Prohibition

by Terrence McCauley

  “I’m honest,” Doyle continued. “Or as honest as a louse like me can be. But, if you join up with me, I’ll put you square with The Boys. All your problems disappear,” he snapped his thick fingers, “just like that.”

  “ARCHIE!” QUINN heard himself yell.

  Pain brought Quinn back. His eyes sprang open and he quickly closed them. He didn’t want to let the pain in. But in that split second, he knew he was sitting upright on a hospital stretcher. Feet dangling over the side. A nurse finished wrapping bandages around his ribs. He lolled his head around to get some feeling back in it. He kept his eyes closed. He knew that the light would start his head hurting.

  “How ya feelin’, champ?” he heard Halloran say.

  Quinn’s tongue felt dry and swollen. His head was starting to ache even though he’d kept his eyes closed. “What the hell happened to me?” “You’ve been shot,” the nurse said. “The bullet went clean through your right side. It didn’t hit anything vital but you have bruised ribs and you smacked your head off the pavement when you collapsed. The doctor believes you have a concussion.”

  He heard Halloran speak close to his ear. “Probably happened while you was playing cowboys and injuns in the warehouse.”

  Quinn didn’t remember feeling the impact of a bullet in the warehouse.

  That bastard in the catwalk must’ve clipped him after all. But that wasn’t important.

  “Where’s Archie?” Then he remembered telling Baker to take him to Doc Brownell’s. He hoped he hadn’t babbled anything to Halloran and Doherty while he was out.

  “That’s what we’d like to know.”

  That meant they hadn’t grabbed him yet. He hoped Baker had gotten

  Archie to Doc Brownell’s in time. He hoped the doc was sober enough to stop the bleeding.

  Quinn jumped when the nurse pulled his bandages tighter. “Looks like you’re going to live, big fella,” she smiled. “But go straight home and go to bed after you leave here. You’ve lost a lot of blood and I wouldn’t want you to pass out again if you were...”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Halloran’s voice cut her off. “He’s got the idea, sister. Quit the yapping and shove off so my partner and me can get down to cases?”

  “Drop dead,” the nurse cursed and Quinn heard the door open and close. His closed eyes trick was working, but barely. He wondered if he could keep this up, maybe he could make Halloran disappear.

  Then he caught the strong smell of garlic mixed with cheap rum. No such luck. “You can open your eyes, princess. It’s just us girls now.”

  Quinn slowly cracked open his eyes. Halloran’s big florid mug was there to greet him. Bloodshot eyes. Flat nose. Lantern jaw.

  “Welcome back,” Halloran greeted. “We’ve got a lot to talk about and time’s wasting.”

  Doherty was leaning against the wall, toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth. He looked even more tired than normal, which was saying something. “We were plenty worried about you for a while, champ, seeing you hit the deck like that.”

  Quinn’s throat was dry from the smoke he’d inhaled, but he’d be damned if he’d ask either of these bastards for water. “What did you find out when you tailed Wallace last night?”

  Halloran shook his large head. “You first, smart guy. What happened on Twelfth Street today?”

  “People died. Or haven’t you figured that part out yet?”

  Halloran gave him an open-handed slap across the temple that echoed in the small room.

  Quinn lunged at him off the stretcher. The pain from the hole in his side roared and he collapsed to his knees.

  Doherty pushed himself from the wall and helped Quinn back up on the stretcher. “See what happens when you buck the system? The more you help us, the more we help you.”

  Quinn bit off the pain coursing through his body and the humiliation burning in his gut.

  “Somebody tried to blow up Archie’s clubhouse,” Quinn relented through clenched teeth, “and a bunch of my men got killed. A bunch of the shooters, too. Christ, even Halloran could figure that out.”

  The big detective stepped in for another shot at Quinn, but Doherty pushed him back. “Who stormed the warehouse? How many were there?” Quinn’s instinct cut through the pain. All the cops had were a burnt out building and a lot of dead shooters from Kansas City. Quinn wouldn’t give them any more than that. Not until he had time to figure all of this out for himself.

  “I didn’t see anything and I didn’t get a chance to find out what had happened because you people came along and scared everyone off.”

