Prohibition

  Prohibition

  Slow Burn

  Sympathy For The Devil

  All available from Polis Books

  Manhattan – 1930

  QUINN WATCHED his prey from the shadow of a doorway.

  He eyeballed the second floor window of the building across the street, taking in the panic of Vinny Ceretti. He watched Ceretti yank a suitcase from the top shelf of a closet and throw it on the bed. The stupid bastard was in such a hurry to skip town that he’d forgotten to pull down the shade.

  But Quinn knew people did stupid things when they ran for their lives. He’d seen men act like this before. Many, many times.

  Quinn knew Ceretti was clearing out because a man named Fatty Corcoran had been left bleeding on the floor at Ames’ Pool Hall halfway across town. Corcoran was Archie Doyle’s right hand man, and Archie Doyle was the biggest crime boss in Manhattan, maybe even the country. They didn’t call him The Duke of New York for nothing.

  Quinn knew Ceretti had set Corcoran up to take a bullet. And Ceretti knew Archie would send Terry Quinn to ask him why.

  Quinn watched Ceretti struggle with stubborn dresser drawers, toss clothes in the suitcase, then slam it shut and pull it off the bed.

  Then the light went off. The bastard was on his way down.

  Quinn took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked it into the street. Time to go to work.

  Ceretti took his time. Quinn figured he was listening for strange noises and scanning odd shadows in the stairwell. Quinn knew it was a fifty-fifty shot he’d come out the front door. He had a man covering the alley just in case.

  He spotted Ceretti’s head pop out behind the front door. He looked up one side of the street first, then the other. He even looked right at Quinn, but Quinn had done this before. He was too deep in the shadows to be seen.

  Ceretti pulled the brim of his cap low over his eyes and began walking quickly along Thirtieth Street, lugging the big suitcase at his side. When he headed east, Quinn knew he was heading toward Penn Station. Quinn already had men there. He had men at Grand Central and all the bus and ferry terminals, too.

  Quinn let Ceretti get a good half a block or so ahead, then began to follow on his side of the street; in the shadows.

  At six feet, four inches tall and two hundred and ten pounds, Terry Quinn wasn’t supposed to be fast or quiet. Most didn’t realize he was both until it was too late.

  He had no problem keeping up with the much smaller man. Even in the darkness, Quinn knew these streets like the back of his hand, sidestepping all the cracks and holes in the sidewalk.

  Ceretti stayed in the streetlights along Thirty-First Street, like a rat scurrying along the base of a wall back to its hole.

  Quinn heard Ceretti’s rapid footsteps echo in the rain-soaked streets. Fatigue and panic would take hold. Soon, every step would sound like a whisper: Dead man. Dead man. Ceretti twitched around every few seconds to see if anyone was following him. He saw no one.

  Quinn navigated the darkness with ease.

  Ceretti wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. He searched desperately for a cab. But Quinn knew no cab would come. He’d ordered them to stay out of the area until further notice. Working for Archie Doyle had its privileges.

  Ceretti kept walking. Faster now, peering into alleys and side streets for signs of danger. The lonely sounds of Gotham drifted out of the darkness to greet him – vermin squealing in garbage cans, a dropped liquor bottle rolling along the pavement, cats screeching, mumbled voices, boozy snickering, a husband and wife yelling.

  And in this chorus of the night beat the constant, unnerving rhythm of Ceretti’s own steps on pavement. Dead man. Dead man.

  In the shadows, Quinn followed.

  Ceretti kept his head down as he ducked into Penn Station. He passed beneath the tall columns and imperious stone eagles that glared down with menace in their carved eyes. Quinn followed him in, but hung back even further now. He’d posted ten Doyle men throughout the station. Ceretti wasn’t going anywhere.

  Quinn watched Ceretti make a bee line for the ticket window and push cash across the marble ticket counter at the clerk.

  The drowsy old ticket seller handed him his ticket and his change.

  Quinn gave Ceretti a long leash now, letting him head to his train unwatched, his ticket to freedom in hand.

  Quinn stopped by the ticket window and leaned on the marble ledge. “What track, Mike?”

  The ticket seller’s sleepy expression didn’t change. “Track 88, pulling out in five minutes or so. Better hope he doesn’t get wise and look for it on the big board.”

