Free Prohibition by Terrence McCauley Page B

the job right. But I’d been paid to do a job and I went to work with what I had.” Zito caught himself and added: “Shit, I...I mean, in this case, I’m glad I didn’t have the .45 because...”
    “Skip it. You mean to tell me you didn’t recognize Fatty when you saw him?”
    “Sure, I know who he is, but I never saw him before. If I’d known who it was, I never would’ve done the job. And I sure as hell wouldn’t still be here if I did.”
    Quinn sat quiet for a while. He watched Zito fidget as he ran through the gunman’s story in his mind.
    The whole damned thing was so ridiculous, it just might be true. The note. The small caliber weapon he brought to do the job. Things weren’t adding up to a hoax. If Zito knew who he’d hit, he would’ve run. Why take the chance writing the notes himself? Quinn could’ve just as easily killed him and found them when he tossed the room after.
    Things were looking up for Mr. Zito. “So, you shoot Fatty with the pop gun, get downstairs and take off. Then what?”
    Zito shrugged. “I...I came back here and someone had thrown another bag of money through my window. Two g’s this time, just like they promised. No note. A lot of it was in singles. I didn’t get the chance to count it, but I’m sure it’s close to two grand. I put the money under the bed with the first thousand they gave me and went to sleep. Next thing I know, you’re giving me the wake up call.”
    Quinn still had one question. “What did you do with Johnny the Kid?” “Nothing. What would I bother with him for?”
    Quinn saw Zito was telling the truth. Again. “You said the money they gave you is under the bed?”
    “Almost three grand, except for the five hundred I gave Ceretti.”
    “Show me.” Quinn cocked back the hammer on the .22. “And do it real slow.”
    “With the beatin’ you gave me, slow’s the only speed I got.”
    He creaked off the bed, cradling his gut. The naked man kept his other arm away from his body and in full view. “I’ll lift the bed up with my leg, nice and easy. When the bed comes up, you’ll see a shotgun on top of the bag. I’m not going anywhere near it, so don’t get nervous.”
    Zito slipped his foot under the bed and eased it up. The springs caught and pulled it back into the wall with a loud snap. A large duffel bag and a .12 gauge lay on the floor, just as Zito had said. The Italian backed up against his RCA cabinet, as far away from the shotgun as he could possibly go in the tiny room.
    Quinn got up, eased the shotgun off the bag with his foot and moved it over to the side. Zito was still close enough to kick him in the face if he tried to pick it up and he didn’t want to give him the chance.
    “You are a careful boy, aren’t you, Carmine? Smart, too. I’ll bet you’re just smart enough to let me walk out of here with all your money and not make a stink about it.”
    “Why are you doing this for me...?”
    “I won’t be happy, but there ain’t a whole hell of a lot I can do about it right now.”
    Quinn liked Zito’s style. His gut told him Zito would make a better ally than a corpse. He might prove useful before all of this was over. “You’re smart, Carmine. Smart all the way around the track. I like that.”
    Quinn lifted the sack on to the table where Zito had his gun cleaning set and opened it. Some of the money was bundled, but most of it was just as the gunman had said, lose tens, twenties and lots of singles. Like someone scrambled to get the money together at the last minute.
    Quinn pulled out a two hundred-dollar stack and tossed it to Zito. “That’ll keep you afloat for a while. But you won’t need much where you’re going.”
    Zito’s let the stack hit him in the chest and fall to the floor. He looked at the gun. “You’re still gonna kill me? After all that?”
    “Don’t be a dope.” Quinn opened the cylinder of the .22. and dumped the shells on the floor. “You’re the only link I’ve got to whoever wanted