by Jack Tunney
Whitowski was shorter than Quinn, but only by an inch or so. His bald head made him look taller than he was. He was thicker in the shoulders than Quinn, too, and his nose had been flattened against his face long ago. His suit was too tight on him, but Quinn figured that was by design. He was barrel-chested and top heavy. A powerful man, but a slow man.
But Quinn was powerful, too. And he wasn’t slow. That would be his edge. And that was how he was going to go through this tub and take on Dempsey himself.
Even Mr. Kaye gave Whitowski a hearty round of applause, just like the rest of his customers. “Of course we have room for him, sir. We have enough room for all of you right down front. Now, if you’ll just follow me…”
And that’s when one of the drunks at the edge of the crowd at the bar piped up. “Say, he can’t be the next heavyweight champion of the world. That fella’s already here.” He even pointed in Quinn’s direction. “Terry Quinn!”
A less enthusiastic round of applause rose from the patrons as everyone turned to look at Quinn. He watched Mr. Kaye go from pink to pale in the blink of an eye.
Quinn thought about leaning back against the bar, getting out of everyone’s line of sight for Mr. Kaye’s sake. But he only thought about it for a second. Instead, he stayed where he was.
Standing straight.
On his own.
Same as always.
Rothman, Fatty Corcoran, and Frank Sanders looked at him, too. If they recognized him, they didn’t show it. He knew they’d been to his fights and knew he’d worked the door at the Kaye Klub. But their faces were blank, as if he was just another guy they’d passed on the street.
The only one who showed any recognition was Doyle, who jerked his square chin up at him and squinted. “Is that so?” Quinn felt his narrow eyes look him up and down. “I ain’t so sure about that. He don’t look like much from where I’m standing.”
Whitowski pushed his way past Doyle and his party and stood between them and Quinn. Broad shoulders back, chest out. All show. He looked Quinn up and down, too.
“Looks like a two-bit doorman from where I’m standing.”
Quinn knew he should’ve kept his mouth shut – for Mr. Kaye’s sake – but he didn’t. “Then how about you stand a little closer, angel. Maybe your eyesight isn’t so good?”
Whitowski took two steps forward and telegraphed a left hook that Quinn easily dodged. Off balance, Whitowski came back with a right upper cut that Quinn escaped by ducking back, just like he’d done with Genet. Whitowski’s hand went through a framed picture of Texas Guinan on the wall, breaking the glass.
Whitowski brought back his bleeding right hand as a follow up, but Doyle grabbed his elbow. “Knock it off, champ. That’s enough.”
But Whitowski was red-faced and angry. His arm cocked, ready to throw the punch. Quinn wanted him to throw the punch because he wanted to duck it again.
So he looked at Whitowski and grinned. “Come on, Babe. One more swing and you’re out. Then I get my turn at bat.”
Whitowski’s arm struggled to get free from Doyle’s grip, but the shorter, older man didn’t let go. “I told you that’s enough and I meant it. Now go sit down with the others.”
But Whitowski held his ground, so Doyle took him by the collar and gently eased him away toward Rothman and the rest of the Tammany boys. Whitowski straightened out his jacket and threw Quinn a glance over his shoulder as they corralled him toward the table. And judging by the sheen on Mr. Kaye’s forehead, it looked to Quinn like the man had spilled a gallon of sweat in the past minute.
The rest of the party left, but Doyle stayed where he was.
And so did Quinn. “What about it, pop? You want to take a swing at me, too?”
But the Tammany boss didn’t take a swing at him. Instead, he took a gold cigarette case from the inside pocket of his suit, opened it, selected a cigarette and lit it. All in one smooth, elegant motion that caught Quinn’s attention. He could tell Doyle had learned it some place. He hadn’t been born that way, but he had style, class. The kind of class a guy like Quinn could have one day.
He only took his eyes off Quinn to look at Charlie Doherty, who had pressed himself as flat and low against the bar as possible. “Evenin’ Charlie. Heard you got bumped up today. Congratulations.”
Doherty struggled to push himself upright again. “Thanks, Archie. That’s awfully nice of you.”
