Quinn saw Walker’s frown, then added, “I’m sure we have champagne brought to the back room.”
Walker’s frown disappeared. He made a flimsy excuse to his table about needing to meet with some pesky constituents. He kissed Betty’s hand before he followed Quinn to the back room.
The little man trotted along side Quinn and tugged on his arm. “Listen, kid, between you, me and the lamp post – what the hell is going on? Someone goes after Fatty last night; you almost kill Shapiro right after. Word has it he might lose an eye.”
Quinn loved rumors. “I winged him in the shoulder, sir.”
“Whatever,” Walker said. He’d never been big on letting facts change his mind. “My phone’s been ringing off the hook all day long with people wondering if hell’s about to break loose. You know I love Archie like a brother, but he should’ve played it smart and headed to that horse farm of his until all this blows over.”
Quinn led the mayor to the meeting room at the back of the club. “Mr. Doyle figures it’s safe to act like its business as usual, and from what I’ve seen, he’s pretty good at figuring things.”
“I sure hope so,” Walker cautioned, “because I’d hate like hell to hear his name read at mass in the morning.”
Quinn doubted the little shit had been inside a church since the day he was married, but he let it slide.
Quinn lightly rapped his knuckle on the French doors of the back room. He heard what sounded like Doyle and Sanders arguing. He’d never heard the two men argue about anything in all the years he’d been working for Doyle.
After a moment or two, Doyle yelled, “Come in!”
THE BACK room of The Longford Lounge was nicknamed “Doyle’s Court’.”It was where Archie Doyle talked business over cocktails and cigars without fear of anyone listening in.
Hunter green wallpaper, dim lighting and faded paintings of some of Doyle’s prize race horses hung on the walls. Doyle and Sanders had been drinking brandy and smoking thick Cubans. A thin cloud of blue cigar smoke hovered over the table like a dirty halo.
The flushed look on the two crime bosses’ faces told Quinn that they’d been arguing. They barely acknowledged the mayor as Walker slid behind them into the room.
To the rest of the world, he was a celebrity. Mayor Jimmy Walker. Tabloid darling. Hero to the common man. In Doyle’s Court, he was still little Lil’ Jimsy from the old neighborhood. A likable kid who’d made good because men like Doyle and Sanders let him make good.
“Take a load off, Jimsy,” Doyle waived his black cigar at one of the vacant chairs at the table. “We got champagne already chilled and all the trimmings.”
Quinn saw that Walker felt the tension in the room, too. He might’ve been crooked, but he wasn’t stupid. . He smiled his thanks anyway. “That’s swell of you guys. Just swell. Thanks for thinking about me.”
“No thanks needed, Jimsy,” Doyle said as he pulled a bottle of champagne from the chill stand and poured a tall glass for the mayor. “What we’ve got here is a real occasion. A night for the books you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren about someday.”
Sanders pulled the cigar from him mouth and said, “Goddamn it, Archie, I’m beggin’ you to think about this some more before ...”
Doyle shut him up with a glare.
Sanders flicked an ash from his cigar into an ashtray. Quinn knew no one ever held Doyle’s stare for long.
“What’s the rumpus, Jimsy?” Sanders asked the mayor. “I ain’t seen you since The Flood.”
“It’s been a long time, Frank,” Walker forced a laugh. “I don’t get up to the Heights as much as I’d like to these days. But at least I get to stop in on Archie at least a couple of times a week and help him get rid of some of that champagne he stocks.” He toasted all of them with his champagne flute and drank.
“Oh, you’re a big help in that department,” Doyle sneered. “You blow in here, buy a round for the house and run outta here without putting your hand in your pocket once. You’re a real class act, Jimsy.”
“Ah,” Walker grinned, “but The Longford Lounge benefits tenfold by being known as the place where Mayor Walker hangs his hat whilst out for a night on the town, doesn’t it, Archie?”
But Doyle wasn’t grinning. “The mayor forgets that he’s only mayor because I let him to be mayor.”
Quinn could tell Doyle was not in a good mood. Time to make himself scarce. “I’ll be out on the floor if anyone needs me.”
