Chapter Eight

She threw off the sheets and slid out of the big bed. As she picked up the robe, she muttered, “That crazy bitch. If she has …”

Then she turned and stared at me. “You know something. What is it?”

“All kinds of strange things have been happening lately. Somebody tried to break into my place. Somebody blew up a bomb in the alley last night. Couple of guys braced me on the street and slipped me your note, and there was a kid on the street who knew my name but a mean-looking old lady scared him off. Then a German came in and made an offer to buy me out, and after that, there was the guy I just mentioned in a warehouse over on the East River, and while I was there, a cop got shot and killed, and after what you just told me, I suspect you know more about all that than I do. I’m missing some details. Why don’t you wise me up?”

She stood, fists on hips, robe hanging open. I could tell she was working her way through what I’d said, and it troubled her. After a time, she nodded like she’d come to a decision. She shed the robe, opened a bureau drawer, and dressed—garter belt, underwear, and brassiere. White silk, and new by the look of them. Skirt, blouse, and shoes from the closet. She wasn’t trying to be seductive or playful, but I still found it extremely interesting. Buttoning up, she said, “I can’t stay here. I’ll be in touch. And Jimmy, take care of yourself. There are people who …” She stopped and thought some more. “No, just … take care of yourself. Now get dressed. We gotta get out of here.”

She threw the rest of her clothes into a small bag. I dressed more slowly and gave her a Jimmy Quinn’s Place business card with the telephone number.

She unlocked the door and kissed me hard. “You did all right for yourself, Jimmy. I’m glad to see that, really I am. I knew you would. I knew I could trust you. You’re a right guy.”

I caught a cab back to the speak. As the driver headed downtown, I realized I was still completely confused even though a couple of things made more sense. Whatever was going on with the guys who tried to break in and Klapprott’s outfit—that had something to do with the seventy-five thousand Anna claimed to have. That’s what everybody was looking for. Maybe it didn’t matter if her story about kidnapping the bootlegger was phony, if the money was real. And for now, I could figure that the dirty ten-spot was part of it. And I could figure that Anna needed me to get to the rest of it. Sure wasn’t love or sex that brought her back to the Taft Suite, not that I was complaining, mind you.

It was around two o’clock when I got back. The crowd had thinned out considerably. Frenchy was behind the bar, and Connie was sitting at a table talking with Mercer Weeks. That was odd. The three-fingered guy who’d left the key and the dirty money was back at my table holding a newspaper up in front of his face, and Malloy, the night watchman from the warehouse, was at the bar. Frenchy said both of them had been waiting to see me.

I held up a hand, gesturing to Three Fingers to wait, and hooked a stool next to Malloy. He was closer. I nodded to Frenchy. He gave Malloy a brandy.

“Ah, Mr. Quinn, I didn’t recognize your name earlier, and that shames me. Your reputation precedes you.”

“What reputation is that?”

“Why, as a man who runs one of the finest speaks in the city and keeps company with some of the city’s most prominent banditti. Alas, as I predicted not long ago, my previous employers, the Kraut cocksuckers, have shitcanned me.” He paused to drink.

“Therefore, I’m thinking that perhaps those unfortunate occurrences at the warehouse earlier this evening might have some small bearing on your fine establishment, what with your name having been brought up in such untoward circumstances. Suppose the perpetrators of those horrors were to attempt something similar here after-hours. Wouldn’t you want someone on the premises to dissuade them?”

“Dissuade?”

“To advise or urge against. To discourage or deflect. A word not often used in this context, but it seemed appropriate.”

“And how would you dissuade them?”

He opened his coat, revealing a Luger in his belt. “The Krauts will never miss it.”

He hitched up on his stool, leaned over his drink, and gave me a canny look. “Now, sir, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, here’s this feller that I don’t know from Adam’s off ox. Hadn’t even clapped eyes on him until …”—he pulled a watch from his vest pocket—“… five hours ago. And now he comes into my excellent establishment and asks for a job. But what do I know of him? First, he allowed two gentlemen—gentlemen of dubious quality but gentlemen nonetheless—he allowed these two gentlemen to be cut down in a building that had been engaged to protect. Second, he brazenly admits to stealing a weapon from his previous employers. Why would I, or anyone, place such an individual in a position of responsibility?”

I tried not to smile. “Why indeed.”

He shrugged. “I have no answer. I was just hoping that such a display of honesty, however uncharacteristic, would be persuasive. The long and the short of it is that I need a job and this is a good place. What do you say, sir?”

“Wait here.”

Three Fingers still looked tired and watchful beneath a day’s growth of dark unshaven stubble. He put down the newspaper and said, “I told you I’d be back. Things are moving pretty fast now. I don’t want to trust anybody, but word is you’re OK, so that’s that. The thing is, it ain’t safe for me on the street anymore. Somebody sold me out.”

“You want the key now?”

He said, “No, there’s something else that’s more important—” But he was interrupted by some commotion at the front door.

I heard Fat Joe Beddoes, using his loud no-nonsense voice, say, “I don’t know you, so you’re not getting in. Get the fuck outta here, ya jackleg bastards.”

There were more loud men’s voices from outside. I heard Fat Joe open the front door. I told Three Fingers to wait a minute and went to see if Fat Joe needed help.

By the time I got to him, Fat Joe had gone outside to dissuade the jackleg bastards, and he didn’t need me. They’d decided to find another speak. Before I could go back inside, Three Fingers scuttled out past me, my paper under his arm. Whatever he wanted must not have been that important after all.

Back inside, I found that Connie had joined Marie Therese behind the bar. I motioned for Fat Joe to come over too.

“This is Arch Malloy,” I explained to them. “Remember when Ellis came in earlier? He took me to a warehouse where Malloy was the night watchman. Guy got himself beat to death there. Turned out he was carrying papers, union card and the like, made out in my name.”

Frenchy looked surprised. Fat Joe didn’t look like anything.

“And Malloy here got fired. At least, that’s what he says. And now he has come here, thinking we need somebody to stay here after-hours.”

Frenchy gave Malloy a skeptical eye. Fat Joe didn’t do anything.

“Consider this,” Malloy said. “Like the unfortunate dead man that was found in my warehouse earlier, the two jackleg bastards you just dispatched truly are part of a larger plot. They are in league with my previous employers to do whatever it is they’re attempting to do. Just now, they were testing your defenses. In a couple of hours, after you’ve closed, they or their associates will return with more mischief on their minds.”

Fat Joe and Frenchy looked at each other. Frenchy shrugged.

I briefly considered that Malloy and the jackleg troublemakers were part of Klapprott’s business, but no, that was too complicated. They were drunks, and Malloy was a smooth talker with a sense of humor and a stolen gun. My kind of guy.

I said, “Fat Joe, how would you like to earn a little extra tonight? Two’s better than one. Keep Mr. Malloy company. One of you can sleep on the divan.”

Fat Joe shrugged and said, “Why the fuck not?”

I turned to go to my office and found that Mercer Weeks was waiting for me.

“Quinn,” he said, “Jacob wants to talk to you. I’ve got a cab waiting.”