Blood Money

by Tom Bradby

  MacDonald went down flat.

  ‘You figure it’s a coincidence,’ La Guardia said, ‘that Mr Albert H. Vitale, magistrate, Tammany hack and friend of the mayor, borrowed twenty thousand dollars from Rothstein a week before his death, which he had no means of paying back?’

  ‘Major—’

  ‘What I’m saying to you, my friend, is that the mayor is bent.’

  ‘Sir, why are you here?’

  La Guardia watched MacDonald clamber to his feet. He sucked his teeth. ‘Martha tells me you’re an honest cop. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Are you part of the cabal down at Headquarters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You turned them down?’

  ‘I don’t recall an invitation to join them.’

  ‘You ever had your hand in the till?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You figure we can trust you? Martha says we can.’

  ‘It depends what you’re asking me to do.’

  ‘Another good answer.’ La Guardia took a bag of pistachio nuts from his pocket and offered them along the line. Nobody accepted so he cracked a few from their shells and put them into the corner of his mouth. He watched MacDonald and the Kid dance around each other. ‘Gloria’s been helping us, Detective. If someone hadn’t killed him, her husband might have been here tonight, sitting right where you are – with me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If you want to break a cabal, you need evidence. To get evidence, you need to find someone willing to break ranks. It looked like Spencer Duncan was going to come over to us and maybe bring a few others with him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He was dead before he could give us a name.’

  ‘Spencer Duncan was willing to turn state’s evidence?’

  ‘We believe so. Perhaps you’re aware that there’s a photograph of Jimmy Walker and Rothstein together at that realty development in Queens. Enough in the current climate, I’m sure you’ll agree, to finish him off and bring the entire edifice tumbling down around him. We know it was in Charlie Matsell’s suite at the Plaza.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Less than a week ago. Now Matsell and Duncan are dead. Can that be a coincidence?’

  The fight reached the end of its penultimate round and a fair proportion of the crowd got to its feet to urge MacDonald to quit.

  ‘You work out a way to help us before this election is done,’ La Guardia said, ‘and I’ll make you the goddamn chief of police.’

  ‘Sir, are you telling me Spencer Duncan was murdered because he was prepared to turn against his friends?’

  ‘It sure seems like a hell of a coincidence.’

  ‘It does. And it’s real interesting, but we believe this guy was coming from a different direction.’

  La Guardia shrugged. ‘It’s your show.’

  ‘How did you find out about the photograph of Rothstein and the mayor?’

  ‘I think that had better remain our business.’

  Quinn glanced at Martha. ‘There’s an allegation you put someone into Matsell’s office to try to uncover the connections.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  Quinn hesitated. ‘It came from Headquarters.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It’s what they think on the top floor. They asked me how in hell Goldberg had found out about the picture.’

  Martha stood and darted down the stairs. As he made to follow her, Gloria Duncan grabbed his jacket. ‘We’ll be in the Cotton Club,’ she breathed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  MARTHA RAN DOWN TOWARDS THE ENTRANCE. QUINN CAUGHT HER by the cloakroom. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home.’

  They were no more than inches apart. Her skin glowed in the half-light.

  ‘What are you really doing here?’ he said.

  ‘You can see perfectly well what I’m doing.’

  ‘It doesn’t take a genius to work out who La Guardia put into that office to dig his dirt for him.’

  ‘So, that confirms it. You’re not a genius.’

  She tried to leave, but he held her tight, his fingers digging into her flesh. ‘You were screwing Matsell and Spencer Duncan so you could turn in the mayor?’

  ‘You’re hurting me.’ Martha shook herself free. This time she got ten or twenty yards down the street before he forced her into a doorway. Light from the street-lamps glinted off hurt, angry eyes.

  ‘I found another copy of that photograph of you on the bed in Spencer Duncan’s drawer. Is there anyone in town who hasn’t got one?’

  ‘You didn’t get one.’

  ‘Did La Guardia ask you to screw these men, or did you decide to do that all by yourself?’