Doyle jerked his head toward Quinn. “You pals with this pug?”
Doherty surprised Quinn by saying, “As far as it goes. He works the door here and this used to be my beat, so…”
“I know this used to be your beat,” Doyle said. “I’m the one who got it for you, remember?”
Doherty grinned with a drunkard’s resolve as he pulled out his brand new detective badge. “Got this for me, too.” He touched the badge to the tip of his eyebrow in mock salute before putting it away. “And for that, I’m grateful.”
“Don’t be a sap. You earned the badge fair and square. Besides, Tammany takes care of its own and don’t you forget it.” Doyle looked back at Quinn. “You play it kind of reckless, don’t you, kid?”
Quinn kept his hands at his sides. “How you figure?”
“By goading the Polock like you did just now. I know you’re no slouch, but neither is he. Lots of people think he’s got what it takes to set Dempsey on his ear.”
“So I keep hearing,” Quinn said.
Doyle took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke through his nose. “What do you think about that?”
“Don’t think much of it.” Quinn looked at the busted picture of Texas Guinan on the wall. “Unless Dempsey’s made of glass, which he’s not.”
Doyle let himself smile. “No, I guess he’s not.” He looked over at the bartender and said, “I’m picking up Doherty’s drinks tonight, Tommy. The pug’s, too.”
“That’s awful kind of you, sir,” the bartender told him, “but Terry’s already drinking on the house. Courtesy of Mr. Kaye.”
Doyle shrugged as he walked away. “Courtesy of Mr. Kaye. Courtesy of me. What’s the difference? It’s all my money anyway.”
Quinn knew he should’ve let Doyle just walk away, but he couldn’t. “I’m not a pug.”
Doyle stopped. He didn’t turn all the way back to face him, but he looked at him differently. As if he was seeing Quinn for the first time or in a new way. “What was that?”
“I said, I’m not a pug. And I don’t like repeating myself either.”
Doyle smiled and this time, it wasn’t a happy smile. It wasn’t a nasty one either, but there was nothing friendly about it. “That remains to be seen, kid.” He saluted him with his cigarette. “Be seein’ you around.”
Quinn watched Doyle disappear around the corner to join his friends and his fighter down by the floor show.
Doherty snapped him out of it. “I don’t know if you just made a friend or an enemy.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Quinn drained the rest of his scotch, then signaled the bartender for another one. “Either one is fine with me.”
Doherty looked at him for a long while. “You know, I actually believe you. And that’s what worries me.”
Quinn didn’t let himself worry about anything. Or think about anything, either. All he wanted was another drink.
ROUND FIVE
Early that next morning, just after sunrise, Quinn sat alone in the last booth of the all-night coffee shop around the corner from the Kaye Klub. It was as far away from the glare of the rising sun as he could get. He’d lost track of how many scotches he and Doherty had downed before he poured the newly-minted detective into a cab.
Quinn was just this side of sober to know going back inside the Kaye Klub would be a bad idea. And hitting up another place would only lead to another, then another. Best to quit while he was only slightly behind on points.
The waitress’s bland expression didn’t change as she shoved the cup of coffee at him. He knew she’d wanted him to sit at the
counter to save her from having to walk the extra ten feet to the booth where he was sitting. But he was worried he might fall over if he wasn’t in a booth with a wall to lean against.
“Want anything else,” she asked, “or just coffee?”
“I’ll take three scrambled eggs, rye toast, and bacon.”
The old gal’s painted eyebrows rose. “That’s a tall order for a boozehound on the prowl. You got the dough on you?”
His head ached. His stomach was churning and his ribs were sore from all the blows Genet had nailed him with. His tongue was beginning to swell, too, and the last thing he needed was guff from some mouthy waitress in a two-bit hash house. He dug out a five dollar bill and slapped it on the table. “Happy now, beautiful?”
She trudged away in a huff and disappeared into the kitchen, either to put in his order or complain to the chef. Quinn didn’t care what she did, so long as he had coffee to keep him even. He slumped against the wall and buried his face in his hand. With any luck, he’d fall asleep until Cinderella came back with his breakfast.
