Prohibition (30 page)

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

H
ALLORAN 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 the 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.