Doyle reached for a towel and tried wiping the blood off his face and hands. All he did was smear it. He flung the towel into a far corner of the room. “Baker, take a couple of the boys and fetch this doctor Terry’s talking about and be quick about it. Fatty’s not bleeding now, but that can change.”
“Doctor Peter Dempsey,” Quinn told Baker. “Tell the nurse at the front desk of the hospital that you’re with me. She’ll get in touch with him for us.”
Baker was already on his way up the stairs, when Quinn called up after him. “And don’t forget to spread out those boys like I told you. Send some to the Lounge, some to the club house and the rest of them in cars on our side of Fifth Avenue. I want them ready go if we need them.”
Doyle turned to the men who’d helped him manage Corcoran. “Donohue, bandage our large friend here the best you can and watch him until the doctor arrives. The rest of you, head up stairs and fetch yourselves a drink or two. Christ knows you’ve earned it.”
The only one who hesitated was Corcoran’s loyal Jimmy Cain. “I don’t mean no disrespect, boss, but I don’t trust no baby doctor to take care of Mr. Corcoran.”
“The organs are the same in an adult as in a baby, except bigger,” He added, “And in the case of our Mr. Corcoran here, a lot bigger.” Doyle smiled at his own joke. “Go up and get your beer, kid. Fatty’ll be fine.”
But Cain pulled up a stool and took a seat beside his boss. The others went up stairs.
Doyle motioned for Quinn to follow him out the back door to the small yard behind the brownstone.
Even though Doyle was almost a full foot shorter at five feet six inches tall, Quinn always thought of Aloysius ‘Archie’ Doyle was an imposing man. His thick shock of unruly gray hair and bushy gray eyebrows framed a deep-set gaze. Years spent working the docks and slaughterhouses of the Manhattan waterfront left him broad shouldered and barrel-chested. His forearms were huge, almost deformed. He was fifty-one years old and was stronger than most kids in their twenties.
Fatty Corcoran and Frank Sanders had both been with him since childhood. Ward bosses paid them to break teamster strikes and scare off organizers. They got paid to get out the vote on election day and made sure people voted early and often. The boys at Tammany Hall liked Doyle’s style. His gang got results. Eventually, the bosses depended on him.
Doyle turned dependence into power. With power came money, enough money to expand into the rackets, like booze and gambling and joy houses.
When Prohibition came, the floodgates opened. Speakeasies and gambling dens popped up all over town. Soon, the places Doyle didn’t own, he controlled or supplied booze to. Most of them were dives.
The Longford Lounge wasn’t. It was Doyle’s pride and joy and the best of all worlds; a glamorous nightclub upstairs, a world class casino downstairs. Only high rollers need apply. Celebrities. Politicians. Everyone in between and sideways. The place was jammed every night. Money poured in.
Doyle always made money and wasn’t shy about spreading it around. No one complained. The cops got their share. Judges, DAs, mayors and aldermen too. Everyone bathed in the same dirty water.
With more money came even more power, more influence. Soon, most of the elected officials in the city lined up outside Doyle’s door, hat in hand asking for contributions. Asking if his boys could get out the vote.
They promised gratitude. They pledged loyalty. Doyle demanded servitude and got it cheap. The employee had become the boss. Archie’s empire grew far and deep and wide. It grew huge.
Quinn had been there for most of it. He knew Doyle hadn’t gotten big because he was the toughest or the smartest. He got big because he played the game better than anyone. His speakeasies were safe – even the dives. His booze didn’t make you go blind. His gambling joints weren’t rigged and they paid out to winners on time. The few joy houses he ran had clean girls who were well paid.
The cops liked him because he stayed out of narcotics. He kept the gunplay to a minimum. Chicago had Capone and his bombings, drive-by shootings, dead civilians, open warfare. New York had Doyle, who kept things quiet, damned near respectable.
And he paid Quinn to keep it that way.
In over five years, there hadn’t been a pint of booze sold or roulette wheel spun or a politician elected in ten states without Archie Doyle’s okay.
One nod from Archie could get a guy killed or send him to the halls of congress.