“I need you here,” Doyle told him. “Take a seat next to the good mayor over there.”
Quinn froze. He thought he was hearing things. This was the first time Doyle had asked him to join a meeting. Why would he? Quinn was just the hired help.
“I ain’t askin’ you to quote scripture, goddamn it,” Doyle boomed. “Sit your ass in the goddamned chair.”
Quinn closed the door behind him and did as he was told.
Walker didn’t seem to like the idea. “Everyone here knows how fond I am of Terry here, but I need to talk about some things he probably shouldn’t hear.” He touched Quinn’s arm. “Again, no offense.”
“What about?” Doyle asked. “That Shapiro nonsense? Don’t worry about that. I’ll iron that out with Rothman on my own.”
“I’m talking about the whole damned thing,” Walker elaborated. “Fatty getting shot’s got a lot of people scared shitless. And Terry shooting Shapiro’s joint looks like you blame Rothman for Fatty, which is a little presumptive on your part, I might add. No one wants New York to turn into another Chicago.”
“I’m not Capone,” Doyle declared. “I got more sense in my little finger than that fatty little guinea had in his whole head. Terry shootin’ Shapiro wasn’t planned, but it wasn’t his fault either.”
“That’s debatable,” Walker retorted. “Rothman says...”
Doyle didn’t care what Rothman said. “Shapiro’s goons jumped him
and Shapiro shot at him. What was the kid supposed to do?”
“And I don’t care who did what to whom. I care about what happens next. Governor Roosevelt’s people have been looking for a reason to go after me since the gimp got elected. Anymore bloodshed, and I mean any and I’ll get the blame from Albany, not you.”
“Fuck Albany,” Sanders said. “Nothing but a bunch of goddamned farmers up there anyways. What do they know?”
Doyle ignored Sanders. “There’s not going to be anymore bloodshed, believe me. We’ll find the bastard who shot Fatty and that’ll be that.”
Walker surprised Quinn by showing this much backbone. “That’s not enough anymore, Archie. I need you to sit down with Rothman soon so I can tell those bastards up in Albany that this thing won’t boil over. You’ve got the city, but Rothman’s bought a lot of favors in the legislature. There’s a whole big state outside of the city, my friend and he’s bought up a lot of assemblymen and senators.”
Doyle grew very still. He slowly took the cigar out of his mouth. “You talkin’ down to me, you son of a bitch?”
“No, I’m telling you the way things are and how to protect your investment. And that investment is me. Please, please have a sit down with Rothman. Smooth this shit over and end this thing once and for all. Roosevelt’s made no secret about having his eyes on the White House in two years and he’s planning on using my neck as a stepping stone. The bastard’s got his Good Government brigades crawling over every agency in the city. The boys at Tammany don’t sleep nights.”
Doyle motioned for him to calm down. “And I’m telling you that, pretty soon, Roosevelt and his Goo Goos will be a distant, bad memory. For you, for me and for all of us.”
Walker first looked at Quinn, then at Sanders. “What the hell are you talking about?” Then his eyes popped wide. “Christ, you’re not going to kill him are you?”
Doyle smiled. “I’m going to do better than that. I’m going to beat the gimp at his own game.”
Walker hesitated. “What game?”
“Politics. Just look at what’s goin�
�� on in today’s world. Money’s drying up. People are losing their jobs, their homes. Hell, even the gin mills and gambling parlors are goin’ belly up. That means there’s a lot of crooks out of work gettin’ that lean hungry look while they all chase the same buck. Eventually they all start lookin’ at the guy on top of the mountain and that guy is me. That’s why we’ve gotta start lookin’ to the future. And the best place for the future is politics.”
Sanders spoke up. “Archie, for Christ sake. I really want to talk about this another...”
But Doyle talked over him. “There’d be anarchy if we just pulled outta the street all at once. That’s why I want to start backin’ away slowly. Let the other gangs get pieces at a time. Sally Lucania has been pushing me for more territory for a while. Maybe I’ll give him some. We’ve already got the permanent stuff - the docks, cab stands, restaurants, warehouses, but our main source of income is from gambling and booze. We’re gonna be screwed out of that once the feds repeal Prohibition in a few years or so. The quicker we get legit, the better. And we get legit by getting Al Smith elected the next president of the United States.”
