Prohibition

by Terrence McCauley

  “You always liked to run your mouth too much,” Halloran said. “Now toss the heater on the bed. Do it nice and slow.”

  Quinn did what he was told. The steel moved away from his neck and he turned enough to get a look at Halloran. Unfortunately, he looked reasonably sober. Sober enough to level a .38 at Quinn’s stomach and smart enough to back far enough away so Quinn couldn’t make a play for the gun.

  Quinn offered the smirk he reserved only for him. “You’ve got your hands in a lot of pockets, Halloran. I didn’t think you were that smart.”

  “Me and Mr. Wallace have known each other a couple of years now,” the big cop said. “I damned near busted a gut when Doherty had me trail him when he left the Lounge. Follow him? Hell, I drove him home.”

  “Detective Halloran has been a great help to my organization,” Wallace said as he slipped out of bed and into a silk smoking jacket. “But given what I’ve learned about you tonight, Terry, I’d like to give you a chance to join my organization. Of course, I’d like to discuss that with Mr. Shaprio and Mr. Sanders first.”

  “I’d like you to discuss it with them, too. They’re both dead.”

  Wallace stopped tying the belt of his smoking jacket in mid-motion.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Nope. Sanders said he had Ira snuffed in the hospital about an hour ago. And I had Zito take care of Sanders in the Garden just before I came here. Carved that bastard open like a Christmas goose.”

  Wallace looked at Halloran, then back at Quinn before laughter bent him in half. Halloran laughed, too.

  Wallace sat back on the edge of the bed and caught his breath. “Good God, man. It’s like something out of a horrible opera. A farce, for God’s sake. Why, had we known you were this thorough, my people would have given you the job instead of Sanders. You’ve set our plans ahead by months, years, my boy!”

  “We?” Quinn kept his hands up. “Who’s we?”

  Wallace finished tying the belt of his smoking jacket around his narrow waist. “I’m not foolish enough to get into specifics with you, but I’ll let you in on an open secret. Men like Rothman, Doyle and others like them all over the country have held sway over most illegal activity for over a decade now. Gambling, liquor, prostitution and narcotics have been regionally controlled by a relatively small number of men for far too long. There are forces coming to power who want the criminal element to organize itself in a more efficient, national manner.”

  “Bullshit. Doyle already has his hooks into mobs all over the country.”

  “Yes, but power held by one man can lead to greater problems,” Wallace reminded. “Look at what happened in Chicago under Capone. Then look at how quickly things quieted down once Capone was removed. With disbursed organization comes less chaos, which leads to less public outcry, which leads to less government interference which ultimately leads to greater profits. Doyle had become too complacent and Rothman had over extended his power, especially with the legislature in Albany. We knew neither Doyle nor Rothman would go quietly and a nasty street war would ensue. As we sought to avoid that at all costs, we used Shapiro and Sanders to move them out for us. Change is often painful, Terry, but necessary. I’m sure you understand.”

  None of this made much sense to Quinn. “Who’s this ‘we’ you keep talking about? Who do you work for?”

  “A consortium of interests who have grown tired of the Rothman/Doyle monopoly and who’ve grown fearful of Doyle’s plans to influence national politics.”

  “Like Archie getting Al Smith to run for president.”

  “It’s a ridiculous notion, but it served as the spark that lit Sanders’ treasonous fire weeks ago. I just fanned the flames to my own advantage. And now that Doyle, Rothman, Shapiro and Sanders are all dead, my allies can assume control much quicker than they planned.” Wallace saluted Quinn. “I have your meddling to thank for that.”

  “I’m not going to ask you again. Who do you work for?”

  “What difference does it make? As you’ll be dead soon, telling you would be harmless enough, but I’m afraid Detective Halloran isn’t as discreet as you.”

  “You better hope he’s as good as you think he is. If he’s not, I’m coming back here and kill you.”

  “He’s good enough.”

  Wallace went to the nightstand, took a large envelope out of the drawer and tossed it over to a chair near Halloran. “There’s your payment in advance. I suppose just killing him here would be awkward?”

  The cop shrugged. “It’d be a hell of a lot easier to shoot him and leave him here after you clear out if you don’t care about him being found.”

