Prohibition

by Terrence McCauley

  The man’s breathing grew more shallow as the truth broke free. “I ain’t even from here and I sure as shit didn’t know we was sent to whack Archie Doyle.”

  Quinn knew a .45 to the knee cap was a wonderful thing. “Where are you from?”

  The blind man couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “We’re with Lenny Boo’s mob out of Kansas City.”

  Quinn forced the gun barrel hard into the blind man’s knee. “Bullshit. Lenny Boo does business with us. Why would he want to take him out like this?”

  “I...I...I don’t know,” the blinded man stammered. “He usually tells us who the mark is, but this time he only gave us an address. Said it was a contract job for this new partner of his.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “What new partner?” Quinn pressed the barrel harder into his knee. “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know!” the blind man screamed. “But Lenny said this building was owned by a guy who owed his new partner a lot of money. Told us to shoot it up to teach the owner a lesson. Said we were only supposed to open fire when the guy in the pearl suit left the building and the place was empty.”

  Quinn took a step back. They were told to wait until Rothman left the building. Rothman had set up Doyle after all. Jesus. “How many of you did Lenny send?”

  “T...ten of us out here to hit two places. That’s all I know,” the blind man said.

  Quinn felt himself get dizzy. “What two places? Where are the other five guys?”

  “This one and another joint up in midtown, The Longbow or something like that,” he screamed. “I don’t know for sure. I wasn’t in on that one.”

  Quinn grabbed him by collar and yanked him up. “The Longford Lounge? Is that it, you son of a bitch? The Longford Lounge?” The man quickly nodded and Quinn squeezed harder. “When, goddamn it? When?”

  “N...now, I think, before the joint opened,” the blind man stammered. “They wanted to hit the place while some of the employees were there. Maybe they were going to do it before this job, maybe after it. They didn’t tell me what they were going to do, I swear!”

  Quinn heard Jimmy Cain and three other men from the headquarters spill out on to the roof. “You all right, Terry?”

  Quinn let the blind man drop and holstered his pistol. “I thought I told you to stay with Archie.”

  “Baker’s with him now,” Cain said. “I stopped the bleeding and I’ve got some of the boys putting him in the car to drive him over to Doc Brownell right now.”

  “I’ll drive him over myself,” Quinn pushed past him toward the stairway. “Get some boys over to the Lounge right now. They’re sending another crew to hit us there, too.” He pointed back to the blind man. “Take that piece of shit to the safe house where we got Fatty stashed. Sit on him until

  I get back. And don’t hurt him. Understand?”

  Quinn and Cain rumbled down the metal stair case and bolted across the street to the headquarters. What was left of Doyle’s gunmen were guarding the front of the club and looked up when they saw Quinn running toward them.

  “Get over to the Lounge. They’re going to hit us there any second,” Quinn bellowed. “Move!”

  They all broke toward their sedans and started their engines. Those who couldn’t fit in the cars stood on the running boards, Thompsons beneath their overcoats.

  Quinn ran into the club house and spotted Baker heading down the hall. “Call the Lounge and tell them to clear out of there, now!”

  He found Doyle in one of the inner offices. His shirt had been cut away and used as a tourniquet for the gunshot wound in his left shoulder. Cain had done a good job with the dressing, but there was still a good amount of blood on his t-shirt and pants.

  Doyle grabbed for the .38 on his lap when he heard someone had entered the room. He lowered it when he saw Quinn.

  “What’s the sad puss for? If you think this is bad, you should’ve been with us up in Canada back in ’15. Me and Frank looked like Swiss cheese.” He swallowed hard and asked, “How many did we lose?”

  Quinn grabbed an overcoat from the coat rack by the door and threw it around Doyle’s shoulders. “Five total. Evans and McCluskey on the roof and three more out front.”

  Doyle winced. The lines in his face got even deeper. “What about the bastards?”

  “All of them but one and we got him alive.”

  Doyle’s face brightened. “Good boy. We’ll break him.”

  “You’re not breaking anybody.” He grabbed Doyle around the waist and hauled him to his feet. “I’m getting you to a doctor and right now.”