Quinn sat very still. He couldn’t believe this was Archie’s big plan. Owning a mayor in the city you ran was one thing. Owning a president was different.
Walker stopped rubbing his temples. “That’s it? Electing Al Smith as President of the United States will solve all our problems in one big swoop.”
Doyle plucked his cigar from the ashtray and leaned slowly back in his chair. “That’s my big plan.”
“He tried running two years ago and lost remember?” Walker reminded. “Hoover mopped the floor with him back in ‘28 because the people of this fine country will never vote for a Catholic to be president, plain and simple. And even if they did and even if they elected Al president, he’d have a whole country to worry about, not just us.”
Doyle puffed long and slow on his Havana. He held the rich smoke in his mouth for a while, before he slowly let it escape from his mouth in broad circles. “A lot’s changed in two years, Jimsy. People had money to burn back then. Now, they’re scrimping and saving just to get by. Come 1932, they’re gonna want a man who knows what it’s like to grow up poor, who knows what they’re going through. They’ll want a man who knows what it’s like to go to bed hungry and cold. A man like Al Smith – Man of the People. The time is right for a move like this, Jimmy. Think about it and you’ll realize how right I really am.”
Quinn saw Walker’s lips move, but no words came out. Walker’s eyes softened and he sank back in his chair. Quinn could see the idea was beginning to take root in his mind.
A broad smile spread across Doyle’s face. “I ain’t sayin’ it’s gonna be easy. I’m just sayin’ it’s possible. Instead of just runnin’ New York, we’ll run the whole damned country. And we’ll run it legal.”
Quinn watched Walker sit back in his chair and sip his champagne. “I’m not completely sold, but I’m man enough to admit that you could be on to something here – if Al goes for it.”
Doyle laughed to himself and popped the cigar back in his mouth.
“That’s why I want you to swing by his place tomorrow and find out if he’s interested in throwin’ his hat in the ring one more time. We need to get him on board and fast.”
“My powers of persuasion will be much stronger once I have a chance to test Lady Luck’s kindness on your roulette wheel downstairs,” Walker said, with a another toast of his champagne glass. “Terry, do you think I could sneak down there without Ms. Compton or my other friends seeing me? I’d like a couple of minutes alone to work the room, and I can’t do that with a bunch of spectators following me around.”
Quinn looked to Doyle for permission. Archie nodded and got up and walked to the door. “I’ll bring you down the back way, your honor. I’ll have Ms. Compton and your friends brought down whenever you’re ready.”
Walker drained his glass and laid it back on the table. “Frank, it’s always a pleasure. And as for you, Archie, you’ve given me quite a bit to think about. I’ll be in touch in a couple of days.” He came around the table and slapped both of them on the back on his way toward the door.
Doyle focused on his cigar instead. “You be in touch tomorrow afternoon like I told you. I’ll be very disappointed if I don’t hear from you by three o’clock.” The ash fell into the ashtray. “Very disappointed.”
Quinn saw the mayor stand a little straighter. He wasn’t used to being spoken to this way.
“I’ll have something for you by tomorrow afternoon. I promise. I’d like to leave now.”
Doyle nodded at Quinn and Quinn opened the door.
“Good luck on the tables, Jimsy,” Doyle called after him. “I’ll be down there myself after Frankie and me finish up here.”
Quinn escorted Walker through the small dining room to the hallway
behind one of the curtains.
When they were out of earshot, Walker queried, “What the hell was that all about?”
Quinn said nothing.
“His world’s falling apart and he’s playing king maker?” Walker went on. Then, as was Walker’s custom, he switched gears. “But, if we could get Al to run and if we could do it the right way this time, that half-baked scheme of his might work.”
“That would make Archie very happy,” Quinn conceded.
They walked through the back of the kitchen, past the two men guarding the rear stairwell. Quinn escorted him down to the casino, two flights below.
