Prohibition Read Online Free

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    But Doyle talked over him. “This thing is big, kid, too big to let you in on it yet on account of so much ain’t settled. Maybe in a couple of days, but not now.” He took a drag and pointed it at Quinn. “But if this thing I’m hatchin’ takes off, it’ll could change everything. Change it permanent and forever.”
    Quinn had a million questions, but kept his mouth shut. Doyle would tell him everything in his own way and in his own time. Besides, curious types didn’t last long in this business. “What do you want me to do, boss?”
    The old Archie returned. “What’s the name of the clown Fatty was shootin’ pool with? Kid Jones or somethin’?”
    “Johnny The Kid,” Quinn said. “Blew in from Brooklyn about two months ago. Been lighting up pool halls with trick shots ever since.”
    Doyle brooded. “Fatty’s always fashioned himself a pool shark. Stands to reason he’d be suckered into playing him. Setting up that game was probably the easiest dough Ceretti ever made.”
    “And the last dough he’ll ever make.”
    Doyle smiled. “Fatty usually shoots over at Knickerbocker Billiards on
    Amsterdam. Who picked Ames?”
    “Beats me, boss. We won’t know much until I do some digging.”
    “So Ira Shapiro runs Johnny the Kid,” Doyle connected the dots. “And Howard Rothman runs Shapiro. Kind of a coincidence that Shaprio’s boy just happened to be playing Fatty when he got shot, ain’t it?”
    “Coincidences happen, boss.”
    “Coincidences are bullshit,” Doyle snapped. “What do you plan to do about it?”
    “Shapiro and his cronies hang their hats in a dive called Pete’s on Third Avenue. Figured I’d swing by. See what shakes loose.”
    “Just tread lightly, kid,” Archie Doyle cautioned. “The east side’s Rothman Territory and Shapiro is Rothman’s best earner. The last thing I need right now is a goddamned street war, especially with this thing Fatty and me got brewing. Got me?”
    “Don’t worry.” Quinn dropped his dead cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe. “You know I hate violence.”

T HREE IN the morning.
    Dead time.
    Quinn stood in the alley across from Pete’s Billiards. Away from the streetlights. He was on the east side now. Rothman Territory. Behind enemy lines. Quinn couldn’t afford attention.
    A light mist started falling. Everything seemed quieter than it should.
    Quiet suited Quinn just fine.
    He never rushed jobs like this. Rushing led to mistakes. Mistakes landed you in jail or the morgue. He always looked over a joint first to get the lay of the land. To see who was who and what was what. When he knew as much as he could about the set up, he made his move.
    “Pete’s Billiards” was still etched in faded gold stenciling on the window, even though “Pete” had been dead for years. It was Ira Shapiro’s joint now. A run-down hellhole with a couple of pool tables in the back and a sandwich counter that hadn’t sold sandwiches in years. It was a juice joint for hop heads too down on their luck to drink elsewhere, but somehow scraped up enough to buy some of Shapiro’s rotgut.
    The cops left Shapiro alone because he was Howard Rothman’s boy and Howard Rothman was a jack-of-all-crooked-trades. A power broker, more gambler than gangster, more crooked than straight. As an attorney, he’d represented some of the biggest hoods around. When he couldn’t get them off or buy the jury, he greased the wheels of justice and bought the judge instead. Howard Rothman was an enterprising man.
    Over time, Rothman was able to buy a piece of the action of every major gambling organization in the state. The rules were simple: take Howard Rothman on as a partner or you got raided. Everyone except Archie Doyle’s joints, of course. By that time, Archie had already grown as big as he’d wanted in the gambling racket. Rothman took the rest. Rothman and Doyle had an unwritten truce.
    It was a cozy set up. When the gambling dens needed money, they