  Doyle was wobbly, but Quinn had a good grip on him. He led him out the front toward the Duesenberg.

  “Where the hell did everyone go?” Doyle asked.

  Quinn opened the back door of his car and eased Doyle in. He knew what would happen if Doyle knew about the threat to the Lounge, so he lied. “I didn’t want everyone standing around here when the cops showed up.”

  He tried to close the car door. Doyle kicked it open. Even with a bullet in him, he had plenty of strength. “I told you that you never could lie worth a shit, kid. What’s the real reason?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Archie,” Quinn forced the door closed. “It’s just a precaution, is all.”

  Doyle reached through the open door window and grabbed Quinn’s blackened shirt. “Goddamn you, where is everyone?”

  He knew Doyle wouldn’t let him go until he told him the truth. “An- other crew might be hitting the Lounge. I sent the others over there to see what was going on while I take you to the doctor.”

  Doyle let go of Quinn’s shirt and sank back in the seat. In fifteen minutes, he’d aged twenty years.

  Quinn ran around the front of the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. He started up the car and leaned on the horn for Baker to hurry up. “Those dirty bastards,” Doyle whispered from the back seat. “Going after my club? Why would anyone wanna do something like that?” Quinn leaned on the horn again. “I don’t know, but I swear to Christ, they’ll bleed for it.”

  Baker ran out of the headquarters and jumped into the passenger’s seat. “I let it ring a bunch of times, but there’s no answer.”

  Quinn slipped the engine into first gear and pulled away from the curb.

  As he sped across Twelfth Street, he kept an eye out for anyone who might be aiming at the car. It was possible that the other crew might be a back up to the first, waiting to finish off anyone left alive from the headquarters.

  Then Doyle said: “Take me to the Lounge.”

  Quinn knew that was coming. He ignored it.

  Doyle pulled himself forward with his one good arm and shouted:

  “Goddamn it, did you hear what I said? Take me to the Lounge.”

  Baker tried to ease Doyle back in the seat. “Boss, I really don’t think it’s a good idea...”

  Doyle slapped his hand away and focused all of his attention on Quinn.

  “Do like I told ya, Terry. Do it now.”

  “That tourniquet won’t keep you from bleeding to death if we waste time by going to the Lounge. If the club’s been hit, we can’t do much about it now. If it hasn’t been hit yet, we’ve got enough guys heading over there to put up a fight. Either way, you need to get to a doctor and fast.”

  From the rear-view mirror, Quinn saw Doyle’s face go scarlet. “You son of a bitch. I can’t believe this is Terry Quinn talking to me now. What about Tommy and Deveraux? What if the band stopped by early to get something to eat before setting up? What if some poor bastard with a wife and kids is in there delivering food when the place gets hit?”

  Quinn kept driving. “They’re not my problem. You are and you’re going to the doctor now.”

  “But those people are my priority,” Doyle yelled. “That place is my priority. It’s the only thing I’ve ever done in my life that meant something to me and you want me to let some low life sons of bitches take it all away from me just because I have a little bit of lead in my shoulder?” />
  Quinn kept his attention on the street around them.

  “Or maybe you don’t want to go over there because you’ve had enough blood for one day? I never thought I’d live to see the day Terry Quinn turned into a shitless fuckin’ coward.”

  Quinn slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a crooked halt into the middle of the street.

  Quinn spun around. Doyle’s face was right there, just as blackened as his own. The contemptible sneer had been replaced by a satisfied grin.

  “Yeah,” he hissed. “I knew that’d get your attention.”

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “You really like to push buttons, don’t you?”

  “These bastards’ve already shot my best friend and destroyed my clubhouse. I’d rather die defending my own than on a doctor’s table.”

  Quinn turned back around. He drove his fist into the seat in frustration.

  Then he yanked the car into gear and brought the big Deusenberg back around toward the club.

  Doyle’s old smile returned and he sat back in the seat contented. “Atta boy, Terry! I knew ya had it in ya.” He reached down and pulled out one of the two Thompsons he always kept in a compartment under the back seat. He handed one up to Baker and kept the other for himself. He laid the stock on his lap and balanced the barrel out the open window with his good hand.

