Together, they watched Rothman and his bodyguards get into his roadster and drive up the street.
“I don’t know about you, kid, but I’d say that went pretty much as expected.”
Quinn’s head was still buzzing. “I was expecting you to rap me on the knuckles, not kick him in the balls.”
“Yeah, I know, but the smug way he pranced in here got under my skin. I could tell he wasn’t in the mood to talk, so I rode him hard. Besides, I got what I wanted and, in the end, I learned somethin’ in the bargain.”
“Which was?” Quinn asked.
“That he didn’t have Fatty shot,” Doyle slipped out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair. “I hit him with that Wallace remark first thing and it bounced right off. Didn’t even blink. He didn’t over-explain how he knew Wallace. He didn’t deny it, either. I know he’s a gambler and he didn’t get rich by blinkin’ while holding a lousy hand. But it was just a feelin’ I got off him. A look in his eye. He was angry, not vengeful. He even took the fifteen hundred with barely a squawk.”
Quinn wasn’t so sure. “He’s smart enough to work that into his act, boss. Maybe he didn’t kick up a fuss about the dough because he’s already moving against us?”
But Doyle shook his head. “That’s why I pushed him hard at the end when he made that threat. I called his bluff and he just backed down. That ain’t the way a man ready to start a war acts, kid. I oughtta know. I’ve been in enough of them.”
Doyle sighed and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He went back to looking out at the bleak, colorless warehouse across the street. Quinn saw the fading afternoon sunlight showed deep lines on Doyle’s face. He saw bags under Doyle’s eyes. The boss had been up all night drinking and playing cards. Quinn remembered a time when Doyle could go days without sleep and still look fresh without so much as a ten minute nap.
But Quinn knew Archie Doyle wasn’t a kid anymore. He was no longer a man without limits. Things were changing. The Old Man was growing into his name.
“Rothman didn’t set up Fatty,” Doyle continued. “That leaves this Wallace punk. Let’s put some of our own men on it this time. To hell with Doherty and Halloran. Put a couple of good boys on it who know how to trail a guy, not just blast him. Killing Wallace won’t help us figure out why he shot Fatty. Not yet, anyway.”
Quinn saw the same look in Doyle’s eyes that he’d seen while he was talking to Walker. It wasn’t fear, but it was close. “And do it fast, kid. Because the quicker this goes away, the more likely Al Smith’ll throw his hat in the ring. And now’s the time, Terry. I can feel it in my bones.” He went back to looking out the window. “Now’s the time.”
“Sure, boss. But I need to know where Wallace is before I can put some boys on him. Doherty never called me back, remember?”
“Well the bastard’ll call me back,” Doyle bellowed out at Sean Baker again. “Get Detective Doherty on the phone, will ya?” No response.
“Baker?”
That’s when Quinn heard the tinkling of breaking glass, followed by distant screaming. They were common sounds in that neighborhood, except they sounded close.
Quinn looked out the window and saw a blur of fire pass from the roof of the warehouse across the street onto the clubhouse roof. More breaking glass and more screaming. It took Quinn a second to realize what they were.
Fire-bombs.
Then Quinn saw the heads and shoulders of two men at the roof ledge of the warehouse. They brought around Thompsons and aimed down at
Archie’s office.
Quinn tackled Doyle to the floor as the machine guns opened up.
Bullets shattered the windows and raked the desk where Doyle had just been standing. Quinn and Doyle were covered in wood splinters and glass. Above the roar of gunfire, Quinn heard the screaming of the men he’d posted on the rooftop. The poor bastards were being burned alive.
Quinn crawled on top of Doyle, staying below the window line while trying to shield his boss with his own body.
Large bits of wood and dust from the desk and floor were kicked up as the Thompsons spat lead into Doyle’s office. The leather couch was ripped open by gunfire. Chunks of stuffing and wood were thrown into the air. Old pictures jumped off the walls as bullets punched them until they shattered and fell.
Quinn figured being close to the window kept them safe from the Tommy guns. The shooters were firing from too high an angle to be able to hit them. He knew it was only a matter of time before they lobbed a fire- bomb through the shattered windows of the office. He and Doyle wouldn’t be able to escape the fiery liquid that burned everything it touched.
