Prohibition by Terrence McCauley Page B

give it to him.
    Prohibition had turned the place into a gold mine and the Crash only seemed to help business. Bread lines grew longer by the day. Dozens of speakeasies and nightclubs had closed all over the city since the stock market tanked a few months before. The Lounge was one of the few truly swanky places south of Harlem still open. On any given night, customers might see William Powell, Fay Wray, Jean Arthur, Gary Cooper, Babe Ruth sipping Side Cars, martinis or Old Fashions.
    The nightly receipts proved the casino in the basement was the real draw. As poor as people were, they always found enough money for another spin of the wheel or the roll of the dice. Lady Luck was always just one card away. Blackjack, poker, craps and roulette. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
    The band finished their number and the bandleader introduced a new performer to the stage: Miss Alice Mulgrew.
    Quinn didn’t know she was part of the show. He tried to get Fred Deavers’ eye to find out what the hell was going on, but he was busy handling the crowd at the front door.
    The Lounge patrons applauded as the spotlight hit her and she smiled her crooked smile. The sequins of her nude colored cocktail dress caught the smoky light. She almost glowed. Her hair was no longer platinum blonde, but black. Short, silky and smooth. Her lips were as red as her skin was white and the dress showed off every curve of her body.
    The crowd hushed and every eye in the place was on her.
    Her eyes skipped over the crowd as the band warmed up. When they settled on Quinn, all thoughts of Wallace and Shapiro and Fatty Corcoran went right out the window. He took another drag and told himself it was just the dress and the lighting. But when she went into her song, he couldn’t help but smile. Someone to Watch Over Me.
    He’d told her it was his favorite song the last time they’d gone to bed together.
    Alice wasn’t a great singer, but she could sell a song better than most. Her throaty voice gave the lyrics that extra melancholy that always got to Quinn.
    And Alice knew it.
    He had to remind himself again that she was just a distraction.
    Quinn was surprised to see Frank Sanders limping his way up the stairs toward him. Even though Archie had given him control over Washington Heights and Inwood, Sanders looked more like a dock worker than a crime boss. He was a fifty year old flat-faced, chinless Irishman with sad eyes and a sour expression. He always wore a rumpled brown suit, brown tie and a beat up brown fedora plopped on his head.
    Quinn had heard all the war stories of when Fatty, Sanders and Doyle were breaking legs for the Dead Rabbits years before. Doyle always said it just as easily could’ve been Sanders’ mob if Frank had wanted it bad enough. But Frank seemed content with running his pool halls and speakeasies, taxi concessions and numbers games up in northern Manhattan.
    “Archie sent for me,” Sanders said, skipping the pleasantries. “Some kind of pow-wow he wants with me and Walker tonight.”
    Archie hadn’t told Quinn about any meeting with Sanders and Mayor Walker. Then again, it was his place. He didn’t have to tell Quinn anything.
    “Any word on the bastard what shot the fat man?” Sanders asked. Quinn already had Zito under wraps and that’s where he was going to stay. If people knew he had him, they’d want to know where he was. Best to keep that to himself, even from Archie.
    “I hear it’s some clown named Carmine Zito,” Quinn offered. “But keep that to yourself. The cops are afraid of a war breaking out and I don’t blame them. I’ve got some people running him down now.”
    “Keep looking,” Sanders said. “We need to hang that bastard by his balls. You got my message about Johnny? He never showed. Neither did the cab.”
    That struck Quinn as strange. “The cab too?” Now Quinn knew Johnny must be dead. “Anyone find them yet?”
    “No, but we’re looking. I bet Rothman grabbed him out of revenge for