  She stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘Sometimes I can find it in my heart to truly hate you.’

  ‘If Aidan finds out about this …’

  ‘Let’s not pretend this is about Aidan, because that makes you look pathetic.’

  ‘Tell me about the photograph.’

  ‘Why? What does it matter what some sad old men wanted to do to me?’

  The blood pounded in Quinn’s head. ‘Did he take you there?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Martha.’

  ‘Charlie Matsell asked me to go for a drink in the Plaza. The next thing I remember I was waking up on a bed with Sarah scratching my ear.’

  ‘He drugged you?’

  ‘He put something in my drink.’

  ‘Did they—’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You must.’

  Her face crumpled. ‘Please, Joe …’

  ‘You must know, Martha.’

  ‘I … Joe, I—’

  ‘We have to … know.’

  Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. ‘I don’t know who they were, Joe. I could only hear voices. When I woke, I felt so terribly sick. Sarah was whispering in my ear. She helped me get dressed and we crawled into the corridor.’

  ‘Do you know who was in that room?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you heard voices?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Two weeks ago.’

  ‘Exactly?’

  ‘Yes. It was a Wednesday night.’

  The sporting-club crowd spilt into the street. Limousine drivers gunned their engines and pressed forward. She swayed against him, then held him tightly. Lips brushed his neck. ‘Now I am tainted.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wash myself and wash myself, over and over again.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Maybe it is.’

  The wind and rain, the hubbub of the city, curled around them.

  Without warning, she withdrew from him and darted between the automobile lights.

  ‘Martha!’

  She didn’t stop. He watched her go, until the night had swallowed her.

  Quinn turned back towards the club, limousines jostling for position outside its entrance. Horns sounded. Shouts were drowned by the nearby El. He slipped his hands into his pockets. A few drops of rain splashed on his face. A door opened and the music of a jazz band escaped. A man’s voice rasped into a microphone.

  Quinn spun around again and worked his way through the automobiles. He began to run.

  Martha stood in the middle of the street, trying to hail a taxi. He caught her and pulled her close. Her cheeks were damp with rain. ‘Let me take you home,’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s better I go alone, Joe, you know that.’

  ‘What harm can it do?’

  ‘Please …’ She pushed him away, but did not let go. ‘Joe, do you remember the guesthouse in Coney Island, the tiny attic? The first time your mother got drunk and Aidan and your father were out, you took me up there to hide. There were polished wooden floorboards and the smell of cinnamon because it was where the man who owned the house kept the spices for his store. You must remember, Joe.’ Her eyes
implored him.

  He nodded. The memory lived with him.

  ‘You kept me safe there. I cried and you held me. We looked up through the tiny window at the stars. That was happiness, Joe. That’s where I’ve always wanted to be.’ She moved closer. ‘But I can’t hide from myself. There is no refuge. It’s like they say. You can take a girl out of the Bowery, but never the Bowery out of a girl.’

  ‘Martha …’

  ‘Please, Joe, let me go.’ She hurried away down the sidewalk. She waved at a dozen taxis, then one swerved through the traffic.

  As she passed Quinn, her face was pressed to the rainswept glass.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  THE COTTON CLUB WAS PACKED TO THE RAFTERS. HUNDREDS OF white swells from uptown jammed the corridors and crowded around the big circular tables beneath African masks and giant artificial palm trees. The bongo drums pounded. A chorus line of nubile light-skinned girls danced to Duke Ellington’s steel band.

  Quinn forced his way to the bar and ordered a cocktail. He drained it, then ordered another, downed it and lit a cigarette. The girls were pretty, slight and young. A couple looked barely old enough to be out so late. A trumpeter stepped forward for a solo. As the piece reached a crescendo, the rest of the band joined in and the crowd clapped. The girls’ legs flew higher.

  Quinn mopped his brow. He ordered another cocktail and drank it. He dropped his change on the floor, but in the crush, didn’t bother to pick it up.