  Quinn pulled an envelope from his coat and slid it beneath the ticket window. “Thanks. And Archie said you better not piss it all away on the ponies this time.”

  Mike snatched the envelope and put it beneath the counter, grumbling to himself as Quinn walked away.

  Quinn watched Ceretti walk faster now. The little man’s suitcase was almost as big as he was. Ceretti didn’t look up at the Departure Board. He didn’t look at fellow passengers. He didn’t look at anything. He just walked as quickly as he could to Track 88 and boarded the train at the first open car.

  Quinn hoped he wouldn’t have to search the whole damned train for him, when a window shade in the fifth car down got pulled down.

  Quinn hopped on board just as the train was pulling out of the station. He took his time, moving through the car to Ceretti’s cabin. It was the only one with the door closed and the shade pulled down.

  Quinn knew Ceretti was desperate and probably armed; a dangerous combination. He pulled the .45 from his shoulder holster and held it at his side. He rapped a knuckle on the glass and heard Ceretti stifle a scream.

  “Tickets,” Quinn said. “Tickets, please.”

  “Hold your horses,” Ceretti said on the other side of the door, half laughing, half crying. He was still smiling when he opened the door. “I’ve got it right...”

  The smile dropped faster than the ticket when Terry Quinn stepped forward and filled the doorway.

  Quinn shoved him hard back into the cabin, sending him bouncing off the wall onto the bench. “Going somewhere, Vinny?”

  Ceretti’s breath came in shallow spurts. He started to shake. The dark steel of Quinn’s .45 glinted in the dim compartment light. “Y...y...yeah. I’m heading to Chicago t-to see my m-m-mother. She’s sick.”

  “Since when did you have a mother,” Quinn said. “Word has it you’re quite the billiards fan these days.”

  Ceretti’s lower lip quivered. “H...h...how’d you find me?”

  “You set up one of Archie Doyle’s best friends to stop a bullet,” Quinn

  said. “He’s not the type to just let that kind of thing go.”

  Ceretti surprised Quinn by actually wagging his finger at him. “Now

  that’s a goddamned lie. I didn’t set up nobody for no shootin’! All I done was set up a lousy pool game between Fatty Corcoran and Johnny the Kid. That’s all I done! If I’da known there was lead involved, I’da steered clear of the whole thing and you know it.”

  Quinn kept his gun leveled at him. “Why’d you set up the game in the first place?”

  Ceretti swallowed hard. “Because some slick, son of a bitch came looking for me a couple of days ago. Bastard had a fancy white suit, white hat. Looked like one of them old plantation owners what runs coons and cotton down south. A real high-roller type. Said he was a gamblin’ man lookin’ to cash in on some action. W...w...when I asked him what kind, he says he’d heard Fatty Corcoran was one hell of a pool shark. He asked if Fatty had ever played a boy named Johnny the Kid.”

  Quinn didn’t buy it. “You didn’t think nothing of a stranger asking you to set up a pool game with Archie Doyle’s best friend and a
two bit pool punk?”

  “Sure, b...b...but when I asked him if he knew who Fatty Corcoran was, he said it didn’t matter,” Ceretti stammered. “Action was action and he heard he could make a lot of money booking side bets on a game like that. Said there was some extra coin in it for me if I could pull it off.”

  “Out of all the skels who could set up a game like that, he came to you?” Quinn asked. He aimed the pistol higher. “You’re lying, Vinny.”

  Ceretti threw up his hands. “H..h...he’d heard I knew Ira Shapiro and Ira is The Kid’s manager. Said he’d heard I knew Fatty from around and thought maybe I could put the game together if I wanted to. And he offered me five hundred to help me want to, plus a percentage on the action he got, so I put them together.”

  Quinn let out a low whistle. “Five hundred’s a lot of money for setting up a pool game, Vinny,” Quinn said. “You should’ve known something was up.” He raised the gun an inch or two. “And I think you did.”