  Wallace sighed. “Unfortunately, I do care about him being found. If he’s dead too, it’ll all look too neat. Too planned. People may ask questions and there’ll be enough of that as it is. Where do you usually dispose of problems like this?”

  “I got a couple of places,” Halloran answered.

  “I’m sure you do. On your way then and make sure it’s painless if you can,” Wallace cautioned him. “I’m sure you and Mr. Quinn have had your differences in the past, but I think he deserves a little professional courtesy – from one mercenary soul to another.”

  “Sure. Let’s go, Quinn, and keep them arms up. No funny business.”

  Halloran trailed a good distance behind Quinn with the gun still aimed at his midsection. Quinn stepped over the bodyguard who was still lying among the splinters of what used to be the door. Wallace walked them out, “I’m sorry things didn’t turn out better for us, Terry. Perhaps we’ll meet again in another life.”

  Quinn kept moving. “That might be sooner than you think.”

  The little man saluted him and disappeared back into the suite. Halloran jerked the gun toward him. “Let’s go, hooch punk. And forget the elevator. You might get too frisky in a small space and do something stupid. We’ll take the stairs all the way down, nice and easy. Then we’re going to do a little sightseeing.”

  Quinn walked down the stairs to his destiny with a gun at his back.

  HALLORAN MADE Quinn drive.

  Quinn couldn’t see Halloran in the rearview mirror. The bastard was smart. He sat in the back seat right behind Quinn. He’d have to find another way to read the big cop.

  “Give her some gas and head downtown on Fifth,” Halloran directed. “Nice and slow.”

  Quinn pulled away from the Plaza’s curb and headed downtown. He heard Halloran unscrew the cap off a steel flask. “And don’t try no funny stuff, neither. I’ve got this cannon aimed square at your back. One dumb move and you’ll catch one but good.” He took a belt from the flask. “Just drive like I tell you and you’ll be better off.”

  It was after eleven o’clock at night and traffic was light. As the blocks passed by, Quinn ignored the growing pain in his side. Whipping the body guard through the door hurt more than he realized. He may have even opened his stitches, but didn’t dare take his hand off the wheel to check. Halloran might get nervous and he was plenty nervous already.

  Quinn took stock of his options. It was a damned short list. His gun was on Wallace’s bed ten floors up. He didn’t have a backup piece and no one knew where he was. No would be looking for him, either. He had a gun aimed at his back by a crooked cop who’d been looking for a reason to kill him for years.

  Then it hit him.

  Maybe he could use that to his advantage.

  Halloran hated his guts because deep down, Halloran was afraid of him. And he was taking healthy pulls on that flask for courage. If Quinn could get him to lose his temper, it might create some kind of an opening. But he’d have to do it slow because if Halloran caught on to what he was trying to do, it could backfire. At this point, all Quinn had to lose was his life. And he was going to lose it anyway if he followed Halloran’s orders. A traffic light turned red. Quinn stopped short and Halloran jerked forward.

  Quinn spotted a cop car with two patrolmen parked on the Doyle side of Fifth Avenue. Chances were they were on Doyle’s payroll
.

  “Don’t get any ideas, smart guy,” Halloran warned from the back seat.

  “Remember I’m a detective and they’ll believe anything I say.”

  Quinn laughed. “The shield in your pocket might make you a cop. But you’re not much of a detective.”

  “I’m enough of a detective to be on this side of the gun,”

  Quinn heard him take another pull on his flask. “Getting up some courage?”

  “Quit talking and drive,” Halloran wiped his hand with the back of his mouth.

  The light turned green. Quinn took his time giving it some gas, but moved along slow. “Mind telling me where we’re going or are we just gonna tool around like a couple of swishes on a joyride. Maybe take a little late night stroll through Central Park and grab some cotton candy?” Quinn winked back at him. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

  “Sure. But I’m gonna like putting a bullet in that smart mouth of yours even better. Take Fifth Avenue until you hit Broadway at Twenty-Third Street, then take Broadway all the way down.”

  “Keep heading downtown?”

