32

JACK MCMANUS CHECKED his men. One was dead, the other dying. He put a bullet through the man’s head just to be certain and took his wallet as he had the other’s. It took him no more than twenty seconds. He left their cannons, neither of which were any damn good. He did grab the Colt automatic though, as neat a piece of iron as he’d ever seen. He looked closely at Mike’s body, making sure.

“Din’ think youse was so stupid ta come back alone,” Jack said. “Big mistake, palsey.” He put the automatic to Mike’s head. Mike didn’t appear to be breathing, but Jack liked to be certain. A police whistle stopped him. It might have been just a block away, hard to be sure in city streets but it was surely time to go. He ran into the night.

Once he turned the next corner, he settled into a fast walk, not wanting to draw attention. He wished he’d had time to pop his mark again, but if the pool of blood under his head was any indicator, it would’ve been a waste of lead. He headed back toward the Bottler’s, where he’d have plenty of intimidated witnesses to swear he’d been there all night. He tried to move the fingers on his broken hand, itching in its new plaster. “Damned if it don’ feel betta awready,” he said with a grin.

The grin left his face quickly. In fact, the jovial mood the killing had put him in vanished altogether when he neared the Bottler’s to see cops out front.

Jack ducked behind a front stoop and stashed his pistols, brass knuckles, blackjack, and knives in a trash can. More whistles sounded and he realized that the one before had probably not been on account of him and his mugs, but had something to do with the scene unfolding before him. The Bottler paid protection to everyone, the precinct captain, Kelly, Devery, and that gang of thieves led by Big Tim, they all got their cut. Paul was going to be like a terrier in a rat pit when he heard about this. He’d want answers, he’d want someone to pay, and he’d want to know why the fuck he and his goons hadn’t been there when it happened, a detail that bothered Jack considerably. Of course, Jack had known all that when he made his deal with the Bottler, but it was still a chancey thing to risk Paul Kelly’s anger.

He decided on the direct approach when he spotted a couple of cops he’d done business with in the past guarding the front door.

“Well, well, Jack. What a coincidence you being here. Just passin’ by?” The cops laughed at him, a thing he’d normally have put a stop to in a hurry, but with an effort he managed to control his disposition. “Sure, Jimmy,” Jack said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “What da fuck’s goin’ on? Da Bottler don’ pay youse piggies enough awready?”

“Now, now, Jack. No sense getting testy,” Jimmy said, pointing his nightstick at Jack’s chest. “Won’t do you any good and it damn sure won’t do the Bottler any good, either.” The cops laughed as if this were high humor.

“Da hell it won’t. Paul’l have Howe an’ Hummell break ’im out by fuckin’ mornin’.”

“Won’t do the Bottler any good if he has an army of Howes and Hummells, not where he’s going.”

Jack looked at the cops closely then, his brow knitting. “Wha da fuck, Jimmy? Wha’s dis all about? He jus’ runs a game’s all.”

The cops looked at each other. “C’mon, Jack, see for yourself.” He ushered McManus into the Bottler’s stuss parlor. A couple of detectives were pocketing the last few dollars lying about as they came in. Chairs were overturned, drinks spilled, cigars were burning holes in carpet and felt, and the Bottler was leaking blood like a tin roof in a thunderstorm. He was slumped in the dealer’s chair, his blood puddling in chunks of his own brains, arms dangling nearly to the floor.

The detectives saw Jack and ordered him out and he went without any trouble. “Wha da fuck happened?” he said to no one in particular, more concerned with how he was going to explain to Paul how he’d gotten two of his mugs dead and the Bottler left defenseless and full of holes.

“Cyclone Louie,” Jimmy said. “At least that’s what one of the witnesses said. He’s down at the station house.”

“Cyclone Louie? Da fuckin’ strongman? You caught ’im?”

“No, the witness. He says Cyclone walked in, didn’t say a word, just shot the Bottler where he sat. Twenty guys in the joint. Nobody else got a scratch.”

McManus picked up his weapons and walked off without a word. Paul was going to want to hear about this double-quick and he’d want to hear it in person. He had another stop to make after that, but Paul would have to come first. It was only fair.