  Ceretti balled up in the corner of the bench. He would’ve crawled through the wall if he could have. “Wait! He said I only got paid if I got Corcoran to show at Ames’ and I had to be at Ames’ to collect my money. So I set up the game, went to Ames’ and waited. When Fatty walked in, some guy slipped me my money from behind and told me not to turn around. I got the hell out of there and when I got to the street, I heard the shots. That’s all I know, Terry. I swear!”

  “Where’s the five hundred he gave you?”

  Ceretti pulled the wad out of his coat and handed it to Quinn. “There it is, Terry, just like I told you. Take it. It’s all yours.”

  Quinn yanked the money out of his hand and put it in his own overcoat pocket.

  “See that?” Ceretti said. “I’ve been on the level with you, ain’t I? Told you everything I know and even handed over the money. Didn’t even make a play for the heater I got in my belt.” He even smiled. “That’s gotta count for something, don’t it?”

  It didn’t. Quinn fired. One shot to the head. The smell of cordite filled the small compartment as Ceretti’s corpse slumped back; that stupid smile still on his face.

  A few minutes later, the train rolled to a halt at its destination. The Hudson Rail Yards off Thirtieth Street. Ceretti never had a chance.

  Quinn knew the cops wouldn’t break their ass investigating the murder of a two-bit hood found shot in the head in a deserted rail car in the train yard. Just like he knew none of the night watchmen patrolling the yard would remember seeing the large man in the black overcoat and fedora hop off the train or remember what direction he headed in.

  Because that’s how it was on that dark Manhattan morning, back in 1930.

  Back when Archie Doyle ran New York.

  QUINN HEARD Fatty Corcoran’s screams half a block away from the safe house on Twenty-third and Ninth. One of the boys guarding the front opened the door as Quinn jogged up the steps.

  The stairs and hallways and parlor were jammed with Doyle boys itching for orders to tear the city apart for the bastards who wanted Fatty Corcoran dead. The air was smoky and close and humid. It smelled like a locker room.

  All conversations stopped and all the men stood a little straighter when Terry Quinn walked through the door.

  And Quinn did not like what he saw.

  He spotted Sean Baker making his way to him through the crowd.

  Baker was a short, slight boy in his mid-twenties with sandy blonde hair and a quiet demeanor. He was tougher than he looked and was good at following orders. Quinn mostly relied on him for detail work, particularly around The Longford Lounge.

  “Glad you’re here,” Baker said. “Fatty’s been screaming and carrying on enough to wake the dead and....”

  But Quinn had other things on his mind. “Our number two guy just got hit and you’ve got half our crew bunched up in here like sitting ducks. One fire-bomb through the front window and we won’t have enough guys for a baseball game, much less a mob. Spread them out on the streets where they belong.”

  Baker started blinking fast like he always did when he got nervous. “I..I thought we should have them around to protect Archie if...”

  “Don’t think, Sean. Just do.”

  Another long Corcoran wail rose up from the basement, cutting through the thick air of the house. “Jesus,” Quinn cursed. “That’s Fatty?” “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Baker said. He led Quinn back through the kitchen where even more of the boys were camped out, busy playing cards or reading newspapers. Quinn got hot all over again. Baker should’ve known better than to have all these guys holed there. The fucking place was a massacre waiting to happen.

  “There wasn’t much blood when we first got Fatty here,” Baker continued, “so we figured it was a flesh wound. But when we cut the shirt off him, we saw another bullet lodged in his lower back.”

  Quinn knew back shots were tricky. It was better than getting gut shot, but not much. “Who’s working on him?”

  “Archie had me send some of the boys to fetch Doc Brownell. Found him, too. Drunk off his ass over at The Amber Room.”

  Baker pointed to two Doyle men tending to Doctor John Brownell. One held his head over the sink. The other stood behind him squeezing his stomach. The doctor moaned, wretched and vomited. Then the exercise was repeated.

  “We’ve been pouring coffee down his throat trying to sober him up, but no luck,” Baker explained. “Now we’re trying another way.”

  “That’ll just burn his throat and make him too sore to move,” Quinn said. He yelled over at the two men. “Dump him in an ice cold shower upstairs and pour water down his throat until he gags on it, then give him some more. That’ll flush the booze out of his system faster and with half the effort.”

  The two men looked at each other, shrugged, and did as they were told.