  “There ain’t nowhere to go on Broadway but down. Especially for you tonight.”

  Quinn figured that meant they were heading out east. Brooklyn or Queens or Long Island some place. Weeds, swamps, lots of woods. Several dozen places to dump a body. Quinn had made similar trips dozens of times. But he wanted to pull it out of Halloran, to get on his nerves and stay there. “Don’t tell me. We’re going to Brooklyn?”

  “You ask a lot of questions for a dead man.”

  “That’s the right of the damned. A dying man’s supposed to be granted his last request, or something like that.”

  “The only thing I’m gonna grant you is a bullet in the gut. Now shut up.” Quinn knew he was getting to him. “I know you’re scared. But, icing a guy is never supposed to be easy. I still get a little nervous and I’ve planted plenty of guys.”

  “Scared? Killing you is one of the highpoints of my life. And I never bought that bullshit about all the guys you supposedly killed anyway. I figure you mostly had it done. You ain’t half as tough as people say you are.”

  “At least I never turned traitor.”

  “Traitor? You rum peddling scum make me laugh. Traitor. Betrayal. You bastards run booze and whores and crooked crap games and kill people and act like you’re honorable men. Loyalty?” Halloran took another pull from the flask. “The only real loyalty I got is to the dead presidents in my billfold.”

  “Money’s all that matters, heh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Just like a whore.”

  “Whatever you say, croaker. Boy, I’m really going to enjoy shutting that smart mouth of yours once and for all.”

  They were getting closer to the Brooklyn Bridge. Quinn knew he didn’t have much time. He had to keep working on him until he could make his move, whatever that move was going to be.

  “Funny thing about killing people in our line of work. Don’t kill enough and you lose your edge. Kill too much and it becomes a habit. If you’re not real careful, you get sloppy and sloppy gets you caught.”

  “I told you to shut up.”

  “Level with me about something. How long do you think Wallace is going to let you live after tonight. With me dead, you’re the only guy who knows what he’s done. Killing you would tie up a lot of loose ends.”

  He heard Halloran starting to breathe heavier. “At the end of Broadway, take the Brooklyn Bridge and head east.”

  Quinn kept driving. “I don’t blame you for dodging the question. I wouldn’t want to think about it either. You can’t trust guys like Wallace to live up to their end of the bargain. A smart cop would steer clear of Wallace types. Take Doherty for instance. Now that’s my idea of a smart cop.”

  “You would think that. Taking scraps from Doyle don’t make Doherty smart.”

  Quinn kept it up. “Scraps from Archie’s better than taking shit from some swish in a white suit.”

  “Wallace ain’t a fruit and Doherty’s no angel, believe me.” Quinn heard him pull on the flask again. “Oh, Charlie comes across as a straight shooter, but he’s a no good drunk with a wife and kids in the Bronx and a mistress up in the Heights.”

  “But he’s his own man, unlike you,” Quinn turned left off Broadway and on to the Brooklyn Bridge. “That’s why you’re here and he’s not. Wallace is gonna whack you the second you’re through with me.”

  “I ain’t gonna stick around and give him the chance. See that satchel on the floor next to you?” Quinn looked at the passenger seat and saw a leather satchel on the floor. “With what he paid me tonight, plus what I already got squirreled away in that bag,” Halloran went on, “I’ll blow this town with wind in my sails and money to burn. Probably head to some place nice and warm where a bunch of native girls in grass skirts will serve me drinks on the beach. But don’t worry, Quinn. I’ll come back to piss on your grave some day.”

  They were on the bridge now and Quinn gave the engine just a little more gas. “I don’t think you’ll live that long.”

  “Just shut up and drive,” Halloran slurred. Quinn could hear the liquor taking effect. “I don’t need no advice from a punk with a gun to his back.” “I’m just trying to give you a little friendly advice is all.” Quinn slowly fed the car more gas as they crossed into the Brooklyn half of the bridge.

  “Where I’m going, it could be the difference between the up elevator and the freight to the basement.”

  “Wherever you wind up, save a seat for me.”

  “Are you kidding? The way things are going, I won’t have time. You’ll be right behind me.”

