Toughs Page 19

  Loretto didn't answer. He could make out the shape of Gina as she took off her clothes in the dim light from the bedroom window. When she lay down next to him on the bed he moved to her and his head emptied of thought.

  11:30 p.m.

  Behind Vince, two pump-action shotguns, two .45 automatics, a pair of tommy guns, and half-dozen pineapples were arranged neatly on the hotel bed's white quilt covering. Vince sat on the edge of the bed, massaging his temples. He was in the Cornish Arms with Lottie at the window and Frank and Sally in the room next door. Through the walls, they could hear Frank and Sally going at it. Lottie grinned at the sound of a headboard knocking out a slow, repetitive rhythm. An hour earlier she and Vince had been making the same music. Now Vince was getting antsy. The front desk had just called. Joe Haley was on his way up. Lottie watched an elderly couple across the avenue as they went into a drugstore. The man was dressed in a shabby jacket and a black derby. He held the door open for the woman and put his hand on her back as if to guide her, as he followed her into the store. Across the avenue, looking down on them from her hotel room, Lottie knew they were man and wife. They had been married since they were kids. They had children and grandchildren. She had no doubt about any of that. She would have bet a million.

  "I'm not feeling too good," Vince said. "Get me a drink, will you, doll?"

  Lottie went to the armoire and opened it to find a bottle of bourbon on a shelf with a pair of glasses. "What's worrying you? You thinking about Dutch?" She poured them both a drink, carried Vince his glass, and sat beside him.

  Vince looked up at the wall. The knocking had stopped. "Maybe he'll get his ass out of bed now." He finished off half the drink in one swallow.

  Lottie resumed massaging his shoulders. "Are you nervous?"

  "About what?"

  "Going after Dutch."

  "I've been doing nothing but going after Dutch. Why would I be nervous?"

  "I don't know," Lottie said. "You seem nervous."

  "You know what I'm thinking?" Vince went to the armoire to pour himself another drink. He was wearing dress shoes and suit pants and an undershirt. "If we can't find Dutch tonight," he said, "I'm thinking we hit his apartment in the Bronx, and if he ain't there, Francis will be—and we take care of Francis. We take care of her good. Give Dutch something that'll really drive him crazy."

  "Jesus," Lottie said. "Francis?" Francis was Dutch's wife. She was a dowdy old lady who looked like a church matron.

  "Yeah," Vince said. "Francis. Dutch'll go crazy."

  "But so will everybody else," Lottie said. "You think the boys will go along?"

  "The boys'll do what I say."

  "I don't know." Lottie said. "Going after family is something else."

  "You mean like my brother Pete?"

  Sure, Pete was Vince's brother, but he was also part of his gang. Francis had nothing to do with Dutch's business. Lottie sipped her bourbon and said nothing.

  Vince said, "I want Dutch Schultz's blood all over me tonight," and he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  "That's Joe," Lottie said.

  "If I can't get Dutch," he said to Lottie, "Francis will have to do." He opened the door, and when Joe slipped in alone, he looked up and down the hallway before closing the door. "Where the hell's Loretto?"

  Joe fell back into a chair by the window. "I dropped him off at his woman's place this afternoon," he said. "He was supposed to meet me back at the Ladonia and he never showed."

  "Where's Tuffy?"

  "He's on his way." Joe looked at his wristwatch. It was 11:45. "You said one o'clock, right?"

  Vince banged on the wall to Frank's room. He picked up his drink and took a sip. "What the hell's going on with Loretto?" he asked Lottie. "Why ain't he here?"

  "The sap's in love," Lottie said. "He's not thinking straight."

  "I don't like it," Vince said, and the way he said it silenced Lottie and made Joe sit up straight. "He's on my payroll, isn't he?"

  "Sure, he is," Lottie said. "He should be here."

  There was another knock at the door, and Vince let Frank in.

  "Loretto ain't here," Vince said. "He's with Gina."