  Halloran took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Oh, boy, I’m gonna enjoy prying the truth out of this one. I’ve waited a long time to get a piece of you, smart boy, and tonight I’m gonna get it.”

  “The only thing you’re gonna get is dick ‘cause that’s all I know.” Halloran went for him, but Doherty dove between them again. When Doherty had his partner back against the door, he turned back to Quinn. “I can’t hold him off forever, Terry, so for Christ’s sake be reasonable. We found five Thompsons, but only four shooters. We found some blood on the roof and we need to know if someone got away or if any of them talked before they died.”

  Doherty left Halloran against the door and came closer to Quinn.

  “We’re on your side, remember? This thing is all over the news and that gimp bastard in Albany is going to use this as an excuse to tear Walker apart. None of us wants that, do we? Just tell us what happened and we can help.”

  Quinn might figure out who was behind this or why. But he needed to know more about Wallace first. “You can help by telling me where Wallace flopped last night.”

  Doherty shook his head. “You first. We’ve got witnesses who saw Howard Rothman come by for a sit-down with Archie, then leave before the shooting started. Chief Carmichael thinks Rothman’s behind the whole thing and he wants us to pick him up. That way, Mayor Walker gets the credit and Roosevelt backs off.” Doherty put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Neither you or Archie can do much right now anyway. Tell us what you know and let us handle it from here.”

  Quinn was feeling dizzy again, so he kept it simple. “If you want to know if Rothman’s behind this, go ask him.”

  Halloran laughed from the doorway. “Gee, Charlie. Why didn’t we think of that?”

  Quinn looked at him. “Because you’re a fucking dim wit.”

  “Rothman’s disappeared,” Doherty announced. “Crawled into a hole somewhere and no one knows where he is. Looks like you’re the last person to see him.”

  Quinn saw the dilemma, but Doherty spelled it out for him. “A lot of people in Albany think you’ve grabbed Rothman. Or worse, that you already killed him on account of what happened at the clubhouse. So, where’d you stash him, Terry?”

  “I didn’t have time to grab him even if I wanted to,” Quinn replied. “Rothman probably heard about what happened to Archie and took a powder.”

  Halloran took a step closer and crouched down, putting his hands on his knees. “You wouldn’t be dumb enough to lie to us, would you?” Quinn found the smile he reserved just for Halloran. “Would you be smart enough to know the difference?”

  Halloran drew back left hand to smack Quinn again. Quinn grabbed Halloran’s wrist and belted him with a hard right cross to the jaw. Halloran tumbled backwards, knocking over steel medicine trays off the counter.

  Pain spiked in Quinn’s side again. Deeper pain unlike anything he’d ever known. He fell back on the stretcher, bent him in half. He couldn’t even find enough wind to scream.

  The door of the examining room burst open. The nurse who’d patched him up rushed in. A doctor and Alice Mulgrew were right behind her. Alice pushed her way past the two cops to Quinn. She began kissing him and stroking his head.

  “What the hell is going on in here?” the doctor yelled at Doherty and Halloran. “This is a hospital, not one of your goddamned rubber hose rooms in the precinct house. Get the hell out of here before I call your
captain and tell him what you’ve been up to.”

  Doherty grabbed Halloran’s coat from the back of the door and helped his woozy partner out into the hallway. “We’ll talk later, champ. You can count on that.”

  But Quinn was too busy biting off his screams to answer.

  THE MORPHINE pushed the pain way, way back.

  Quinn’s brain started working again. He knew Alice and Jimmy Cain had walked him to a car. He knew his head was on Alice’s lap in the backseat. She was stroking his head, telling him he’d be okay. He felt his shoulder holster and the .45 hanging under it. It gave him comfort.

  He remembered Doyle.

  “Where’s Archie?” he heard himself ask.

  Alice was looking down at him. She was smiling, but her eyes were red. Her cheeks were wet from tears.

  “Where’s Archie?”

  “He’s fine,” Jimmy Cain called back from the passenger’s seat. “You’re in worse shape than he is. You just rest and don’t worry about him none.” Alice kept stroking his head. “But I’m here, baby and I’m not going anywhere,” she caressed him. The tears started up again. She kissed him. “You just rest easy and let mama take care of everything.”

