THUGLIT Issue One - страница 20

“At long as he doesn’t attack some other woman,” I mused.

“He won’t do that,” Jake muttered.

That made me frown, but he didn’t say anything else and I let the matter drop. I fell asleep somewhere over the Midwest, and when I did, I dreamt I was back in Mrs. Carlow’s house.

“What are you doing in here?” she snapped at me, just as she had in real life. I was in her bedroom, standing in front of her dresser. There were framed photos there, of her dead husband and her children, and one of Mrs. Carlow herself before she was Mrs. anything.

“Nothing,” I said, brushing past her and walking down the hall, turning into the bathroom. My heart was racing as I locked the door. I opened my hand and saw the earrings in my palm. There was a beautiful black bird sitting in the open window, and I dropped the pearls into her mouth. Then magpie flew away until she was just a distant dot on the horizon, getting as far from that place as fast as she could.

NEW YORK CITY

1928

Quinn’s mouth went dry when he saw the green and white squad car in his rearview mirror. The red spotlight flashing, but no siren.

Normally, getting pulled over by the cops was a simple inconvenience. Most of them were on Archie Doyle’s payroll anyway. Just like Quinn.

But that night was different. Because the Plymouth that hewas driving was stolen.

And there was a dead man in the trunk.

Dead men in trunks of stolen cars and cops don’t mix. Even cops on the take have limits on what they’ll ignore. This wasn’t Chicago; it was New York.

He thought about taking a hard right turn and flooring it; disappearing into traffic. He might’ve even gotten away. But he decided to try talking his way out of it instead. He took his foot off the gas and eased the Plymouth over toward the right side of Houston Street.

He was surprised when the squad car sped past him heading west. They hadn’t been looking to pull him over after all. They’d just wanted him to get out of their way.

The cop in the passenger seat leaned out the window and gave him a big wave. A beat cop named O’Hara-one of Archie’s boys from before they passed Volstead eight years prior. Quinn waved back and began to breathe again.

At the next red light, he lit a cigarette and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. The tobacco revved his nerves and gave him the kick he needed to stay awake. He needed all the help he could get.

Hefelt dried out and hungover, like he was on the fifth day of a four-day bender. It wasn’t from too much booze or too many late nights on the town. It was from a lack of sleep, courtesy of the dead bastard in the trunk.

It had all started a few days before, when Doyle had realized the take from one of his gambling dives had been short-very short-every week for the past month. Doyle hadn’t told Quinn how short, but short enough to get Doyle’s attention.

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 Quinndo 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.

Quinnhadn’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.