Prohibition (31 page)

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.

Halloran recovered and began stomping at Quinn’s wounded side, his aim incredibly accurate. Pain exploded in Quinn’s side. The roar of his own blood rushing in his head drowned out his screams.

Quinn refused to let himself black out. He reached back and fumbled with the door latch. It opened and he spilled out onto the ground.

The freezing night air hurt his lungs, but it kept him from passing out.

Halloran launched himself out of the car with a primordial scream; his face was a broken red mask of blood. Quinn brought up his knees into Halloran’s stomach and flipped the big man over him. The sudden added weight of Halloran’s bulk was like a spear going through his side. He cried out again and rolled on his side to dull the pain.

Despite the agony, Quinn knew he had to get to his feet. He was weaker than he thought and fell to one knee. The blood from the new cuts from the glass trickled into his eyes, blinding him.

Halloran connected with a roundhouse uppercut beneath the chin, sending Quinn back against the car. Quinn swung blindly at where he thought the cop should be, but hit nothing but air.

He heard Halloran laughing. Quinn swung at the place where the sound came from, but missed again.

Halloran belted him with a left cross to the jaw. “Got something in your eye, Precious?” He followed up with a right deep to the gut that brought Quinn to his knees.

“I’ve gotta admit I was wrong, though,” Halloran chuckled. “I thought putting a bullet in your brain was going to feel good. But this? This is even better.”

Quinn knew the bastard would beat him to death if he didn’t do something. He heard the dirt in front of him shift and he wondered if Halloran had just stepped closer.

Quinn fired a straight jab that caught Halloran square in the balls.

Halloran wheezed as he doubled over and staggered back. Quinn followed it up a blind uppercut that connected with Halloran’s nose or jaw. Quinn couldn’t see where it landed, but heard that crunch of bone meeting bone.

Quinn fell back against the car and slid to the ground. He didn’t know if he’d knocked Halloran out, but he knew he’d hurt him. And if the big bastard came back after him, so be it. Quinn didn’t have enough left in the tank to fight him off.

He hurt in too many places to care anymore. He welcomed the darkness that slowly enveloped him, taking away his pain.

Q
UINN DIDN’T
know how long he’d been out.

He tried opening his eyes, but the blood from his head had caked over the eyelids. He could see just enough to know he wasn’t blind. He didn’t know if he’d been out for five seconds or five hours, but he knew it wasn’t dawn yet.

He was still leaning against the car where he’d fallen. He used it to help him get to his feet. He felt along the car until he found the rear door. He went in the back seat and fumbled along the floor until he found Halloran’s flask. He opened it and poured the rest of the rum over his head. It stung like hell, but would kill off infection.

He rubbed some of the rum over his eyelids and flaked off the blood. They still stung, but at least he could see.

The first thing he saw was Big Jim Halloran’s dead eyes gazing up at him. His head lolled over to the side.

From the looks of it, Quinn had hit him hard enough to send his nose up into his brain.

Lucky shot for Quinn. Not so lucky for Halloran.

Quinn rummaged through the dead cop’s pockets. He found Halloran’s cigarettes and lit one. He took the smoke deep into his lungs. The tobacco dulled Quinn’s many pains.

Quinn knew he was worse off now than he’d been in the car ride out there.

He flexed his stiffening hands. His knuckles scarred and bloodied. He didn’t think anything was broken, but they’d be sore as hell for at least a week. The hole in his side hurt like hell, but it hadn’t bled as much as Quinn had feared. The cuts on his head weren’t deep, but he’d probably need stitches. That meant a doctor. Even doctors on the payroll asked questions and he was in no position to give answers. Now he not only had Wallace still on the loose. He had a dead cop on his hands. A cop he’d killed.

Quinn had done all of this to try to save Doyle’s empire. Now he realized that empire was beyond saving. Yes, Rothman and Sanders and Shapiro were dead but that didn’t help Archie. He was still alive and Wallace’s employers – whoever they were – would still want him gone. Younger, hungrier gangs – probably Sally Lucania and the other Italians - would rise to take Archie’s place. Pretty soon, they’d probably want their own mayor running things.