With success and power came fame. And it was the fame that worried Quinn most. Doyle’s sense of humor and easy smile made him a tabloid favorite. Pictures of Doyle with fighters, movie stars and Broadway actresses always made good copy.
But Doyle’s Golden Rule still held in newsrooms all over the city: Nothing about Archie in print without his okay. Ever.
Break the Golden Rule and Terry Quinn comes by to ask you why.
But lately, Doyle had been giving his say so more and more. Doyle used to shun the spotlight, but he’d been drawing a lot of ink the past month or so. Quinn didn’t know why.
It was a bad time to be famous for being rich. The stock market had tanked a few months back. People were losing their jobs. Money was tight. Bread lines got longer every day. People didn’t have money for food, much less for a shot of whiskey or a roll of the dice. After a solid ten year run, the Doyle operation was starting to slow.
Quinn thought Archie needed to focus on business, not getting his picture in the paper. But he wasn’t paid to think.
Doyle went to an old slop sink in the back yard and began washing his hands with brown soap. The irony of the head of the biggest criminal empire in the country scrubbing blood off his hands wasn’t wasted on Quinn.
Quinn leaned against the doorway and watched his boss. “It don’t come off, you know?”
Doyle winked at him. “It ain’t supposed to, kid.” He scrubbed at the blood anyway.
Quinn lit a cigarette and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. “I thought we agreed you’d blow town for a while until I found who hit Fatty and why.”
Doyle shrugged. “And we was all set to go, too. Then Jimmy Cain and Baker tell me the doc is too drunk to stand, much less operate on anybody. What was I supposed to do? Leave one of my best friends bleedin’ to death in a lousy basement? I’ve known the guy since we was three, for Chrissake.”
“You were supposed to leave when we heard Fatty was shot,” Quinn pressed. “It’s not safe for you to be around while there’s trouble like this, especially when we don’t know who’s behind it.”
Doyle waved it off. “There’s been trouble sniffin’ around me since I was a baby. Besides, the boys woulda thought me yellow if I left one of my own in his time of need. And they’d be right, too.”
“They’re not paid to think,” Quinn argued. “They’re paid to do what they’re told.” Doyle chuckled. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, kid. You’re all heart. Did you get a chance to solve that problem we talked about?” He kept scrubbing.
Quinn nodded, exhaling a long plume of smoke through his nose. “Good,” Doyle said. “Whereabouts?”
There was no need to say it when a gesture would do. Quinn tapped his forehead. Doyle spat into the sink. “Too quick for him, the bastard. Get anythin’ out of him before he went across?”
“Something about a high roller from out of town in a white hat,” Quinn said, “who hired him to set up a pool game between Fatty and some pool punk. Said they didn’t tell him it was a hit.”
“What do you think?” Doyle asked.
“Who knows?” Quinn shrugged. “I’ll check it anyway. But here’s an interesting tidbit – The Kid is stake-horsed by one of Howard Rothman’s boys – Ira Shapiro.”
“No kiddin’?” Doyle said as he turned off the water and dried his hands with a towel hanging on a hook above the sink. “Ceretti ain’t creative enough to make all that up on his own. But why would somebody hire a guy to do a half-assed job of hitting poor Fatty?”
Quinn perked up. “What do you mean half-as
sed?”
“The hole in his back,” Doyle elaborated. “It’s a .22. Any button man worth shit wouldn’t use less than a .45 on a mark Fatty’s size.” “I know I wouldn’t,” Quinn agreed.
Doyle tossed the towel aside and patted Quinn on the face. “You always was a perfectionist, kid, even back when you was in the ring. Maybe our shooter wasn’t so picky.” Then he pointed at the cigarette. “Got an extra one for me?”
Quinn fished out his cigarette case and let Doyle chose one of his Luckys. “All we got right now is a lot of maybes,” Doyle said as Quinn lit it for him. “But we know Ceretti was no mastermind. He didn’t have the brains or the balls to set up Fatty unless someone put him up to it. We need to know who that someone is, kid, and we need to know soon.”
Quinn heard something new in Doyle’s voice. Saw something new in his eyes. Things he’d seen and heard in other men many times. It wasn’t fear. Archie wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.