  "Yeah," Frank said. He tugged at his ear. "That's not right. What do you want to do about it?"

  "I want you to go get him." Vince finished off his drink and thought about pouring himself another. "Go get Patsy and Mike first at the Ladonia; then get Loretto and bring 'em all back here. And tell Loretto I ain't too feckin' happy about him not showing up, either. You got it?"

  "Sure, I got it. What about Tuffy?"

  Joe said, "He's on his way."

  Vince found his shirt in the closet and slipped into it. "Joe," Vince said, "I want you to make the rounds of Dutch's clubs. If you find him, get on the phone and call us here—and then wait till we get there. If you don't, just come back."

  Frank said, "So what happens if we can't find him—which is likely because of Mullins. He'll be hiding out like usual."

  "If we don't find him, I've got a plan."

  "I hope so," Frank said. "We don't want to be stickin' around the city more than a day or two, at most."

  "Go get the boys," Vince said. "You, too," he said to Joe. "Let's get movin'."

  Once Joe and Frank were gone, Vince poured himself another drink. "I don't like it," he said to Lottie, and he pointed his drink at her. "I don't like this stuff with Loretto."

  Lottie said, "He's in love, Vince. That's all it is."

  "I don't like it," Vince repeated, and he went to the window, where Lottie had been standing earlier. "He makes me worry," he said as if talking to his own reflection. A moment later, he repeated Loretto's name, and he sounded like he was weighing possibilities.

  Saturday - October 3, 1931

  12:01 a.m.

  Frank pulled over at the corner of West 36th. Beside him, Joe put on his hat and snapped the lapels of his jacket. The street was empty, awash in shadows from lampposts and yellowish light spewing from the open mouth of the Penn Post garage. The temperature had dropped and a steady wind swept dust and trash along the sidewalk.

  Joe opened his door partway and turned back to Frank. "Say, could I ask you to do me a favor? I left Vince's .38 and a couple of automatics back at the Maison. I was supposed to bring 'em and I forgot."

  "Now I'm a fuckin' errand boy?" Frank had already promised Sally he'd stop by her mother's place to drop an envelope in her mailbox with the rent money that was three days late. He'd been paying the old dame's rent ever since he'd first taken up with Sally. Every month it was a different sob story. And now this. "You forgot?"

  "They're in a valise under the bed. I put 'em there and then I forgot."

  "V'fancul'," Frank said. "Yeah, sure. Listen," he added, "don't waste too much time lookin' for Dutch. He's holed up someplace with an army around him now he knows Vince is in town."

  "Vince said to look—"

  "So look," Frank said. "Just do it fast."

  Joe handed Frank the room key and got out of the car. Through the

  open window he said, "In a valise, under the bed," and then stood back and watched Frank drive off.

  Detective Giovanetti, parked in the shadows, figured the mug getting out of the car to be middle-aged, maybe early forties. He was dressed nicely in a suit, looked like a million other guys. When he appeared to be headed for the garage, Giovanetti sat up straight and took a swig from the bottle of Coke he'd been holding between his legs. He'd been watching the garage for a couple of hours, ever since a beat cop located the cream-colored Buick from the Mullins murder parked inside. Dwyer was hiding in the back seat of the Buick and Givons was nearby, behind a concrete column. When the figure entered the light from the garage, Giovanetti got a good look at his face, which was leathery and lined with creases, too rough for an office worker, and so his interest was piqued. He waited until the guy was halfway down the ramp before he followed him and saw that he was heading for the Buick. "Hey, buddy," he called, and to his own surprise he w
as affecting the manner and tone of a drunk.

  Joe looked over the little guy stumbling toward him. He was maybe five six, and at first glance Joe thought the kid was a teenager.

  "Buddy," Giovanetti said again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Givons peek out from behind his column.

  "What do you want?" Joe said. "I'm in a hurry."