The tiny bell over the door rang like a gong in his ears as a new customer came in. The waitress waddled out through the kitchen door like a fat little bird in a cuckoo clock.
“Wanna sit at the counter?” she said more as a statement than a question.
“Sure, sister,” the man said. “How about…”
Quinn kept his eyes covered, but heard the man say, “You know what? I’ll take my coffee with the gentleman in the booth back there, if you don’t mind.”
The waitress shrugged. “Even if I did, you’d do it anyway.”
Quinn moaned when he looked up to see who’d be joining him for breakfast. Wendell Bixby, the elegant and sharp-featured gossip columnist for the New York Journal American. Had his own column every day in the morning edition known as Bixby’s Box. Quinn knew him from the Kaye Klub, always sniffing around to see what celebrities were coming and in and out of the place. Most of the stuff in his column was planted by press agents of course.
And while Bixby was only too happy to run the choreographed photos and stories the press agents fed him, part of him was still a hunter. More like a scrounger who preferred to dig through the dirt for his items rather than have them handed to him.
Quinn didn’t know why people liked reading that kind of stuff, but they did. The paper had added an inch to his column with the promise of giving him half a page within the year. Wendell Bixby was a scribbler on the rise. And for some reason beyond Quinn’s understanding, the nosey son of a bitch was coming his way.
Bixby stood before him and threw open his arms. He was still in tie and dinner jacket from the night before, which looked ridiculous in the cold light of an October morning. “Terry Quinn as I live and breathe.”
Quinn already felt lousy enough without a pesky reporter peppering him with questions. “Leave me alone, Bixby. Why don’t you be a pal and just sit at the counter and let me die in peace?”
Bixby slid into the booth anyway. “That’s no way to treat a friend, is it, Terry? You’ve been around long enough by now to know how it works. You help me, I help you later. It’s as simple and pure as that.”
Quinn held his head with both hands. Now the Guinan’s Graduates weren’t just dancing, they were singing “Sweet Georgia Brown,” drums and all. “Just go away, Wendell.”
The waitress reappeared and shoved a cup and saucer at Bixby with the same distain she’d displayed for Quinn. She whirled away in the same huff she’d been in last time, and Bixby got back to business.
“Now, here’s what I propose – you tell me all about what happened between you and Whitowski at the Kaye Klub last night, and I tell you about what happened after you left.”
Although Quinn was in that twilight phase between being drunk and hung over, even he could tell that didn’t make any sense. “If you know something happened between me and Whitowski, then you already know what happened.”
Bixby threw up a manicured finger like a lawyer making a convincing argument in a court of law. “Ah, but I don’t know what happened. Not from any of the principal parties involved, anyway. I asked Whitoski for a comment, but Doyle told me to shove off and mind my own business – and he wasn’t none to polite about it neither.”
“So, ask some of the people who were there what happened. The place was packed. There must be a hundred people or so who saw the whole thing.”
“I did. But all I’ve gotten is second hand skinny from some of the soused citizens sitting around the Kaye Klub lounge.” He smiled, very pleased with himself. “How do you like that for alliteration? Or do you know what alliteration is?”
Quinn knew what alliteration was, but he wasn’t in the mood for Bixby’s crap. “Leave me alone.”
The reporter’s smile faded. “I need you to either confirm or deny what I heard happen. You do that, I buy you breakfast. Hell, I might even be able to throw in a couple of bucks extra to make it worth your while.”
Quinn picked his head up from his hands and straightened the lapels of his suit. Suddenly his hangover wasn’t so bad anymore. He knew Bixby hadn’t meant to offend him, but something in the offer did offend Quinn. He always got offended when people offered to do things for him or give him something he hadn’t worked for. Like last night, when Mr. Kaye told him he didn’t have to work the door. Quinn was a man who liked earning his breaks.
“I look like one of your snitches, Bixby?”
The gossip monger blinked a couple of times. “Come again?”
“Do I look like some bum who can’t afford to pay his way?”
