Prohibition by Terrence McCauley Page A

and Shapiro, who backed Johnny the Kid. It stands to reason that Wallace had also hired Zito to shoot Fatty. He could’ve just been what he claimed to be: a sporting man who wanted to bet on a pool game. But it was an awfully big coincidence that Fatty happened to get shot during that game. And like Doyle had taught him, coincidences were bullshit.
    Zito said he didn’t know who hired him. Quinn knew he shouldn’t believe him, but he did. Finding Wallace was the key. At the least, he was mixed up in this some how. At the most, he’d planned it. Quinn would worry about why later. For now, one thing mattered: finding Simon Wallace.
    Behind all of this loomed Doyle’s mystery project. It was important enough to worry Doyle and that worried Quinn. Archie never got rattled and he didn’t exaggerate. Whatever it was must be pretty big. The faster Quinn found out who shot Fatty and why, the better Archie would sleep at night. He wished Guinan had known where the bastard lived; life would’ve been much easier.
    Quinn knew Doyle’s organization had over a hundred guns on the street and a small army of snitches who’d sell out their mother for a cigarette. One word to them, they’d tear the city apart looking for Wallace. But the cops would kick up a storm and Archie couldn’t afford that kind of trouble.
    Quinn could look for Wallace himself, but ten different people would give him ten different answers. No one would admit they didn’t know where Wallace lived. He’d waste the whole day.
    So Quinn made a phone call instead. Time for Detective Doherty to start earning his keep.
    When Doherty came to the phone, Quinn said, “I need you to start asking around about a guy named Simon Wallace.”
    He heard Doherty write the name down. “He the shooter?”
    “No, but he might be involved,” Quinn explained. “I don’t know exactly how, but his name keeps popping up. I could have my boys look for him, but I know that wouldn’t end well.”
    “You’re a lot of things, Terry, but dumb isn’t one of them,” Doherty admitted. “I’ll get the word out and swing by the Lounge tonight. Let you know what I find.”
    Quinn hung up the phone and went back in bed. Let Doherty’s people look for Wallace. He’d pay them a nice finder’s fee and get the chance to question them himself. His mind raced, thinking of all the angles. Who was Wallace? Was he even involved? What was his beef with Fatty?
    His mind sought answers. His body craved sleep more. The darkness of his mind rose up and enveloped him.
     
    A FTER A good sleep, Quinn got dressed for work. He wore a midnight blue tuxedo, silk bow tie, matching cummerbund. And the .45, of course, but the jacket had been tailored to conceal his holster.
    Alice always told him the tuxedo made him look more intimidating than usual. She liked the way the tuxedo jacket showed the lines of his shoulders and how the starched collar made his neck look even thicker than it already was. She liked his hair when it was slicked straight back and how it showed off his dark eyes.
    Quinn knew she was sneaking into his thoughts again. He reminded himself she’s just a distraction. He pushed her memory away. Tonight wasn’t the time for romance.
    It was closer to six o’clock by the time Quinn got to his perch atop the elevated dining area of The Longford Lounge. Normally this was the best part of his day, watching the swaying crowd of revelers drinking and dancing the night away. A couple of fat cats at the bar were treating a client to steaks and martinis. A couple of loud rich boys made passes at a cigarette girl.
    Wendell Bixby, nursed a Manhattan at the far end of the bar. The New York American’s star gossip columnist was listening to a pretty young blonde whispering in his ear. Quinn figured Bixby was pumping her for dirt for the next day’s column. The scribbler was always looking for the skinny. He paid well for it, too. Times were tough and there was no shortage of people lining up to