  Then Quinn realized something. “With the doc out of commission, who’s working on Fatty?”

  “Who do you think?” Baker shrugged. “Archie’s still has a knack for patching up guys.”

  Quinn stopped cold. “What the hell is Archie still doing here? I told you to get him upstate two hours ago.”

  Baker blinked. “H..he wouldn’t go until he knew Fatty was getting taken care of. Good thing, too, because when Brownell turned up tight, the boss h..h..had to work on Fatty himself.”

  Quinn pushed open the basement door and headed downstairs. The acrid stench of blood and sweat hit him hard and he fought the urge to gag. Quinn heard Corcoran wail again, then a commotion and muted groans, followed by a familiar bellow.

  “Hold him still, ya goddamned ninnies!” Archie Doyle hollered at the five men struggling to hold on to Corcoran’s thick arms and legs. “How the hell can I work on him if he’s flopping all over the damn table? Hold him fast! Donohue – keep that chloroform over his nose ‘til I say otherwise.”

  “But any more’ll kill him, boss,” Donohue said. “Any less and I’ll kill you,” Doyle retorted.

  Quinn had seen a lot in his thirty years. This was a first. Fatty Corcoran, all three hundred and forty pounds of him, lying on a butcher’s block that now served as a make-shift operating table. Corcoran was flat on his side as five of the strongest men in the Doyle mob – other than Quinn struggled to hold his arms and legs still. A naked, yellow bulb hanging from the low ceiling was the only light in the room, casting a harsh glow on the men wrestling to keep Corcoran alive despite himself.

  Quinn saw Doyle was getting the worst of it, struggling to prop up Fatty’s bulk with one hand while he fought to get a better look at the bleeding wound with the other. Doyle’s arms and undershirt were drenched in sweat and blood. His forehead was streaked red from numerous attempts to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  “I can’t find the bullet,” Doyle grunted as he tried to keep the large man on his side. “I don’t know if it hit anythin’ vital.”

  “Aw, come on, boss,” pleaded Jimmy Cain as he helped hold Corcoran down. Cain was Fatty’s most loyal boy. Quinn knew if Cain could’ve
changed places with Fatty, he would have. “They say you used to be good at puttin’ guys back together in the old days. You’ve just gotta help him out now.”

  “What does it look like I’m trying to do?” Doyle said as he strained to shoulder the large man further on his side. He took a thin steel rod from a bottle of whiskey on a shelf near the table. It looked to Quinn like the rods they used to clean the barrel of a Thompson. He saw Doyle’s hand shake ever so slightly before he slowly slid the long steel probe into the wound. By then, the chloroform and pain had finally knocked Corcoran out.

  Quinn watched Doyle’s eyes narrow as they darted back and forth, slipping the probe along the bullet’s path. Slowly, so as to not tear anything that wasn’t already bleeding and to feel the lead slug when he hit it. Quinn saw a bead of sweat run down Doyle’s nose. He inched the rod around gently, ever so gently, until – his eyes froze.

  A slow smile spread across his face. “There you are, you little bastard.” “What is it, boss?” Jimmy Cain asked, eagerly. “Did ya find the slug?” “I believe I did,” Doyle said, still probing. “Looks like it missed his kidney and veered off to the side.”

  “So he’s gonna to be okay?” Jimmy asked with wide, expectant eyes.

  Doyle removed the probe from the wound and tossed it on the table. He stuffed the wound with gauze and eased Fatty back down. “The fat bastard won’t be turning any cartwheels in the near term, but he’ll probably pull through.” All the men in the room gave a nervous laugh, the kind men give when they were looking for a reason to laugh.

  Then Doyle spotted Quinn at the stairs. “What’s doing with Doc Brownell?”

  Quinn said, “A couple of the boys are pouring him into a shower right now. They’ll bring him down as soon as he’s ready.”

  “And the hands of him will be tremblin’ like a kitten in a snowstorm,”

  Doyle said. He thumped the sleeping Corcoran on the shoulder. “Do we know of another man of medicine we can tap to take care of this poor creature?”

  “There’s a doc in The Foundling Hospital up the street,” Quinn said. “He’s into us for a couple of grand. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind working off some of that nut by lending a hand with Fatty.”