When they got to the lower landing, they were greeted by an orchestra of gambling sounds. A marble ball rolling along the track of a roulette wheel, the muffled scramble of dice rolling along the felt of the craps table, the gentle clink of chips, and the cheers and moans of hitting a winning number.
“Good luck on the roulette wheel, Your Honor, and let us know if you need anything.”
For the first time in all the years Quinn had known him, Walker didn’t rush into the casino.
“I got a real bad feeling off Archie tonight, Quinn. And I don’t mean because he got sore at me at the end there. It’s almost like he was...afraid... or desperate. I’ve never heard him sound like that before.”
Quinn lied. “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir. I’m sure he’s just tired.”
But Walker didn’t look so sure. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the whole thing with Fatty’s been harder on him than I thought.”
Walker offered him a weak smile and a pat on the arm. Then he slipped into the casino.
The mayor’s words haunted Quinn as he walked up the back stairs. Running Al Smith again for president might be a tough sell, but Archie wasn’t desperate. Impossible.
But it was. Quinn had seen fear in enough men to know he’d seen it in Archie that evening. Did he really think Al Smith being president was his shot at respectability? Quinn was glad he didn’t have to answer. He just did what he was told. Let the bigger brains worry about politics, Prohibition and the future. He had a saloon to run, money to earn, and a man in a white suit to find.
QUINN GOT back upstairs and walked through the main dining room of the Lounge. He waved to some of the better patrons who called out to him. Being social was good for business. Everyone wanted to know the guy who ran the joint. Everyone wanted to look like a big shot to their friends and mistresses. As long as they kept shelling out the dough, Quinn let them think whatever the hell they wanted.
Wendell Bixby, the gossip monger for the Journal-American, kept trying to catch his eye. Quinn let them all wait. Quinn took a cigarette from his case and lit it. “What’s the disposition?” he asked Tommy.
“The usual assortment of fine ladies and gentlemen and everything in between,” Tommy said. “We’ve a boomin’ business at the bar, the tables are full and your colored band is keeping them hopping, which should make them all good and thirsty.” He poured enough gin and vermouth for three martinis into the tumbler and gave it a couple of good shakes. “Even New York’s Finest seem to be having a ball o
ver there.”
Quinn found the cops’ reflections in the large mirror behind the bar. Doherty and Halloran had parked themselves at the bar near the door. Their cheap suits, bad ties and hang dog expressions screamed out ‘copper’ to anyone who saw them. They casually eyeballed the crowd while they downed highballs. Older and thinner, Doherty did a better job of blending in than Halloran, but not by much.
Doherty caught Quinn’s stare in the mirror and toasted him with the highball glass. Quinn offered a salute with his cigarette.
“They give you any trouble?” Quinn asked Tommy.
“That big bastard Halloran had the gall to demand the best rum in the house, but I’ve been giving them that watered down paint we got from The Peacock after it closed down last week.”
“Just make sure they don’t go blind.”
“Never fear,” Tommy said. “Besides, you’ve got bigger worries before
you.” He poked his thumb over his left shoulder and said, “Her Grace has been acting up again.”
Quinn saw Alice laughing it up at a table with a couple of banker types. Quinn didn’t like her flirting with guys twice her age. He didn’t like her hitting the sauce so hard after getting plastered the night before. He didn’t like they way she leaned forward to show her cleavage when she laughed.
He didn’t like hearing her sloppy cackle that caused people to look at her. He didn’t like that he was starting to give a damn about her.
“What’s she drinking?” he asked Tommy.
“Her hosts are paying for Dewars, but I know how wild she gets on the good stuff,” Tommy said placing lemon rinds in the glasses of the newly poured martinis. “I’m serving her the same watered down stuff your boys in blue are having. I won’t let her get too loaded, I promise.”
That was one of the reasons why Quinn liked Tommy. He knew how to save his customers from themselves. “You’d better deliver those martinis before they get warm.”
Quinn felt something strike him on the shoulder. He turned to see Alice swaying in front of him, ready to hit him again with her purse.
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