  If Cain said Archie was okay, it must be true. The morphine made him feel calm and hollow. He didn’t it. “How long was I out?”

  “The doctor said he gave you enough morphine to put you out for about five or six hours,” Alice answered. “That was twenty minutes ago and you’re still awake. You’re one stubborn bastard.”

  He tried to sit up, but car felt like it was spinning. He let his head slip back to Alice’s lap where it was soft and warm. “Where are we headed?”

  “Back to Lounge, just like you wanted,” Cain said. “We got a lead car in front and one in back, full of guys ready to go to work if they need to.

  Archie ordered you particularly well taken care of.” Quinn perked up. “He’s talking already?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Alice spat, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. “You almost got killed and all you care about is Archie Doyle?”

  Her voice made Quinn’s head spin. “How is he?”

  “Doc said it’ll be a while before he can use the arm again,” Cain said,

  “but he’ll pull through just fine.”

  Quinn was getting weak again. He needed to know more before he passed out. “Where’s he now? Who’s with him?”

  “He was too sick to move, so we kept him at Brownell’s place. Baker’s

  keeping an eye on him and I’ve got the place staked out with ten of my best boys.” Quinn was about to ask how he’d placed them. Cain beat him to it. “Five in the house, and the other five spread out around the street in doorways all along the street.”

  Quinn’s first instinct was to have Cain drive him over there. But he knew he was in no shape to protect himself, much less Archie. “Good job, Jimmy. And tell Baker he did fine, too. I’ve been hard on him lately.”

  Cain reached back and squeezed his arm. “We had a good teacher. Now put your head back down on the pretty lady’s lap and relax. We’ll have you back home in no time.”

  A few minutes later, Cain had the car pull into the back alley of the Lounge. He and the driver helped him out of the back seat while five other guys covered the street. They offered to help him upstairs, but Quinn pulled back. He fought a pain spasm and stood strong on his own two feet. He wouldn’t look weak in front of his men.

  He lightly put his arm around Alice and said, “I’m fine, boys. Get these cars parked and send word over to Archie that I’m okay. Tell him I’ll be by to see him in the morning.”

  “Like hell you will,” Alice declared.

  Quinn was too weak to argue. He just wanted to go to bed. Cain and his men looked on as Alice guided him up the back stairs, one step at a time. She fished the keys out of his pants and opened the door. Quinn waived down at Cain and his men before they went inside.

  Quinn shut the door behind him and collapsed against the wall in relief. He was exhausted and sweating. The medicine and the warm darkness of the room washed over him. He heard Alice fumble for the light switch.

  “Thank Christ that’s over,” he gasped.

  A male voice in the darkness said: “It’s not over yet.”

  Quinn grabbed Alice and pulled her behind him as his gun cleared his shoulder holster. He aimed at the place in the dark where he thought the voice came from, ignoring the dull trickle of pain beginning in his side.

  A lamp flicked on.

  Howard Rothman was sitting comfortably in Quinn’s leather lounge chair. Long legs crossed. Gloved hands folded into a gray triangle in front of his nose. He was flanked by two of his goons behind him. Quinn saw that neither man had reached for his gun.

  Quinn fought the morphine to keep his pistol level. “What’re you doing here?”

  Rothman sucked his teeth. “You’re always so quick with violence. You really should see somebody about these tendencies. Perhaps get some pills to calm you down.”

  “People keep telling me that.” Quinn thumbed back the hammer. “I know one thing that’d help me feel a lot better right now.”

  Rothman threw his head back and laughed. His goons laughed, too. “You disappoint me, son. I already know you were taken to the Polyclinic for a gunshot wound to the right side. I even know how many stitches they used to patch you up. I know that Detectives Doherty and Halloran leaned on you about what happened at the clubhouse. And we both know Doherty would never let you leave the hospital with a loaded weapon.”

  Quinn thought the pistol felt lighter when he’d pulled it. Charlie must’ve emptied it while he was passed out. “I reloaded in the car ride over here,” Quinn lied. The pain started to grow in his side.