No matter how Quinn cut it, The Doyle Era was over.

Quinn thought about going back and wiping out Wallace, but figured the little shit had probably cleared out of his hotel room five minutes after Quinn and Halloran left.

And Quinn had a dead cop at his feet. A crooked cop, sure, but still a cop.

Quinn took a deep drag on his cigarette and looked down at Halloran’s corpse. Son of a bitch was just as much trouble dead as he’d been alive. Quinn knew Doherty might’ve been crooked, but he was at heart a decent man. He wouldn’t stop looking for his partner’s killer until he found him.

Quinn flicked his cigarette into the Gowanus Canal. He was beginning to think he would’ve been better off letting Halloran put a bullet in his brain and dumping him in the canal. In many ways, Halloran was better off than he was.

And that’s when it hit him.

What if Halloran had killed him after all?

Quinn remembered Halloran talking about the satchel in the car and having enough money to blow town with. Quinn went back to the car and opened it, finding about ten grand in cash and the five hundred dollars in the white envelope Wallace had thrown him.

Quinn hated to admit it, but Halloran was right. It was enough for a new start.

Quinn went back to Halloran’s body and emptied the pockets on the ground. He found Halloran’s badge, police identification card, drivers’ license and house keys. He flicked on the headlights of the car and picked up the police identification card. Halloran’s ugly mug stared back at him.

Thin lips. Lantern jaw. Ugly bastard.

Just like Quinn.

Sure, Quinn was thirty pounds lighter and a bit taller than Halloran, but the resemblance was close enough.

Quinn put his own wallet and license in Halloran’s jacket pocket.

He searched the warehouse yard and found a length of thick rope and an old hunk of metal that looked like it had been part of an anchor at one time.

Quinn smiled. His luck was starting to change.

He tied one end of the rope around the piece of anchor. He tied the other end around Halloran’s ankle. He pushed the anchor over the side and watched it pull Halloran’s body down with it.

The Gowanus Canal had been a cesspool since the 1880s and had almost fifty years of sewage, garbage and debris floating through it. It was a safe bet no one would come out to check up on Halloran’s work. Even if they did, the muck in the water went to work on a body almost immediately.

All anyone would find would be Quinn’s identification in the pockets of a rotting corpse.

Quinn pocketed Halloran’s badge and ID. He found his black fedora on the floor of the front seat and put it on.

The day before, Terry Quinn had been made the boss of New York.

Today, he became James Halloran. Detective, New York Police Department.

What a difference a day makes.

Quinn knew Wallace might want to tie up loose ends by killing Halloran. The key word there was might. Wallace and every cop in the NYPD would be out to get Terry Quinn. Becoming Halloran wasn’t perfect, but nothing in Quinn’s life ever was.

Quinn knew if he was going to survive, he’d have to get out of town.

Fast.

He tossed the satchel on the passenger seat next to him and started up the car. With Halloran’s stash, plus the money he’d stashed in his safe and everything else he’d saved up over the years, he’d be blowing town with a good chunk of change. More than most people made in a couple of years.

Not bad for a fugitive ex-boxer with no brains to speak of. A man could live a long time on a bankroll like that if he was careful. And Quinn had always thought of himself as a careful man.

Quinn started the engine and put the car in gear.

He thought about swinging by Alice’s place and asking her to come along. She’d blamed Doyle for all of their problems. Now that he was on his own, maybe they could have a chance. She’d sure make life on the run a lot easier to take.

But he knew a girl like her would slow him down and make it harder for him to blend in. He’d have a tough enough time doing that on his own twilight. without her tagging along.

He wouldn’t admit he loved her too much to put her in that much danger. He didn’t dare.

Maybe in a year or so he’d send for her. She might even come.

As Quinn drove over the Brooklyn Bridge, he caught an eyeful of lower Manhattan. The tall buildings looked regal against the brightening darkness of the late night, early morning sky. It was twilight time again.

Magic time.

His time.

Quinn gunned the engine and sped across the deserted bridge, into the twilight.

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