  Quinn caught another glimpse of him in the rearview mirror. The old man was gone. Other than the hole in his shoulder, Doyle looked twenty years younger. Back in the hunt. Heading toward danger.

  “Buck up, me boys!” Doyle roared as he slapped the clip of the Thompson home. “It’s time for the Doyle mob to get back some of its own!”

  QUINN STOPPED the Deusenberg short in front of the Longford Lounge. Quinn and Baker spilled out of the car. Doyle covered the street with his Thompson from the back seat.

  Jimmy Cain ran out of the Lounge and met them in the middle of the street. “I’ve got ten guys spread out along the block and fanned out two blocks in every direction. A mouse couldn’t fart without one of our boys hearing it.”

  Quinn was relieved and angry. “Why the hell didn’t anyone answer the goddamned phone?”

  “I don’t know, boss,” Cain said. “Everyone’s fine. No one saw nothing unusual all day.”

  Quinn saw the men Cain had spread out on the block were all regular boys. They knew how to handle themselves if things got thick.

  Quinn noticed Archie had slumped over in the back seat; the Thompson still across his lap.

  Quinn panicked. He reached in through the open window and stabbed two fingers to his neck for a pulse. The heartbeat was there but weak. The red spot on his shoulder bandage had grown larger. His breathing was getting very shallow.

  Archie Doyle was dying.

  Quinn was about to jump into the car to drive him to the doctor when he heard the distinct wail of police sirens echo in the distance. The bulls were on their way. They were probably making a bee-line for the Lounge after they heard what had happened down at party headquarters.

  They’d be looking to question Doyle about the shootout. But if they couldn’t get Doyle, they’d settle for Quinn. Quinn knew they’d tear the city apart until they found one of them. Someone would have to answer for the shootout at the warehouse. Doherty couldn’t just sweep this one under the rug. The answer was simple:

  Quinn gives himself up. Doyle gets to a doctor.

  Cain had to handle things on the street while Quinn was being questioned. So Quinn grabbed Baker and pushed him into the driver’s seat. “I’ll stall them while you get Archie over to Doc Brownell’s. I’ll call when they let me out.”

  “But what about you?”

  “Who cares?” Quinn snapped. “Worry about Archie instead. His life’s in your hands now get moving.”

  Cain and Quinn watched Baker drive away. Then Quinn turned to face the approaching police cars. They were coming on fast. They wouldn’t be happy when they got there.

  “Did your boys run that blind bastard over to the safe house like I told you?” Quinn asked.

  “They should be there by now,” Cain said. “But I don’t like the idea of giving you up to the cops, Terry. They’ll be looking to pin what happened today on someone. I’d hate it to be you.”

  Quinn waved it off. Archie was all that mattered. “Have your boys make themselves scarce so the bulls don’t get them. Then have them drift back around in an hour or so after the cops clear out. You’d better lay low yourself, Jimmy. I’ll need you running things while Doherty and Halloran work me over.”

  Cain reluctantly went to pass the word along to his men.

  Quinn stood alone in the middle of the street. Blackened. Sore. His lungs hurt. He’d killed four men and lost five of his own. He didn’t dare mourn them. He knew Archie might die. Quinn would’ve prayed if he thought God wouldn’t fall out of Heaven laughing.

  The wail of sirens grew closer.

  He patted his pockets for a cigarette and a light. He remembered both were in his suit jacket back at the club house. Damned shame. He really liked that jacket.

  He felt himself start to weave. His arms felt heavy. A dull ache settled in his right side. He felt at it with a heavy hand. Damp. Probably water from the roll he took in the warehouse. But he didn’t remember the warehouse floor being wet. He looked at his hand, but it seemed small and further away than normal. It was sticky and red. Blood? It matched the growing stain on the side of his blackened shirt. Must’ve been some of Archie’s blood that got on him.

