Prohibition by Terrence McCauley

Fatty dead. Besides, I’ve got big plans for you.” He tossed the empty gun to Zito, then looked at the clock on the wall. 8:20 AM. “Do you know where the Chauncey Arms is?”
    Zito began pulling on some clothes. “Thirty-ninth and ninth?” “Twenty-ninth and ninth,” Quinn repeated. “It ain’t The Algonquin, but your employers will never find you there if they come looking. Ask for Joey, the manager. Tell him I sent you and he’ll set you up fine. Stay there until I call for you. And don’t get any ideas about rabbitting on me.” Quinn held up the sack. “You’ll get this back when all this is over.”
    He took Zito’s .45 from his pocket, ejected the magazine left it on the
    table. “You’re going to need this; the shotgun, too. I’ll call you personally when I need you. If someone else calls saying I told them to call you, hang up and get the hell out of there. If they come knocking at the door ...” He looked at the shotgun, then at Zito. “You’ll know what to do.”
    Quinn picked up the duffel bag and headed for the door.
    “Why are you doing this for me,” Zito asked, “after what I did to Mr.
    Corcoran?”
    Quinn paused half way out the door. “Someone’s running a game on you, just like they’re running a game on Archie. And when I find out who they are, I’m going to make them pay.”
    “I don’t like people using me, mister. When you need me, I’ll be ready.” Quinn closed the door behind him and bounded down the stairs, past the rats and the street vendors. And none of them bothered to look his way.

I T WAS close to noon by the time Quinn got back to his apartment above the Longford Lounge. He was dizzy from the lack of sleep.
    The apartment was empty, but he could tell Alice had been there. The rumpled bed sheets outlined where she’d slept. The air still smelled of her: cheap gin and that tonic she used to keep her hair flat. She always said it smelled like honey. He thought it smelled like hair tonic and it gave him a headache. Images came to him– her long white neck, the way her...
    Quinn shook it off. She wasn’t his girl. She wasn’t his friend. She was a goddamned distraction and he had no time for distractions.
    He pulled up the corner of the red rug in the middle of the room. He removed a cut out panel from the floor and opened the combination lock of the floor safe beneath it. He put in Zito’s money for safe keeping. If Zito played along, he’d get his money back. The trouble was Quinn didn’t know what game they were playing yet. But he had a feeling he’d figure it out soon enough.
    He’d been wearing the same clothes for the past two days. He tossed his shoulder holster on the bed, peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot water beat down on his neck and shoulders. The water felt good on his sore hands. Ira’s punks might’ve been soft, but they had hard heads.
    He shut off the water and toweled off. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Alice had once told him he was so ugly, he was handsome. She liked to trace his scars and ask about them.
    A knife fight with Richie Dago had left him with a purple six-inch scar that stretched from his stomach to his ribs. His right shoulder was still a bit out of joint from the wicked left hook he’d caught from Big John Genet in The Garden back in ‘25. The left shoulder had been separated when he burst through a door looking for Brody and the money he owed Archie. Quinn’s nose had been busted more times than he could count. His jaw too.
    He smiled at his reflection. Alice was right. If ugly was handsome, Terry Quinn was beautiful.
    Quinn stretched out naked on his king-sized bed. Some of Alice’s body heat was still in the sheets and it relaxed him.
    He wanted to sleep, but his mind was too crowded. Too busy. He started piecing together everything he’d learned instead.
    Wallace paid Ceretti to set up the game with Fatty Corcoran. Wallace knew Rothman