  The chorus girls took a break to rapturous applause and the band left its trumpeter on stage. The tables turned in on themselves and the hubbub echoed off the domed ceiling.

  Quinn took off his jacket, draped it over his arm and slid along the wall. He stopped a waiter. ‘Where’s Moe Diamond?’ He had to shout. ‘I’m looking for Moe Diamond.’

  He kept moving, scanning the crowd. After a few minutes, he glimpsed Moe on the far side of the room. He walked over and touched his arm. Moe shot him a furtive glance, then, ‘Oh, Joe,

  it’s you.’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Later, maybe.’

  ‘Now.’

  Quinn bundled him through an exit to a dark corridor by the cloakrooms, where a startled grey-haired man in evening dress had second thoughts about the need to relieve himself.

  ‘Let go of me, Joe.’

  ‘What did you do to her?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You and your buddies at the Plaza. What did you do to her?’

  ‘Joe, c’mon …’

  Quinn gripped his uncle’s neck and tightened his fingers.

  ‘Aaargh! For God’s sake – it wasn’t my idea, I swear it.’

  ‘Whose idea was it?’

  ‘Joe, you know what they say: you can take a girl out of the Bowery—’ Moe gasped.

  It took Quinn a massive effort of will not to shut the man’s windpipe completely. ‘Tell me what happened, who was there, what you did.’

  ‘Joe, I can’t.’

  ‘Every man in that room is marked, Moe. On Monday, Charlie Matsell. Yesterday, Spencer Duncan. Who’s going to be cut up today? Have you worked that out yet?’

  ‘I know we’re marked!’

  Quinn grabbed his lapels. ‘I always hated the way you looked at Martha. Now I know how Mom got sick.’

  ‘Martha wasn’t why she got sick, Joe. Martha was because she got sick.’

  Quinn sensed movement behind him and whirled around. Owney Madden was flanked by two of his bodyguards.

  ‘That’s enough, Joe.’

  ‘Leave us alone, Owney.’ He turned back to Moe. ‘What do you mean, she was because Mom got sick?’

  ‘I said, that’s enough.’ Madden nodded at one of his men. ‘Take Moe upstairs and make sure he stays there.’ He waited until they had disappeared before he spoke again. ‘For just one guy, you’re causing a lot of trouble. My advice is to quit screwing with us,’ he stepped aside, ‘and go get yourself a cocktail. It’s on the house.’

  ‘He’s a frightened man, Owney.’

  ‘Maybe he is.’

  ‘He deserves to be frightened.’

  ‘Maybe he does.’

  ‘Somebody’s gunning for him.’

  ‘For all of them, it seems, but that’s not your business.’

  ‘If you tell me why, I can help.’

  ‘You can’t. Go get yourself a drink. You look like you could use one.’

  Quinn returned to the bar, ordered another cocktail and watched the line of chorus girls onstage. Then he spotted Gloria Duncan. She sat between a slew of fancy-looking men and women, but they talked over or around her for her eyes were fixed on him. She got to her feet and glided over, cool in a straight evening gown with an elaborate beaded overdress. Her blonde curls had been expensively set. She wore thick makeup, which hid the lines around her eyes, and bright-red lipstick. ‘You’re hot,’ she said. She reached into his pants’ pocket, took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his brow. She put it back, pushing her hand deep. Then she reached up to his collar, loosened his tie and undid his top button. ‘That’s better. May I buy you a drink?’

  ‘I’ve had one.’

  ‘So I see.’ She clicked her fingers at the bartender, who hurried over with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He popped the cork and poured.

  ‘Where did Major La Guardia go?’ he said.

  ‘Home. I don’t think this is his scene, do you?’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Her eyes seemed to mock him.

  ‘Sure it does.’

  ‘He was once a decent pro bono lawyer and I was a girl who needed one.’

  ‘He asked you to turn your husband in?’

  ‘He didn’t need to.’ She leant closer and pressed her lips to his ear. ‘You want my advice, Detective, drop the case and ditch the girl. She’s trouble.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do as I say or the big man will eat a guy like you for breakfast and spit out the bones.’