  The ground began to pitch and wobble beneath his feet. Like he was standing on a ship. Police cars screeched around him. Maybe in front and to the sides of him. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t care. He saw a skinny man with a pointy hat who looked a lot like Charlie Doherty in a funhouse mirror running toward him. He was screaming something that echoed in the chambers of his mind.

  “You stupid son of a bitch,” he yelled. “What did I tell you about starting a fucking war?”

  Quinn wanted to say something, but his tongue wouldn’t work. He showed Doherty his red hand and offered a feeble smile.

  He collapsed forward into the detective’s shirt. Darkness was coming. God, let Archie live.

  The darkness took him.

  SOMEWHERE IN that darkness, the past returned. Quinn was on that stool again. Madison Square Garden. His dressing room. Surrounded by cops. Kowalski was supposed to win that night. The Boys had ordered Quinn to lose. Bad things would happen if he didn’t.

  Quinn didn’t remember how it happened. They told him he’d hit Kowalski too hard. They told him he sent Kowalski’s jaw into his brain. Kowalski died in the ring fifteen minutes before.

  Augie, his trainer/manager, wiped the blood from Quinn’s chest and face. Augie hugged him and cried. “I’m sorry. I let this happen. I never should’ve let you fight. I should’ve thrown in the towel. It’s all my fault. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Someone stuck their head in and the cops cleared the room, scattered like roaches. Augie and Quinn alone. Augie’s hands shook while he cut the wrap off Quinn’s hands.

  The dressing room door opened and in strode a dapper Irishman in a smart blue pinstriped suit, a matching fedora and overcoat. He stood in the middle of the room. He didn’t speak. He just puffed away on his black Cuban cigar. His jaw cocked up and away at a sharp angle.

  His hands were in his pockets.

  Augie started shaking worse. Quinn figured this was the guy they’d sent to kill him. Quinn didn’t care.

  The man with the cigar finally spoke. “You put on one helluva show out there tonight, kid. Never saw a guy take a beatin’ like that and I’ve seen a few in my day.” He took the cigar from his mouth. “You know who I am?”

  “You’re Archie Doyle,” Quinn answered. “The rum runner.”

  Doyle laughed. “Sure, I’ve run rum and just about everythin’ else at one time or another. Booze, beer, broads, guns, hemp, dirty pictures, phony real estate. If you can make a buck doin’ it, I’ve probably done it once
or twice. Made a good livin’, too and I’m still alive to tell the tale.”

  “Congratulations,” Quinn watched Augie finish unwrapping his fists. He

  was shaking worse than ever. “What do you want with me?”

  Doyle’s grin dimmed. “You’re pretty cocky for guy with a price on his head. A lot of people want you dead for what you done tonight. Bad enough you won. You have ta kill him in the bargain?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. What do you want?”

  Doyle smiled. “You threw away a good pay day in there tonight. You could’ve let Kowalski beat you like they wanted, collect on the payoff, then fight him for the championship for an even bigger payoff next year and win. Why’d you throw all that away?” “What’s it to you?”

  Augie hushed him. “Go easy, Terry.”

  Doyle answered him anyway. “Because I don’t think you even know why you did it. I’ve watched you fight, kid, plenty of times. I like your style both in and outside the ring. You’ve got character, real character and brains to boot.”

  “You ought to put that on my headstone.”

  Doyle laughed. “And cool under pressure, too. I like that. What you

  don’t know about me is that I’m goin’ places, see? And I’m gonna need good men to help me get there. Men like you.” He put the cigar back in his mouth. “I want you to join up with me. Tonight.”

  Quinn’s hands ached. The taste of blood was in his mouth. Blood that wasn’t his own. “I’m a fighter, not a gangster.”

  “You ain’t a fighter anymore, kid. That ended the second you killed a man. The commission would’ve forgiven you most times, but The Boys are sore over all the money you cost them by not diving like you was supposed to. They’ll want their pound of flesh. Hell, they’ve probably got a bunch of goons waitin’ outside to finish you off the second you leave here. You’re tough, but nobody’s tougher than a bullet, kid.”

  Quinn spat and wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. “You paint a pretty bleak picture, mister.”