...”
When Guinan stiffened, Quinn realized he’d hit something. “You know him.”
Guinan futzed with her shotglass and avoided eye contact. “Sounds like a guy I know – at least, know a little.”
“Who is he, Mary?” Quinn asked again. “It’s important.”
“Must be for you to call me by my right name,” Guinan said. “He says he’s from Savannah, but his accent slips when he’s drunk. Sounds more like a Connecticut Yankee then, but I can’t be sure. Goes by the name of Simon Wallace, or at least he does whenever he’s in here.”
Now the bastard in white had a name: Simon Wallace.
Quinn wanted more, but he knew Guinan would dry up if he pushed her too hard too fast. Tread lightly still applied.
“Tell me about him.”
“Not much to tell,” Guinan said. She took another shot and refilled her glass. Quinn left his untouched.
“He’s been in here a couple of times over the past six months or so whenever he’s been in town. Brings a bodyguard who’d just sit there while Wallace drank. Makes a lot of noise about how he was a sportin’ man who made his livin’ on gamblin’. Judgin’ by the way he throws money around, the boy’s got to have an income from somewhere.”
“Did you believe him?” Quinn asked.
“I don’t know. He claimed he also owned a bunch of different businesses down south. He says he keeps an apartment here, but doesn’t say where. When I asked him specifi
cs, just bein’ conversational, he clammed up. I never could tell for sure, but I always got the feeling he was afraid of sayin’ too much.”
She grabbed for another shot, but Quinn covered her glass. “What else, Mary? Tell me.”
Guinan took his hand in hers. “It’s not him lying about himself that bothered me. Hell, everyone wants to be someone else, especially in a bar. But I always felt it was more than just play actin’ with him. Like he was hidin’ somethin’ big, or at least somethin’ he thought was big, and would do almost anything to keep it hidden.” She shivered and downed another shot. Quinn let her. “I guess that’s why I never asked him too many questions.”
Quinn changed the subject. “Ever see his bodyguard before?”
“No, but he’s a mean looking bastard. Not as mean as you, though..” “Wallace ever come in here with anyone other than his bodyguard?”
Guinan offered a weak smile and poured another pair of shots. “I don’t know about you, but my buzz is leaving me but quick. How about another?”
Quinn turned his glass over. “Who else was he here with, Mary?” Guinan closed her eyes and breathed deep. “Before I tell you, you have to promise me you won’t do anything crazy.”
“I don’t make promises,” Quinn said. “Who was he here with?” “Howard Rothman,” she blurted out.
Quinn felt the blood rise in his neck. Simon Wallace got Ceretti to set up Fatty Corcoran to play Johnny the Kid. Johnny the Kid was managed by Ira Shapiro. Shapiro was Howard Rothman’s boy. Howard Rothman had drinks with Simon Wallace. One big goddamned circle. Quinn almost got dizzy.
“Shit, I knew that’d make you mad.”
“Skip it,” Quinn fought to stay focused. “How often were they here?” “Two or three times,” Guinan said. “It was never just them. There was always a bigger group of people, the typical hangers-on you always see around a big spender like Rothman. Wallace and Rothman seemed friendly enough but they just didn’t act like friends.”
But Quinn barely heard her. The old anger began to flood threw him once again. The Rothaman-Wallace connection meant a move on Doyle’s territory and that meant open warfare, something Archie had managed to avoid for a decade. It...
Quinn almost jumped when Guinan took his hand again. “I know you’d do anything to protect Archie, but you’ve got to make sure you don’t do anything stupid. Rothman’s not just some two-bit bookie anymore and he hasn’t been for a long time. He’s got people to back him and pride to boot.”
“I don’t care...”
“Listen to me,” Guinan demanded as she put both hands on each side of his face and said, “I know you love Archie and so do I, but guys like him always land on their feet. It’s the people like you and me who end up getting killed.”
Quinn gently took her hands and lowered them. “We’re not going to lie down and take the strap from anyone.”
“Who said you should?” Guinan asked. “Just don’t do anything on your own. You already stirred up a lot of trouble by shooting Shapiro this morning.”
“So you heard about that already?”
“Word is he shot first, but Rothman might see it as payback for Fatty. Either way, you’ll need to be careful from here on in. Tell Archie what you find and let him handle it. It’s his fight more than it is yours. Now promise me you won’t do something stupid.”
Quinn managed a smile. Guinan might be a blabbermouth, but she was a caring soul who was far more sensitive than the brash, tough broad she played for the customers. “I told you I don’t make promises.”
“Well you’re making one to me,” she said as she slid Quinn’s glass to him and refilled her own. “Here and now.”
Quinn looked at the glass of bad whiskey and smiled. Rot gut booze for a rot gut promise. He clinked his glass with hers. “I’ll drink to that.”
A LACK of sleep and Guinan’s bad whiskey made Quinn more sluggish than normal. Luckily, the November wind kicked up cold and helped bring him around.
He didn’t have time for sleep. The Rothman and Wallace connection still stung pretty bad. It might be just a coincidence or it might be a coordinated move against Archie. Other than Rothman and Wallace there was probably only one other man who might know for certain.
The shooter.
Quinn fought off a yawn as he went through the revolving doors of the Algonquin Hotel on West 44th Street. It wasn’t hard to spot Hermando “Chi Chi” Castanengo’s shoeshine stand at the back of the lobby.
