THUGLIT Issue One - страница 22

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.

He was surprised to find the door wasn’t locked. He pushed it in and found himself in the middle of a party.

Madeline was lounging on her couch with a glass of champagne, her boozy cackle filling the small room. She was surrounded by the three men Otis had described-two boys in tuxedoes on her left and Carmine Rizzo seated on her right. Carmine’s back was to the wall.

They all stopped laughing when they saw Terry Quinn was standing in the doorway.

Rizzo looked more alert than scared and kept his hands on his lap. In plain sight and no sudden movements. Carmine was a smart boy indeed.

The other two in the tuxes weren’t so smart. Quinn judged them both to be in their early twenties and of the well-bred, over-fed variety. Big on money and short on sense.

The one on the couch next to Lady M was the smaller of the two. Skinnier and blonder than his friend, with pink skin and scared blue eyes that darted back and forth between Quinn and Lady M.

But the other tux wasn’t so docile. He slowly got up from his chair and, judging by the way he was swaying, he was more than a bit drunk. He was a broad, dark-haired kid with mean, reckless eyes. Quinn pegged him as a prep school bully who’d been a tough guy at Yale or Princeton. But there was softness about him, a softness that only a life of money could bring.

A softness Quinn had never had.

One of Lady M’s loud, boozy snickers broke the tension. She was twenty years past pretty and had never been much of a looker to begin with. Her face and skin had the ruddy tinge that comes from too many years of too much gin and not enough sunlight. She was wearing a slinky black cocktail dress that a thin young woman would’ve had trouble wearing well. Lady M was neither thin nor young and hadn’t been either for a very long time.

“Well, well, well,” she cackled, “if it ain’t my old pal Quinn.” She slapped Rizzo on the knee. “You know who Terry Quinn is, don’t you, Carmine?”

“Sure.” Carmine’s hands were still flat on his lap. “Everybody knows him. How’s every little thing, Terry?”