a dumb kid who got caught up in the middle of something he didn’t understand. And, despite his reputation, Quinn didn’t like killing people just for the hell of it. Murder could become an easy solution for most problems. Murder could become a habit and habits made you sloppy. Sloppy got you killed.
Quinn had enough bad habits already.
Johnny the Kid deserved a chance for something more than the Life.
Something better. Quinn had blown his chances for something more. The Life was all he had left.
It was all he really wanted and he damned himself for it.
Q UINN KNEW he had to get to a phone and call Doyle. There was probably a payphone in the drugstore across the street, but it was closed.
There were some speakeasies around, but this was the east side. They were all Rothman’s dives. Word about Shapiro would be getting around. He had to get back to the west side and fast.
Quinn decided to drive back home to the Longford Lounge and call Doyle from there. He knew Doyle would be sore at first, but The Kid’s information on the man in the white suit made it almost worth it. Find him, find why Fatty took a bullet.
Quinn’s pocket watch said it was past three-thirty in the morning, that uneasy, undefined part of the day that was no longer dark enough to be night, but not bright enough to be morning. The back end of twilight. The prelude to dawn. Quinn loved this time of day. It defied exact definition and rules.
Ambiguity had always been a close friend of his.
He stayed alert as he walked back to his car. Rothman might already have some boys on the prowl looking to even the score for Shapiro. But the only thing he heard was the creaky wheels of a horse drawn milk wagon on its way to the warehouse to pick up its first shipment of the day.
When Quinn turned the corner off Third Avenue, he saw two men in long overcoats lingering in the middle of the block near his car. The much bigger one was standing next to the streetlight near his Roadster.
The shorter of the two was leaning against the hood of the car. Hat pushed back high on his head, smoke from his cigarette drifted up, mingling with the light from the street lamp. Both men looked at him as he got closer. He recognized them by their shapes before he ever saw their faces.
“Evening, Detective Doherty,” Quinn said to the man leaning against his car. He looked at the larger man. “How’s it going, Halloran? Ready for another day of swiping apples from guinea push carts?”
Detective ‘Big Jim’ Halloran lived up to his name. He was Quinn’s size, but a few years older and a few inches softer around the middle. His long, lantern jaw set on edge and his, thin lips grew thinner. “Not yet, wise guy, but I know an old maid who’s gonna get her lights put out if she keeps running her mouth like that.”
“Don’t mind my partner,” Doherty said. “He’s not used to being up this late. He’s kinda cranky.”
Charlie Doherty might’ve had a hangdog look, but his eyes were anything but lazy. His short cropped hair was graying at the temples. His face bore the lines of a man who’d witnessed a lifetime of human frailty and degradation. He had the air of a man who took everything in stride because there was very little in this world that surprised Doherty any longer. It was tough not to like Charlie Doherty.
He’d also been on Archie’s payroll longer than Quinn. Going on ten years or more. But just like O’Hara, Quinn knew Doherty was still a cop. And he still had a job to do.
“You criminal types caused quite a ruckus tonight,” Doherty said. “Chief Carmichael’s banging the war drum pretty hard.”
“How is Andy these days?” Quinn asked. “Haven’t seen him around the club house in a while. Tell him Archie misses his company.”
“Save the malarkey for your customers,” Halloran advised. “What’re you doing on this side of town?”
Quinn didn’t mind cops, not even crooked cops. But cops like Halloran were thugs who were too
Quinn had enough bad habits already.
Johnny the Kid deserved a chance for something more than the Life.
Something better. Quinn had blown his chances for something more. The Life was all he had left.
It was all he really wanted and he damned himself for it.
Q UINN KNEW he had to get to a phone and call Doyle. There was probably a payphone in the drugstore across the street, but it was closed.
There were some speakeasies around, but this was the east side. They were all Rothman’s dives. Word about Shapiro would be getting around. He had to get back to the west side and fast.
Quinn decided to drive back home to the Longford Lounge and call Doyle from there. He knew Doyle would be sore at first, but The Kid’s information on the man in the white suit made it almost worth it. Find him, find why Fatty took a bullet.
Quinn’s pocket watch said it was past three-thirty in the morning, that uneasy, undefined part of the day that was no longer dark enough to be night, but not bright enough to be morning. The back end of twilight. The prelude to dawn. Quinn loved this time of day. It defied exact definition and rules.
Ambiguity had always been a close friend of his.
He stayed alert as he walked back to his car. Rothman might already have some boys on the prowl looking to even the score for Shapiro. But the only thing he heard was the creaky wheels of a horse drawn milk wagon on its way to the warehouse to pick up its first shipment of the day.
When Quinn turned the corner off Third Avenue, he saw two men in long overcoats lingering in the middle of the block near his car. The much bigger one was standing next to the streetlight near his Roadster.
The shorter of the two was leaning against the hood of the car. Hat pushed back high on his head, smoke from his cigarette drifted up, mingling with the light from the street lamp. Both men looked at him as he got closer. He recognized them by their shapes before he ever saw their faces.
“Evening, Detective Doherty,” Quinn said to the man leaning against his car. He looked at the larger man. “How’s it going, Halloran? Ready for another day of swiping apples from guinea push carts?”
Detective ‘Big Jim’ Halloran lived up to his name. He was Quinn’s size, but a few years older and a few inches softer around the middle. His long, lantern jaw set on edge and his, thin lips grew thinner. “Not yet, wise guy, but I know an old maid who’s gonna get her lights put out if she keeps running her mouth like that.”
“Don’t mind my partner,” Doherty said. “He’s not used to being up this late. He’s kinda cranky.”
Charlie Doherty might’ve had a hangdog look, but his eyes were anything but lazy. His short cropped hair was graying at the temples. His face bore the lines of a man who’d witnessed a lifetime of human frailty and degradation. He had the air of a man who took everything in stride because there was very little in this world that surprised Doherty any longer. It was tough not to like Charlie Doherty.
He’d also been on Archie’s payroll longer than Quinn. Going on ten years or more. But just like O’Hara, Quinn knew Doherty was still a cop. And he still had a job to do.
“You criminal types caused quite a ruckus tonight,” Doherty said. “Chief Carmichael’s banging the war drum pretty hard.”
“How is Andy these days?” Quinn asked. “Haven’t seen him around the club house in a while. Tell him Archie misses his company.”
“Save the malarkey for your customers,” Halloran advised. “What’re you doing on this side of town?”
Quinn didn’t mind cops, not even crooked cops. But cops like Halloran were thugs who were too
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