Chi Chi ran half the hotel shine stands in the city, thanks to Archie Doyle. Fatty Corcoran had been a customer of Chi Chi’s for years, so when the little Guatemalan told Fatty he wanted to borrow money to expand; he got Archie to put him in charge of all of Doyle’s hotel stands. Shining shoes had always been secondary. The stands were great cover for Doyle’s bookmaking business.
The stands were also great places to find dirt. Women talked in beauty parlors. Guys talked when they got their hair cut and their shoes shined. Shine boys passed along things they heard to interested parties for a price. Some of the information was gold. Some of it was worthless.
Chi Chi was a good filter and he only called Quinn when he had something solid. He knew better than to waste Quinn’s time.
Quinn found him perched in the shine stall next to the payphone. One of his guys snapped a rag across his spats while Chi Chi read the Racing Form. Rumor had it that the little man had his shoes shined three times a day, and it showed. The black and white spats shined like glass. They clashed hard with his red suit and matching fedora. Quinn thought Chi Chi looked like a pimp in a third rate whorehouse, but loud was the little man’s style.
Quinn caught their reflection as he climbed onto the stall next to the bookie. Chi Chi’s small frame and bright red suit made him look like a child next to Quinn in his dark hat and overcoat. The shine boys knew the drill and made themselves scarce.
You didn’t eavesdrop on Quinn and Chi Chi.
“Look at what the kitty cat drag in,” Chi Chi said. His thick Spanish accent held contempt for the last two letters of most words. “Tommy tell you I call looking for you last night?”
“I hear you have a busy night last night, my friend. Ira Shapiro, bang bang.” The bookie sucked his teeth. “All that trouble for nothing. If you just come to Chi Chi first, you would’ve saved a lot of trouble.”
Quinn would have been more surprised if Chi Chi hadn’t known about the Shapiro thing by now. “Things don’t always play out easy, Cheech. Last night played out harder than I wanted.”
“Hard ain’t the half of it,” the bookie said. “You shoot up one of Rothman’s dives – and his best earner. For why? To pump a low life pool hall flake like Johnny the Keed for informations on who shoot Fatty? Informations he don’t have, but I do.”
“I get preached to on Sundays, amigo. Tell me why I’m here?”
“First things first,” the bookie folded his newspaper closed. “How’s Fatty doing? I hear many bad things about him. I hear he dying. I hear he can’t walk no more. What do you say?”
“He’s fine,” Quinn lied. “Doc says he’ll be back to turning cartwheels across the floor by the end of the week. Who’s asking?”
“A lot of peoples owe Fatty money, so if he were to, se va morir, God forbid,” the bookie crossed himself quickly, “people think maybe their debt die with him.” He sucked his teeth again. “Los animales en esta ciudad.”
Quinn had been afraid of shit like this starting up. Archie looking shaky. People testing boundaries, second-guessing the way things had been for a decade. Cracks were showing in the Doyle foundation and it was only 7:00 AM. The more people talked and wondered, the wider the cracks would get. There was only one way to stop it: nail the shooter and remind everyone that Archie Doyle is still in charge.
“A debt owed to Fatty is a debt owed to Archie,” Quinn explained. “Payment is expected in full and on time. They hold out, I’ll come ask them why.”
The bookie threw up his arms in surrender. “Of course! I
’m just passing on what I hear.”
“Then how about passing on what you heard about what happened at Ames’ last night?”
“I hear somethings that you might use. But I have to pay for my informations sometimes too. I was wondering if there was some kind of reward for...”
A night’s worth of frustration boiled over. Quinn grabbed the bookie’s leg and dug his fingers deep into the man’s thigh. Slow and hard.
Chi Chi stifled a scream and squirmed in his chair.
Quinn leaned closer. “How’s this for a reward? You tell me what you know and I won’t snap your fucking leg.”
Chi Chi nodded like his head would fall off. Quinn let go.
“God damn those tempers of yours.” Chi Chi rubbed his sore leg. “Why you treat an old friend that way?”
Quinn went to grab his leg again and the bookie couldn’t start his story fast enough. “I hear the shooter could be Carmine Zito!” “Zito?” Quinn knew the name. “The button man for the Harlem dagos?”
Chi Chi shook his head. “Sometimes, but he work for anyone if the money’s good. He tough and he don’t work cheap, so if he shoot Fatty, someone pay him plenty to keep his mouth shut.”
Quinn already figured that. “What else do you know about this guy?”
“No one know what he look like,” Chi Chi said. “Tall, short, fat, bald, curly hair, ugly, handsome.” A smug grin spread across his small face. “But I know what he look like.”
Quinn hated dragging out information like this, but he played along. “How?”
No one was within ear shot, but Chi Chi beckoned him closer anyway. “I know this girl who is what you might call ‘a woman of easy virtue’. She say she and this Zito sometimes, you know...,” the bookie made a fist and jiggled it as though milking a cow, “...for money. He never say what he do for a living and get angry when she ask him. She get curious one day and went sniffing in his closet while he sleeping. She find many guns in a bag in his closet. She also know he disappear for days and bring this bag with him. He never tell her where he goes, but she see train tickets in his house sometimes.”
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