Quinn watched Bixby’s composure slowly disappear. “No, Terry. I was just…”
The waitress came back with his plate of bacon and eggs and toast. She dumped it on the table in front of him. She nodded at the cup. “Wanna refill?”
But Quinn was too busy glaring at Bixby to answer. She eventually got the hint and disappeared back to the kitchen.
Quinn kept on glaring at him until he was ready to speak without anger. “If I tell you anything, it’s because I want to tell you. Not because you paid me to tell you or because you bought information from me, but because I decided to tell you. Get me?”
Bixby gently laid his notebook and pen on the table. “Sure, kid, sure. However you want to play it is aces with me. Your rules, your way.”
Bixby opened his notebook and picked up his pen as Quinn picked up his fork and dug into his eggs.
“Whitowski showed up with … well, you know who he showed up with, don’t you?” The scribbler nodded. “Mr. Kaye tried to keep the fact I was there quiet, but some drunk at the bar blabbed. So, the big lug decided to take a couple of swings at me. He missed both times and missed bad.” Quinn smiled at the memory. “Busted up his hand pretty bad, too.”
The reporter almost popped out of his seat. “I heard about him taking a couple of swings at you, but this is the first I’ve heard of a busted hand.”
“He put it through a framed picture of Texas Guinan hanging next to the bar. Broke the glass and everything. That pug missed me by a country mile. He was bleeding pretty badly when Doyle pulled him off me and sent him to the table with the others.” “It was his right hand?” Bixby asked as he scribbled.
Quinn nodded. “Didn’t look broken, but it was cut up pretty bad. And bleeding like a stuck pig.” Then Quinn thought of something. “How did it look when you talked to him?”
“That’s just the problem, my pugilistic pal. I didn’t get close to him. Whitowski was on the other side of the table from me and Doyle blocked my way when he saw me coming. I never got near him.”
Maybe it was the coffee or the breakfast going to work on him. Maybe it was the good news Bixby had just given him. Either way, Whitowski’s hand might have been worse than he’d thought. Maybe bad enough for him to step aside and let Quinn have a shot at Dempsey. Suddenly he didn’t feel so hung over anymore. “You notice his hand at all?”
Bixby grinned. “All I noticed was that it was und
er the table the whole time I was at the Kaye Klub. And that he was only drinking with his left hand.”
Quinn finished the last of his scrambled eggs and started on his bacon. “Could be that hand was hurt worse than I thought.”
“Could be.” Bixby reached for a slice of bacon.
Quinn jabbed him with the fork. “Get your own food.”
Bixby quickly withdrew his hand. “Not only are you a pugnacious pugilist, you seem to be a connoisseur of coffee shop cuisine.”
Quinn ate a piece of bacon. “Knock off the alliteration. It annoys me.”
Bixby looked around and leaned in closer. “Well if that annoys you, what I’m about to tell you will have you seeing red.”
Quinn let the next piece of bacon drop back to the plate and eyed Bixby carefully. “Spill it, will you? While we’re young.”
The gossip monger took one last look around both shoulders to see if anyone was listening. They were still the only two in the shop. “Word is the Tammany boys who back Whitowski want no part of you. Not after what you did to Genet. What happened in the Kaye Klub didn’t help any, but they never expected you to get past Genet. Not without taking a beating first, anyway. Word is, he might fight someone else instead of you.”
Quinn had dropped his silverware. “What are you talking about? He’s got to give me that shot or get out of the way. Those are the rules.”
Bixby waived his hands like a sick bird. “Calm down, comrade. All I know is what I heard. They’re scared Whitowski can’t beat you and they’re going to pull out all the stops to see to it that he doesn’t have to face you.”
“What stops?”
“I don’t know,” Bixby said. “All I know is that he’s not fighting you and that’s it. I heard they might want him to fight Gene Tunney instead, but I might be wrong.”
“Who mentioned Tunney?”
“I heard Sanders and Fatty Corcoran talking about it when I got to the table. Like I said, I never got close enough to ask because Doyle saw me and cut me off.” Bixby smiled quickly, like he was trying to take the sting out of delivering bad news.