  Rothman shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Fine. Keep pointing the damned thing if it makes you feel better. I came here to make sure you knew that I had nothing to do with what happened at that clubhouse today.”

  “Bullshit. I grabbed one of the shooters, Rothman. He said they were ordered not to open up until you drove away.”

  “If I wanted war,” Rothman asked, “would I be here now? If I’d wanted you dead, I could’ve hit you anywhere between here and the hospital, but I didn’t.”

  Quinn’s pain was starting to spike. He tried keeping the gun level, but the morphine was winning.

  Rothman went on. “Was I sore at Archie for not pinning your ears back? Sure, but that’s no reason to start a war. Wars are bad for business, son, and nothing’s more important to men like Archie and me as business.”

  “What about Bixby?”

  “So I used Bixby to tweak Archie’s nose by breaking his Golden Rule or whatever the hell he calls it. So what?”

  Quinn felt his legs going, but the gun stayed level. “Are you using Wallace to tweak Doyle’s nose too?”

  “He’s a shit-kicker with more money than brains.”

  “You’re cooking up something with him,” Quinn slurred. “I know it.” “With him?” Rothman laughed. “You can’t be serious. He dresses like a fucking ice cream salesman, for Christsake. Things are slow for him in Georgia so I’m helping him buy his way into a couple of places up here. Upstate, mostly. Why do you think I’m working with him?”

  Quinn saw three Rothmans now. “Because Ceretti and Johnny the Kid both said Wallace set up Fatty to take a bullet.”

  Rothman looked back at his two goons, then back at Quinn. “The Kid told you that? Before you killed him?”

  “I didn’t kill him, but that’s what he told me.”

  “But Ira’s got no cause to be talking to Simon,” Rothman said more to himself than anyone else. “I didn’t even think they knew each other.” He drummed the arm rest with nervous fingers. “I need to talk to Archie about this. Where can I find him?”

  Now there were four Rothmans. “Yeah. I just might be that stupid, too.” “Then you talk to him. Tell him I’m not gunning for him, but someone’s gunning for both of us. Tell him I’m gonna find out who it is
and make sure they don’t get another chance.”

  Quinn felt himself weave back against Alice. “Archie Doyle cleans up his own messes.”

  Rothman looked him up and down. “Fatty’s in the hospital. Doyle’s shot up and you’re about to pass out. I’ll lean on Ira – hard - then square things with Doherty and Halloran. The last thing I need is those two Irish mopes on my back.”

  Quinn watched the bookie stand up. He thought he still had the gun level, but wasn’t sure. “Have your lovely lady here stay by the phone, kid. I’ll contact you in two hours whether or not I find anything. I’ve got my own interest in seeing who shot Archie and why. I’ve made a life out of avoiding trouble and I don’t intend to start courting it now.”

  Quinn watched the room got smaller and started to dim. He shifted his weight to stay on his feet. Words came slow like syrup. “I don’t trust you, you yid bastard.”

  Rothman winked at Alice as he touched a gloved hand to the brim of his bowler. “Pleasure was all mine, toots. Be sure to take care of your boyfriend, here. He doesn’t look so good. And when he wakes up, tell him a secret for me. Tell him it’s actually Rothmann, with two ‘n’s. I’m Lutheran, not Jewish, and to keep the ‘yid’ cracks to himself next time.”

  The sound of his gun hitting the floor was the last thing Quinn heard before he fell forward into the darkness.

  QUINN WOKE with a start to the bell. What round was it? It wasn’t like a ring bell, but higher pitched like a telephone ringing. He was drenched in sweat. His side ached. He was in bed, naked beneath the sheets except for the tight bandage around his ribs.

  The ringing wouldn’t quit. He tried to get out of bed. The pain felt like a hot poker wrenching his insides. He fell over sideways on the bed and screamed into the mattress.

  A light went on but the telephone kept ringing. He heard Alice answer it. She rubbed his head and tried to ease him back into bed. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m so, so sorry. I fell asleep and the phone rang before I could get to it.”

  Quinn rolled slowly onto his back and gasped for breath. The wave of pain started to ebb quicker than before. “Who is it?”