No, he convinced himself. It wasn’t fear, but it was close. “Don’t worry, boss. I’ll handle it.”
Doyle didn’t seem to hear him. “Christ, this couldn’t have come at a worse possible time. Fatty and me got some things on the burner right now that might get queered by all this.”
Quinn knew Doyle liked his secrets kept secret. He hated nosy bastards, so Quinn was sure to choose his words carefully. “Boss, it’s probably none of my business, but if you need me to...”
But Doyle talked over him. “This thing is big, kid, too big to let you in on it yet on account of so much ain’t settled. Maybe in a couple of days, but not now.” He took a drag and pointed it at Quinn. “But if this thing I’m hatchin’ takes off, it’ll could change everything. Change it permanent and forever.”
Quinn had a million questions, but kept his mouth shut. Doyle would tell him everything in his own way and in his own time. Besides, curious types didn’t last long in this business. “What do you want me to do, boss?”
The old Archie returned. “What’s the name of the clown Fatty was shootin’ pool with? Kid Jones or somethin’?”
“Johnny The Kid,” Quinn said. “Blew in from Brooklyn about two months ago. Been lighting up pool halls with trick shots ever since.”
Doyle brooded. “Fatty’s always fashioned himself a pool shark. Stands to reason he’d be suckered into playing him. Setting up that game was probably the easiest dough Ceretti ever made.”
“And the last dough he’ll ever make.”
Doyle smiled. “Fatty usually shoots over at Knickerbocker Billiards on
Amsterdam. Who picked Ames?”
“Beats me, boss. We won’t know much until I do some digging.”
“So Ira Shapiro runs Johnny the Kid,” Doyle connected the dots. “And Howard Rothman runs Shapiro. Kind of a coincidence that Shaprio’s boy just happened to be playing Fatty when he got shot, ain’t it?”
“Coincidences happen, boss.”
“Coincidences are bullshit,” Doyle snapped. “What do you plan to do about it?”
“Shapiro and his cronies hang their hats in a dive called Pete’s on Third Avenue. Figured I’d swing by. See what shakes loose.”
“Just tread lightly, kid,” Archie Doyle cautioned. “The east side’s Rothman Territory and Shapiro is Rothman’s best earner. The last thing I need right now is a goddamned street war, especially with this thing Fatty and me got brewing. Got me?”
“Don’t worry.” Quinn dropped his dead cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe. “You know I hate violence.”
THREE IN the morning.
Dead time.
Quinn stood in the alley across from Pete’s Billiards. Away from the streetlights. He was on the east side now. Rothman Territory. Behind enemy lines. Quinn couldn’t afford attention.
A light mist started falling. Everything seemed quieter than it should.
Quiet suited Quinn just fine.
He never rushed jobs like this. Rushing led to mistakes. Mistakes landed you in jail or the morgue. He always looked over a joint first to get the lay of the land. To see who was who and what was what. When he knew as much as he could about the set up, he made his move.
“Pete’s Billiards” was still etched in faded gold stenciling on the window, even though “Pete” had been dead for years. It was Ira Shapiro’s joint now. A run-down hellhole with a couple of pool tables in the back and a sandwich counter that hadn’t sold sandwiches in years. It was a juice joint for hop heads too down on their luck to drink elsewhere, but somehow scraped up enough to buy some of Shapiro’s rotgut.
The cops left Shapiro alone because he was Howard Rothman’s boy and Howard Rothman was a jack-of-all-crooked-trades. A power broker, more gambler than gangster, more crooked than straight. As an attorney, he’d represented some of the biggest hoods around. When he couldn’t get them off or buy the jury, he greased the wheels of justice and bought the judge instead. Howard Rothman was an enterprising man.
Over time, Rothman was able to buy a piece of the action of every major gambling organization in the state. The rules were simple: take Howard Rothman on as a partner or you got raided. Everyone except Archie Doyle’s joints, of course. By that time, Archie had already grown as big as he’d wanted in the gambling racket. Rothman took the rest. Rothman and Doyle had an unwritten truce.