Quinn thought one of the guns stop firing. The other kept up the assault. Quinn knew a cocktail was coming. He wiggled out of his overcoat and threw it over Doyle’s head.
“I think they’re getting ready to throw a cocktail at us,” Quinn yelled over the gunfire. “My coat’ll cover you in case you get splashed. Just throw it off and keep going if it gets you.”
But Doyle fought the overcoat. “What about you?”
“I’m right behind you,” Quinn screamed into Doyle’s ear. “Head for the door.”
A fire-bomb sailed through the gaping window and exploded in the middle of the office. Liquid flame shot all over the room. The splintered desk had shielded Quinn and Doyle from the liquid, but was now in flames. Both had seen this ploy enough times to know better than to run right away. The cocktail was meant to make them run for the door so they could be picked off by the gunmen.
The room quickly filled with black smoke and the gunfire stopped. The bastards were either reloading or waiting for their shot. Quinn took advantage of the break and the thickening smoke. He popped his head above the windowsill and saw the two men on the roof of the warehouse across the street, about two stories above him. They were slapping fresh ammo drums into their rifles.
Quinn pushed Doyle toward the door. “Crawl toward the hallway. I’ll keep ‘em busy for a while. Move!”
Doyle took his cue as Quinn rose on one knee and fired four times up at the ledge. One of the shots ricocheted off the ledge and sent chips of cement flying into one gunman’s face. Quinn saw him fall back from the ledge. Quinn ducked just as the other one raked the room again with machine gun fire.
All of the old targets got hit again. None of the bullets reached Quinn. The smoke was getting thicker by the second. His eyes burned. His lungs ached.
The machine gun roared.
Bullets slapped plaster and wood. Quinn buried his face in the sleeve of his jacket and moved toward where he thought the door was. He’d make a run for it once the last gunman stopped to reload again.
When the gunfire finally stopped, Quinn started crawling. The smoke was billowing now, darker and thicker even along the floor. But the doorway wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He tried not to panic. He knew people got disoriented in fires.
But things got strange fast. He knew the door couldn’t be far, but his body was getting heavier. Then the floor felt like it was where the wall was supposed to be. Everything began to spin and Quinn’s legs gave way. He collapsed onto the shards of glass and laid still. He’d take a quick rest and try again in just a second. It was a little cooler on the floor anyway. Calm and quiet, almost peaceful.
He saw a hand with stubby fingers reach through the smoke, grab him by the collar and drag him into the hallway.
No sooner had he hit the hallway floor when another cocktail flashed and exploded in the office. A red ball of flame and heat exploded. The stench of burning plaster and wood snapped Quinn out of it and made him gag dry.
Quinn looked up and saw Archie dragging him into an open closet in the hallway. The door partially blocked the thick smoke from reaching them.
“Layin’ down on the job ain’t your style, kid,” Doyle coughed over the gunfire and flame, his face blackened by smoke. “I thought you was givin’ up on me.”
Quinn hacked a couple of dry coughs and pointed down the stairs. They he
lped each other off the floor and scrambled down to the lobby, crouching low as they moved.
The smoke wasn’t as bad on the ground floor, but five of Doyle’s men were crouched in the hallway, trading gunfire with shooters in the first floor of the warehouse across the street.
Doyle found Jimmy Cain ordering men to different parts of the first floor. “What’s the situation?” Doyle screamed to him over gunfire.
Cain’s face had also been blackened from the smoke. He also had a nasty cut on side of his face. “Looks like they took out our guys on the roof with fire-bombs, then opened fire on your office from the roof top of the warehouse. We tried getting’ over there, but three more guys opened up on us from the ground floor of the warehouse. They clipped three of our boys out front. They’ve got us pinned down pretty good, too, but we ain’t giving up yet.”
Quinn knew a couple of fire-bombs of his own would clear them out of the first floor. But this was Doyle’s political headquarters. He never kept booze around in case the feds raided it. The bastards across the street probably knew that, too.
Another long volley of gunfire from the warehouse made them duck. Bullets raked the plaster walls and tore through the air above their heads.