  "D'you see my good friend Jimmy?" Giovanetti asked, slurring his words. "He's a'possed to meet me here."

  "I ain't seen your friend."

  "What's your name?" Giovanetti asked. "Don't I know you?"

  "Joe, and I don't know you." Joe turned his back on the little guy and continued toward the Buick.

  Giovanetti moved quietly and quickly toward the Buick. The moment Joe touched the handle to open the car door, he slammed him into the car, turned him around, and showed him the barrel of his gun. "How you doin', Joe?" he said, all the drunkenness gone from his voice.

  Givons came out from behind the column flashing his badge and announcing they were cops. Dwyer got out of the car cursing. "What the feck was that drunk act?" he asked Giovanetti, who ignored him.

  Givons had already relieved Joe of his pistol. He dangled it in front of him. "Have you heard of the Sullivan laws, Joe?"

  "Joe Haley," Giovanetti said to Dwyer. He was looking through Joe's wallet.

  Joe said, "I want to see my lawyer." He was leaning face forward into the car with his hands on the roof, the three detectives in a semicircle around him.

  "And now wouldn't that make him one Vince Coll's brother-in-law?" Dwyer said, and he turned Joe around to face them.

  Givons grabbed Joe by the collar. "Where's Vince?"

  "Vince don't tell me nothin'," Joe said. "I ain't seen him in six months."

  "So whose car is this?" Giovanetti asked. "You sure it's not Vince Coll's? You sure you don't know where Vince is?"

  "This car?" Joe looked at the Buick as if he'd just seen it for the first time. "This is a borrowed car."

  "Yeah?" Givons said. "Who did the borrowing?"

  "I guess I did."

  "You guess you did?" Giovanetti patted down Joe's jacket. "Who do you guess you borrowed it from?"

  "Look here," Joe said, "I got a right to see a lawyer."

  Giovanetti pulled a bunch of papers from Joe's inside jacket pocket and looked them over.

  Dwyer said to Joe, "Of course you've got a right to see a lawyer. You're an American citizen, aren't you?"

  "That's right," Joe said.

  "Good, then." Dwyer let go a short, quick punch into Joe's solar plexus and watched him drop to the ground struggling to breathe.

  "Look at this." Giovanetti showed the papers in his hand to Dwyer and Givons. They were receipts for hotel rooms at the Ladonia, the Maison, and the Cornish Arms.

  "Sure," Dwyer said softly. "Vince sends his no-account brother-in-law to rent rooms and pick up cars for him. It makes sense."

  At the detectives' feet, Joe pulled himself to his knees, breathing raggedly. Givons and Dwyer each grabbed one of his arms. They dragged him to his feet and out of the garage.

  Joe didn't know where he was going, but wherever it was, everybody was in a hurry to get there.

  12:45 a.m.

  At the Ladonia, Mike was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes, which he brushed away with the back of his hand. He was sitting on the edge of an unmade bed and Patsy was facing him, straddling a chair and telling stories about the old days, when they ran the streets stealing from vendors or off the back of delivery trucks. "I remember sitting down on the curb and laughing my head off," Mike said. He was dressed and ready to go, his fedora on the bed alongside him. He took an automatic from the holster under his arm, ejected the magazine, looked it over, and popped it back in.

  Patsy said, "Alls I remember is that fat copper chasing after me, and I'm running like the Midnight Express. I turn around to look back, and bang! Next thing I know he's standing over me with his hands on his hips and a big smile on his face."

  Mike said, laughing, "You hit that lamppost so hard, you bounced off it," and he started laughing again.

  Patsy took out his .38 and checked it over. "We better get going," he said.

  "Sure," Mike said and again wiped tears from his eyes.

