Prohibition Read Online Free Page A

borrowed from Rothman. When they needed booze, they went to Archie. When the politicians and judges wanted to lay a bet, they went to Rothman.
    When they needed votes and protection, they went to Archie.
    Doyle ruled the streets. Rothman ruled the cloakrooms. Doyle and Rothman were two sides of the same coin. That unwritten truce had held for the last ten years.
    Until tonight. Maybe.
    From the alley, Quinn watched Shapiro act out a story from behind the counter, waiving his long, skinny arms while three goons laughed. Shapiro was about five foot ten and too thin for his height. He had black curly hair and pockmarked skin that made him look tougher than he was.
    Quinn could tell the men were big, but soft. Probably bullies used to using their size to scare the hell out of normal people.
    Quinn hated bullies. Bullies rarely had the balls to face their own weaknesses. Quinn knew his weaknesses all too well. The ring had taught him that. How far he could run in eight minutes. How many jabs he could throw in a three minute round. How many shots he could take to the head before he got dizzy.
    How to let a bum hang around long enough to make a fight look good. And how hard he had to hit a man to kill him.
    But he’d never learned how to take a dive. And that’s why he was standing in alley on a damp November night, watching four assholes laughing it up in Pete’s Billiards.
    They told him to dive for another contender. Quinn beat him to death in the ring instead. Five years ago last month. It felt like yesterday.
    They took his license and killed his career. Men like Shapiro and his three goons. Men who placed bets on a game they knew nothing about.
    They called themselves tough, but didn’t know true pain. Maybe they’d learn that lesson tonight.
    But Doyle’s words came back to him.
    Tread lightly.
    He’d try. He owed Doyle that much. He owed Doyle everything.
    Quinn saw one of Shapiro’s crew wasn’t laughing. A young skinny kid of about twenty or so, sitting alone at the counter. He wore a faded green jacket and held his head in his hands. That must be Johnny the Kid. He looked too scared to enjoy Shapiro’s story.
    Other than The Kid, Shapiro and his three goons put the count at four. They looked loose. Happy. Maybe a little drunk.
    They’d never see him coming. Until it was too late. Quinn crossed the street.
    Shapiro and his three goons stopped laughing when the small bell above the door tinkled as Quinn walked inside and closed the door behind him.
    Each of them slid off their stools and formed a semi-circle before him. He saw Johnny the Kid eyeing him over his shoulder from the counter. Poor bastard looked trapped. Scared.
    Tread lightly.
    “Evening, boys,” Quinn said, looking each man in the eye. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything private.”
    “Well, if it ain’t Terry Quinn come in outta the rain,” Shapiro said from behind the counter. “What brings Archie Doyle’s black hand out on a night like this?”
    “Just out for a stroll on a soft night in the city,” Quinn said. “Saw the lights on, figured I’d come in here where it’s warm and dry.” He looked at Shapiro. “Hear about Fatty?”
    Shapiro put his hand over his heart. “My heart bled when I heard the news. Him and Johnny here were shootin’ pool when it happened. Poor kid came back hysterical. Barely able to talk, even. When I finally got the story out of him, I was floored. We was all floored, wasn’t we boys?”
    The three goons nodded at the same time. Quinn had sized up each of them from across the street. The one to his left was a lightweight - short and stocky. He looked mean but had scarred eyes and a weak jaw.
    The one on the right was a middleweight. Big hands but his feet were too far apart. He wouldn’t move quickly without shifting his weight. The third one had shifted behind him, so Quinn couldn’t see him. But he wasn’t a threat.
    “Bad break for Fatty,” Shapiro sucked his teeth. “Sure, I’ve had my run-