“Is the back way clear?” Quinn shouted.
“I don’t know,” Cain said. “But we ain’t been hit from that direction yet, so it might be.”
Doyle bolted down the hallway toward the back door before Quinn could stop him. Quinn, Cain and two extra men ran after him.
Quinn got between Doyle and the back door. “I can’t let you go out there, boss.”
Doyle tried squeezing past him. His face shined with the glow of combat. “Get outta my way, Goddamn it! I didn’t get this far being a pussy, and I ain’t gonna start now. Now move!”
Quinn grabbed Doyle’s arm, but Doyle cried out and his knees buckled.
That’s when Quinn felt a sticky dampness near the shoulder where he grabbed him. The red splotch quickly spread along Doyle’s shirt.
Doyle had been shot.
Quinn eased Doyle down the wall to the floor and holstered his automatic under his left arm. He pulled off his own suit jacket, balled it up and put it behind Doyle’s head.
“It’s just a scratch, goddamn it,” Doyle said, biting off the pain. “Get me up.”
Quinn ripped open the sleeve of Doyle’s shirt at the shoulder. The bullet had entered just above the front of the socket and went straight out the back. The amount of blood told Quinn it might have cut an artery. Doyle would die if they didn’t stop the bleeding.
Quinn pulled off his tie and tied it as tight as he could around the wound. He yelled instructions to Cain over the gunfire. “Tear the rest of his shirt into strips and wrap it around the wound as tight as you can. Then take his belt and pull that even tighter. He’ll scream like hell, but it’s the only thing that’ll stop that bleeding until I come back.”
Cain grabbed Quinn’s arm as he moved to leave. “Where the hell are you going?”
Quinn pulled away and moved down the hall. “Just have your men concentrate their fire on the first floor of the warehouse. Tell them to keep an eye out for me. I’ll try to give them signals as I go.” He looked down at Doyle. “Just keep him alive until I get back.”
Quinn pulled the .45 from his holster and opened the back door. He brought up his automatic and crouched low in the doorway.
The back alley was empty.
He ran through the alley behind the building next door and took a quick left up the side alley toward the warehouse. The alley was long and narrow and couldn’t be seen from the warehouse. Perfect cover.
Quinn stopped just short of the mouth of the alley, inching up the rest of the way until he saw the hail of bullets flying back and forth between the Doyle headquarters and the first floor windows of the warehouse. He couldn’t see the last gunman on the roof of the warehouse, but was sure they were still there. Quinn knew he had to move and move now.
Quinn darted out in the street, bracing for the impact of a bullet. These were the moments Quinn lived for.
The volley between the warehouse and the club didn’t let up. He got to the other side and threw himself flat against the building next to the warehouse. No one had fired at him. From there, he saw how bad the headquarters had been hit. Every window in the two story building had been shot out. Black smoke billowed out from the second floor and roof.
Three of Doyle’s men lay dead in the street, twisted in various death poses. Blood stains spread long and wide beneath their bodies on the sidewalk. The cold air was filled with the acrid stench of gun smoke, death and blood.
Quinn’s skin burned as the salt from his sweat mixed with the black soot from the fire. He wiped his brow on his sleeve and kept moving, inching along the front of the building until he came close to the alley between it and the warehouse.
He looked over at his men in the headquarters, motioning for them to move their fire over further to his right. He didn’t want any stray bullets hitting him.
They shifted their fire, just like Quinn wanted. He bobbed his head twice around the corner to check the alley. Nobody there. He sprinted alongside the warehouse looking for a way inside. He found an old wooden door that looked as though it had been kicked in.
He peeked in fast. Nothing there. He moved inside. Fast and quiet. His .45 swept the area in front of him. It was a cavernous building filled with wooden crates and barrels of all shapes and sizes. Sawdust littered the floor and muffled his footsteps as he crept toward the front of the warehouse. Gunfire erupted at the front of the warehouse again. The sound echoed throughout the building. Quinn jogged down the aisle of crates in a crouched position. His gun led the way. He stopped when he got to the front loading bay, close enough to hear the three gunmen talking.