  At the Maison, Frank found the valise under the bed, where Joe had said it would be. The room was dark, lit only by a single long fluorescent light buzzing in the bathroom. He tossed the valise onto the bed, opened it to check the contents, and then snapped it closed after looking over each of the guns. He'd just come from Sally's mother's place, where he'd slipped an envelope with rent money into her mailbox. Paying the old lady's rent bothered him more than it should have, and it wasn't about the money. He could afford the money. In the dimly lit room, he sat on the bed and tried to think it through. Why'd it get under his skin like it did, paying the old broad's rent? It wasn't like Sally was holding him up for the money. He'd offered to pay the rent himself when he'd seen Sally crying because her mother was about to get thrown out on the street. Still, paying her rent every month—it was like it was his own bill, come due monthly. And if it was his bill, what was he paying for? Frank told himself to buck up, that he was too sensitive about things. He'd always been too sensitive. He picked up the valise, checked his wristwatch, and started for the door.

  At the Cornish Arms, Sally and Lottie were chattering on the bed. They'd kicked off their shoes and were stretched out facing each other side by side, their heads propped on their arms, going on about Maria and Gina and some other girl. They were both wearing silky long dresses and black nylons, as if they were about to leave for a nightclub. On the other side of the room, Tuffy and Vince were standing by the door, talking softly. Vince had just explained his plan to Tuffy, and Tuffy was looking down at the floor, scratching his head.

  "Listen," Vince said, and then he stopped and looked over to the girls. He opened the door, went out into the hall, and pulled Tuffy along behind him. "Listen," he said again and closed the door, "I want Dutch to know she didn't go easy."

  "Yeah," Tuffy said, "but she's an old lady, Vince. And she don't have nothin' to do with this business."

  "So what?" Vince said. "What's that got to do with the price of eggs?"

  "The boys ain't gonna like it is all."

  Vince tapped Tuffy on the shoulder. "The boys? You mean Madden and Luciano and Dutch and all them? They're already lookin' to put me in the ground. I do this—I put Francis in the ground—they're gonna think twice before coming after me or anyone in my gang. You get my drift?"

  "Yeah, but I don't know," Tuffy said, and again he looked down at the ground and scratched his head.

  "You don't have to know. I'm either gonna kill Dutch tonight or I'm gonna beat his wife to death so bad he ain't ever getting over it." Vince leaned back and looked away briefly, composing his thoughts. "I'm gonna get Dutch on the phone," he said, "while she's still alive and let him hear her scream. When him and his boys come to get her, we'll be gone, and all they'll find is her beat-to-death body waiting for them."

  "Jesus," Tuffy said. "I don't know, Vince."

  "What are we gonna do about Loretto?" Vince asked. "Who's he think he is, ditching us to be with his woman? What kind of thing is that to do? He's on our payroll, ain't he?"

  "It don't add up," Tuffy said. "You think we can trust him?"

  At first Vince looked furious at the suggestion that they might not be able to trust Loretto, and then a moment later his face went dark as he entertained the idea. He started to say that he'd need to have a talk with Loretto but stopped when he heard a noise from the stairwell. Tuffy heard it, too. They both watched the stairs.

  At the Ladonia, Bill Givons stationed two men at the elevator, two men in the lobby, and one man at the bottom of the stairwell. He climbed the steps with three more men behind him. When he reached the fifth floor, he sent one man up to the roof. The two coppers he kept with him were both burly Irishmen in their thirties, men who'd been on the force a good lo
ng time and seen a thing or two. At the entrance to the fifth-floor hallway, he took out his pistol and nodded for his men to do the same. "Don't shoot if you don't have to," he told them. "If you have to, shoot 'em dead." He peeked out the door and saw a long, empty hallway with plush maroon carpeting that would muffle their footsteps. Outside two of the doors, food trays waited for the staff to take them away. "All right," he said, and he entered the hall with his gun drawn.

  When he reached room 506, Givons glanced behind him and was amazed to see one of the coppers taking a bite out of a chicken leg he'd picked up from one of the food trays. He gave him a death stare, and the copper put the leg down and hurried to his side.