And short enough for him to ask Quinn to find out why.
The dive was off an alley on 14th Street run by Lady Madeline and her husband, a hophead named Joey. The place was a pit, but it had always made good coin. Lady Madeline and Joey had never had problems making Doyle’s payments before.
So Doyle had Quinn do some digging. He checked around and found out that the place was busier than ever, especially since Doyle gave them the okay to start selling booze. His booze, of course. The take being off meant someone was getting greedy. And stupid.
People didn’t steal from Doyle very often, but when they did, it was up to Quinn to find out why and to put a stop to it. One way or the other.
Hence the dead guy in the trunk.
Quinn hadn’t meant to kill him. If the little son of a bitch had kicked loose with the information earlier, he would’ve still been alive. Instead, the man decided to play it tough. It took Quinn almost two nights to break him, and in the end the little punk died anyway. A bum heart. A bad break.
Normally, Archie would’ve let him dump the body somewhere public, a place where someone would find him. Word would hit the street even before the cops showed up to remove the body. The story would’ve run in all the papers and the message would’ve been loud and clear: Steal from Archie Doyle and see what happens.
Example made. Problem solved.
But this time, Archie didn’t just want to solve a problem. This time, he wanted to make a statement that would show the other Lady Madelines and Joeys in Doyle’s empire what happens to people who steal from him.
And it was up to Quinn to make that statement loud and clear.
Quinn hated statements. Because statements had a way of getting awfully complicated awfully fast, especially where dead bodies were involved.
Complicated as in a random car stop by the cops in the middle of the night.
Quinn didn’t like it, but Doyle didn’t ask his opinion. Doyle paid him to do what he was told and that’s exactly what he was going to do. Archie wanted to make a statement and Quinn was going to see that he did.
Loud and clear.
Tonight.
He parked the Plymouth across the street from Lady Madeline’s and left it there. He tossed the keys down by the pedals, like they’d simply dropped out of someone’s pocket.
His watch told him it was a bit after one in the morning. He craved sleep, but he still had work to do.
He put half a block between him and the Plymouth and spent the next half-hour in a doorway, chain-smoking while he eyeballed the alley leading to Lady M’s joint across the street. At a few inches over six feet tall and two hundred pounds, Quinn stood out in a crowd, but the doorway was a good spot: just enough shadow to keep anyone from seeing him while he waited for his signal to come over.
As big as he was, he never walked into a place without looking it over first. Especially a two-bit clip-joint like Lady M’s.
The scene matched what he’d been told. Foot traffic in and out of the alley was heavy-too heavy for a place on the downswing. Too heavy for Lady M’s tribute to Doyle to be so light.
It was almost one-thirty when he saw Otis Rae, the dive’s piano player, come outside and light a cigarette at the curb.
That was the cue he’d been waiting for.
He pushed his fatigue aside. Time to go to work.
He jogged through traffic against the light as he crossed the street. Some cars stopped short, but no one cursed at him. No one honked their horn, either.
Because you just didn’t honk at Terry Quinn.
Otis shook his head as he reached the sidewalk. At 5’3”, the Negro was a foot shorter than Quinn, but had a heavyweight’s attitude.
“After all the shit you been through,” Otis said, “that’s how you’ll die. Flattened by a Studebaker in front of a shithouse like this.”
“Next time I’ll wait for you to come carry me across.”
Otis took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Be a long goddamned wait ‘fore that happens.”
Quinn nodded back to ward the alley. “Looks like you’re doing some business. Hell of a crowd from what I’ve seen.”
“No different than any other night lately.” Otis looked around before saying, “Glad your boss finally got wise to that.”
Otis had been the first one Quinn had called when Doyle realized his take was off. And Otis confirmed business had been good and steady. “Archie appreciates your loyalty. He won’t forget it.”
Otis shrugged. “Just don’t go bustin’ up my piano while you’re in there. A man’s gotta make a livin’ and that piano’s my livin’.”
“This is just a social call. No rough stuff, I promise.”
Otis looked him up and down. “Your social calls got a way of gettin’ awfully un-social pretty goddamned fast.”
Quinn broke into a full-blown smile. The piano player knew him too well. “Madeline back in her office?”
Otis nodded. “That’s why I signaled you to come over. And she ain’t alone, neither.”
“That so? Joey with her?”
Otis shook his head. “Haven’t seen him for three days or more, but she’s got some gentlemen callers back there with her tonight. Couple of society fellas by the looks of ‘em. White boys in tuxedos. Stiff collars and soft bellies. You know the type.”
He did. “Anyone else?”
“A boy named Carmine. Don’t know his last name, but he’s one of Howard Rothmann’s boys. Been hangin’ round here with Madeline and Joey on and off for the past month or so.”
Quinn knew all about Carmine. His last name was Rizzo and he was smart and tough. A rare combination for a Rothmann goon.
Quinn tucked a twenty into the piano player’s shirt pocket as he headed down the alley. “Thanks, Otis. I’ll be gentle as a lamb, I promise.”
Otis grunted as he flicked the ash from his cigarette into the gutter. “Where’ve I heard that one before?”
The doormen saw Quinn coming and stood aside.
Lady Madeline’s dive was a gambling joint first and foremost and had never tried to be anything else. Bare floors and bare walls. Chipped paint and dim lighting. Uneven wooden floors that popped and groaned beneath his feet as he walked inside.
The place hummed with busy gambling sounds. Murmurs and cheers and groans. The sounds of chips clicking and dice tumbling and the roulette ball skipping along the grooves of the wheel. The air was humid with stale smoke and sweat.
Otis’s upright piano was against the far wall and was usually played when the place got quiet, which wasn’t too often. The pit bosses doubled as bouncers and kept their eyes on everyone and everything. The tables, the gamblers and, of course, the money. Always the money. The bosses all knew Quinn and knew enough to leave him alone.
Every inch of the place was dedicated to gambling-blackjack, poker, roulette, craps. And every table had dozens of eager gamblers crowded around, waiting for a spot to open up. Waiting for Lady Luck to come whisper in their ear.
The place didn’t have a proper bar because all of Doyle’s gambling dens had a motto: No bar, no bullshit. Just gambling. Lady M’s was one of the few places in Doyle’s operation where you could get a drink if you were at one of the tables. And even then, one of the girls went to the back and got it for you.
If you weren’t gambling, you weren’t drinking. Simple as that. And if you got too sloppy, you got cut off and thrown out. If you complained, you were never allowed to come back. It kept the nonsense down to a minimum, which kept the cops happy.
Quinn edged his way through the crowd of gamblers, toward the back room that Lady Madeline called her office. He didn’t have to push too hard. Everyone saw him coming and edged out of his way.