“How much ammo do these mugs got?” one of them asked. “They gotta be running dry by now.”
“Just keep firin’ til Eddie comes down and tells us to beat it,” said another.
Quinn crept up closer. He saw three men firing Thompsons through boarded windows. The floor was littered with spent shells. The gunman on the far left ran out of ammunition and dropped to one knee to reload. Two to one.
Quinn’s kind of odds.
Quinn opened fire on the middle gunman first, hitting him twice in the back. His fedora flew. The gunman at the far right spun around, but his rifle stuck in the boarded window as Quinn shot him twice in the chest. He tumbled back into a row of stacked crates.
The last gunman fumbled with his rifle to eject the spent ammo drum. His eyes went wide as he looked up at the approaching Quinn. He dropped the rifle and he kicked it away as he fell back, slipping on the piles of spent shells. He raised his shaking hands in front of him. His mouth trembled. His eyes watered.
Quinn approached the man slow. “How many more of you are in here?”
The gunman held his hands far in front of himself now, cringing with each step Quinn took toward him. “Please, God, please.”
“Concentrate, fucko.” Quinn stopped a few paces in front him and leveled his .45 at him. “How many more of you are in here?”
Then Quinn saw the man’s eyes flicker over to something above Quinn’s left shoulder. Quinn spun to his right and dropped to a crouch as a gunman on the cat walk opened up on him with a Thompson. Quinn fired back. Sparks flew from the railing. A red mist appeared behind the shooter’s head.
Gunman and rifle fell on opposite sides of the catwalk. The sound of wooden crates collapsing beneath the body echoed in the warehouse.
Quinn swept his pistol back around to cover the first gunman. No need. He’d been practically cut in half by his partner’s blast.
There were still the bastards on the roof to take care of. Quinn wasn’t sure how many rounds he had left in the magazine. He reloaded with a fresh clip anyway. He took the stairs of the metal staircase up to the catwalk two at a time. Fast. Quiet.
The steel door to the roof was open. Gravel crunched softly beneath his
feet. He held his gun held out in front of him. From there, he saw and smelled the black smoke billowing up from the rooftop of Doyle’s headquarters. He saw the smoldering bodies of Evans and McCluskey, the two men he’d stationed there a few hours ago. The poor bastards died terrible deaths.
Quinn saw the last gunman slumped with his back to the ledge wall. He thought he’d gotten him with a ricochet and he was right. The cement from the balustrade had racked his face. Blood streamed from cuts on his eyelids and the sides of his face.
The gunman had heard someone coming toward him. He blindly pawed at the gravel around him. “Gussie? That you, Gussie? Did you get the bastard?”
Quinn waved down at Cain’s men and beckoned them over. They spilled into the street and into the warehouse. “Sorry, pal. The bastard got Gussie.”
The blind man tried kicking himself away from the voice, but he was already as far back against the wall as he could go. Quinn saw a broken Thompson on the ground next to him. A surge of pride filled him. Hell of a shot.
Quinn kicked the rifle away. The blind man stopped groping for it. He laid his hands flat on the gravel beside him. His breathing came quick, uneven but he held his water. He was waiting for the bullet.
Quinn figured him for a pro.
He crouched beside the blinded man, the .45 hung loose in his hand. “Who sent you?”
The blind man banged the back of his head against the ledge in frustration. He wiped at the blood from his eyes, but it kept flowing. “Just kill me and get it over with.”
Quinn liked his style. “I killed your entire crew, ace. It’s just you and me now. Who sent you to kill Archie Doyle?”
The blind man froze. “Ar...Archie Do...Doyle?” He swallowed hard. He looked like he would say something else, but didn’t. He swallowed hard again and began breathing faster.
Quinn had seen that look before. On Zito’s face when he told him he’d shot Fatty Corcoran.
“Archie Doyle,” the blind man said, “th..the New York boss?” “That’s right,” Quinn repeated. “Who sent you?”
The man gritted his teeth but kept his mouth shut. Quinn put the barrel of the gun to the man’s knee cap. “Start talking or you’ll be blind and a cripple.” He thumbed back the hammer for effect. “Last time, ace. Who sent you?”
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