It was a cozy set up. When the gambling dens needed money, they borrowed from Rothman. When they needed booze, they went to Archie. When the politicians and judges wanted to lay a bet, they went to Rothman.
When they needed votes and protection, they went to Archie.
Doyle ruled the streets. Rothman ruled the cloakrooms. Doyle and Rothman were two sides of the same coin. That unwritten truce had held for the last ten years.
Until tonight. Maybe.
From the alley, Quinn watched Shapiro act out a story from behind the counter, waiving his long, skinny arms while three goons laughed. Shapiro was about five foot ten and too thin for his height. He had black curly hair and pockmarked skin that made him look tougher than he was.
Quinn could tell the men were big, but soft. Probably bullies used to using their size to scare the hell out of normal people.
Quinn hated bullies. Bullies rarely had the balls to face their own weaknesses. Quinn knew his weaknesses all too well. The ring had taught him that. How far he could run in eight minutes. How many jabs he could throw in a three minute round. How many shots he could take to the head before he got dizzy.
How to let a bum hang around long enough to make a fight look good. And how hard he had to hit a man to kill him.
But he’d never learned how to take a dive. And that’s why he was standing in alley on a damp November night, watching four assholes laughing it up in Pete’s Billiards.
They told him to dive for another contender. Quinn beat him to death in the ring instead. Five years ago last month. It felt like yesterday.
They took his license and killed his career. Men like Shapiro and his three goons. Men who placed bets on a game they knew nothing about.
They called themselves tough, but didn’t know true pain. Maybe they’d learn that lesson tonight.
But Doyle’s words came back to him.
Tread lightly.
He’d try. He owed Doyle that much. He owed Doyle everything.
Quinn saw one of Shapiro’s crew wasn’t laughing. A young skinny kid of about twenty or so, sitting alone at the counter. He wore a faded green jacket and held his head in his hands. That must be Johnny the Kid. He looked too scared to enjoy Shapiro’s story.
Other than The Kid, Shapiro and his three goons put the count at four. They looked loose. Happy. Maybe a little drunk.
They’d never see him coming. Until it was too late. Quinn crossed the street.
Shapiro and his three goons stopped laughing when the small bell above the door tinkled as Quinn walked inside and closed the door behind him.
Each of them slid off their stools and formed a semi-circle before him. He saw Johnny the Kid eyeing
him over his shoulder from the counter. Poor bastard looked trapped. Scared.
Tread lightly.
“Evening, boys,” Quinn said, looking each man in the eye. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything private.”
“Well, if it ain’t Terry Quinn come in outta the rain,” Shapiro said from behind the counter. “What brings Archie Doyle’s black hand out on a night like this?”
“Just out for a stroll on a soft night in the city,” Quinn said. “Saw the lights on, figured I’d come in here where it’s warm and dry.” He looked at Shapiro. “Hear about Fatty?”
Shapiro put his hand over his heart. “My heart bled when I heard the news. Him and Johnny here were shootin’ pool when it happened. Poor kid came back hysterical. Barely able to talk, even. When I finally got the story out of him, I was floored. We was all floored, wasn’t we boys?”
The three goons nodded at the same time. Quinn had sized up each of them from across the street. The one to his left was a lightweight - short and stocky. He looked mean but had scarred eyes and a weak jaw.
The one on the right was a middleweight. Big hands but his feet were too far apart. He wouldn’t move quickly without shifting his weight. The third one had shifted behind him, so Quinn couldn’t see him. But he wasn’t a threat.
“Bad break for Fatty,” Shapiro sucked his teeth. “Sure, I’ve had my run- ins with the big lug same as everyone else. But the poor bastard didn’t deserve to buy it in a lousy, stinking pool room like that. And him and Archie being boyhood friends and all. Frank Sanders, too.” Shapiro set up a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses from behind the counter. “Hey, you collecting for Fatty’s widow and kids? I’ll be glad to pass the hat amongst my boys if you’d like.”
“He’s not married,” Quinn said. He waited for Shapiro to pour the shots before adding, “He’s not dead, either.”
Quinn watched Shapiro’s eyes shimmy. His hand shook as he put the bottle back on the countertop. “No shit?”
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