  ‘Who is the big man?’

  ‘He’s the guy even Spencer was scared of.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘If I knew it, I wouldn’t be sitting here.’

  Quinn took a handful of papers from his pocket. He showed her the page headed ‘Disbursements’. ‘Is this what La Guardia wanted?’

  ‘Have you been stealing documents from me, Detective?’

  ‘Did he explain what these figures meant?’

  ‘Throw the detective switch, Detective. It doesn’t turn a girl on.’

  ‘Answer the question and I might.’

  ‘Spencer called them his insurance. Who got what and when. When we were lovers he said I should give them to the newspapers if anything happened to him. Should I do that now?’

  ‘Where did the money come from?’

  ‘Now you’re not being so bright. Where do you think it came from?’

  ‘I’d like to hear it from you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to walk far from your desk to find the source.’

  ‘It came from Centre Street?’

  ‘That was where it went. I didn’t say it came from there.’

  ‘Where did the money go? There are no details here.’

  She smiled. ‘Spencer may have been many things, Detective, but stupid he was not. He kept the really important stuff in his head. He could have told us which bank account on which day, had he so wished.’ Gloria touched her glass to his and drained it. ‘You’ve lost her, do you know that?’

  For a moment Quinn was silent. The steel band struck up again. His temples throbbed in time with the music. ‘I don’t think I ever really had her.’

  Gloria put down her glass and took his hand. He resisted. ‘C’mon. Even detectives can dance, can’t they?’

  They spun around the floor, her body pressed to his. Expensive French scent wafted over him. Her fingers caressed his back. Her lips brushed his neck.

  He shut his eyes. ‘I have to go,
’ he said.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she murmured. ‘Neither of us has anywhere to go.’ She drew him closer. Her cool, moist cheek seemed to take the fire from his. Quinn’s head swam. Sweat from his brow trickled into his mouth. She brushed his lips with hers.

  The pressure in his forehead eased.

  She slowed the pace. Her fingers skipped lightly across the back of his head, soothing where they touched. Then she slipped her hand into his and led him out of the club into the street. ‘There’s a place I know,’ she said.

  She paid no heed to his indecision. She led him two blocks and through an archway beneath a flickering sign saying ‘Paradise Alley Hotel’. Half the bulbs on its illumination board had been smashed. She pushed a ten-dollar bill across to an attendant and took a key.

  Halfway down a moonlit corridor, she ducked into a room with a simple wooden bed and crisp sheets. The walls had been newly whitewashed. He took in a Bible and telephone before she drew him to her again. Her lips tasted of champagne and cigarettes. Her hips and thighs moulded themselves to his.

  They swayed together. Immaculately honed fingernails gouged at his neck until they drew blood. She bit her lower lip and ran her tongue along the tip of his. Her breath quickened and she tugged at his shirt, then skilfully worked the buttons on his pants and tugged him free.

  Quinn closed his eyes as she took his hand and guided his fingers beneath her dress, from the smooth silk of her stocking and the intricate lace of her garter belt to the bare flesh between.

  He pushed her back against the wall and pulled the dress above her waist. She spread her legs and drew him closer.

  As they slid together, he pulled back.

  He let go and stepped away from her. He took in her eyes, the crumpled dress, the crimson garter belt and the tantalizing patch of dark hair that sprouted beneath it.

  ‘No,’ he muttered. He buttoned his pants and reached for his jacket.

  ‘Come back,’ she hissed.

  As he stumbled blindly away her voice echoed down the corridor. ‘Damn you,’ she yelled. ‘Damn you to hell.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  QUINN WOVE HIS WAY ALONG THE RAIN-SLICKED SIDEWALK THROUGH fight-night stragglers still making their way home. He took in only blurred faces and distant voices. Back in the Gardner, he laid his forehead against the steering-wheel and pressed his eyes with his thumbs until the pain became unbearable. His fingers smelt of her.