  “Keep driving. Take Adams Street when we get off the bridge and head south.”

  Adams Street. That meant Halloran was taking him to the Gowanus Canal. One of Quinn’s favorite dumping spots. Close to Manhattan. A ton of old warehouses. The few people who lived there weren’t the curious type. You could plug a guy on the shoreline and let the body fall into the murky water of the canal never to be seen again. No holes to dig. No blood to clean up. If the bullet didn’t kill him, the shit in the water would.

  “Adams Street only heads south, dimwit.” He only had about ten minutes left to break Halloran. Quinn worked him harder.

  “I know that, goddamn it,” Halloran’s words were thicker now. “I’m just making sure you know it.”

  “I know a lot,” Quinn turned right onto Adams Street. “Just like I know Wallace has plans for you.” He made a show of checking the sideview mirror, then the rearview again. “Rothman, Doyle, Shapiro, Sanders. All dead. Let’s say you run. Let’s say you even get out of town. How far until Wallace and whoever’s paying him decide to hunt you down. You’re a loose end, pal.”

  “Shut up!” Halloran yelled. Quinn still couldn’t see him in the mirror. “You’ve got your own problems. Take a left on Atlantic, then a right on Hoyt.”

  Quinn gave the car even more gas as they entered the warehouse district. By now, they’d built up good speed. The streets were deserted and dark. The only light came from the car’s headlights. Quinn knew he didn’t have much time left. “So you’re just gonna march me out to the canal, shoot me, dump me and walk away?”

  “That’s what Wallace paid for and that’s what he’s going to get.”

  Quinn knew he was running out of time fast. He made a bigger show of checking the mirrors again. “You really are a stupid bastard, you know that? You think it’s gonna be that easy?”

  Quinn heard the cop’s jaw clench tight. Halloran’s pride had taken a beating the whole ride out. It was swollen and sore by now. “I’ve had just about all the kicking I’m gonna take from you, punk. Fuck what Wallace said. I’m gonna give it to you in the gut and watch you bleed out slow. Then I’ll drop you in the canal and watch you drown, you son of a bitch.”

  Quinn knew it was now or never. He pointed at the rear view mirror. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll be right in after me. Because th
e two guys who’ve been following us since 23rd Street might have other plans.”

  He heard Halloran jerk around to look out the rear window. Quinn gunned the engine and aimed the car for the side wall of a warehouse. He flicked off the headlights and slammed on the brakes as he yanked the wheel hard to the right.

  The car went into a wild skid in total darkness and slammed hard into the brick wall of a warehouse.

  Quinn had been ready for the impact, but he was still a bit dazed. He shook the cobwebs loose and tried to get out of the car fast.

  Halloran snatched Quinn by the throat, squeezing his thick fingers around Quinn’s windpipe slow and tight. Quinn tried to wrench the hands from his neck when he realized: Halloran was using both hands. Halloran didn’t have the gun.

  But Quinn couldn’t breathe.

  Quinn tried digging his fingers into Halloran’s hands and the big man’s grip began to weaken. Quinn twisted around slowly in the front seat, ignoring the pain burning in the wound in his side. He got his balance and fired a straight right into Halloran’s face.

  He heard the cop’s nose break.

  His grip was broken. Halloran fell back screaming.

  Quinn dove into the back seat after him.

  He couldn’t let Halloran get that gun.

  The big cop’s nose was broken, but he kicked and punched wildly.

  Quinn pummeled him as hard as he could in the cramped confines of the back seat. One of his blows felt like it hit a kidney and Halloran cried out.

  Halloran’s arms flailed. The passenger door swung open.

  Quinn found Halloran’s throat and it was his turn to squeeze. Now with the door open, Quinn had room to pitch forward and put all of his weight on Halloran’s windpipe. But all those awkward punches had killed his hands. The pain made him squeeze that much harder.

  Halloran’s thumping became weaker and he started to gurgle. But just as Quinn realized he was leaning halfway out of the car, Halloran’s hand shot out, grabbed the door handle and pulled it shut. The glass window shattered on Quinn’s head.

  Quinn tumbled back into the car, reeling from the blood and the pain from the glass.