by Brad Latham
She fondled him with her cheeks, palms, and neck with gentle yet insistent purposefulness. He felt not only his cock but his whole body grow enormous, and he seemed to look down at her busy face, fingers, and mouth from a great distance as his cock disappeared into her mouth, with her giving it the sort of sensual lavish attention she had given the whipped cream and sour tarts earlier. He let go, understanding with a weak shudder why the tarts had not resisted.
He never considered carrying Barbara through her living room threshold as he had Myra, only worried how to handle it if she went to lift him.
She solved this by saying, “Follow me,” and holding his hand, and grinning in her off-center leering way, she led him to her bedroom.
It seemed as if he sank into a down mattress and leaned his head on down pillows, and that the softest of creatures ministered to him—till he was aroused to a frenzy he didn’t believe was in him. He turned her over—she turned as easily as might a down-filled doll—and received his vigorous lovemaking with grunts and yelps of satisfaction to make her enjoyment of tarts and cream look like one of the annoyances of her life.
If this was the typical duty of a T-man, Lockwood thought before losing himself completely, I could take this up permanently.
Chapter 8
That night, back in Manhattan, Lockwood soaked in one of the longest showers he could remember taking, as if his body needed the restorative massage of hot water. For once, after the night with Myra and the afternoon with Barbara Wilson, he had had enough of the physical side of love-making to last him for weeks.
His suite at the Summerfield Hotel felt like a haven after the damp cottage in Patchogue. Luxuriating as he slowly dressed, Lockwood chose his newest spring suit and brightest tie.
He wanted to call Myra, but tonight, after his afternoon with Barbara Wilson, was the wrong time. He wouldn’t be able to inject himself into the conversation the way he wanted to. A curious bit of guilt hung about this afternoon’s adventure, and that surprised him. For years he had enjoyed such flings and then forgotten them. This guilt had something to do with Myra, as if his time with her—the quality of their time together—had extracted a promise from him that he had broken in bedding Barbara. He had to think more about this unusual feeling before he called Myra.
He did call Mr. Gray after considering what he could and couldn’t tell him about this afternoon.
“Where are you?” Gray demanded by way of a greeting.
“At the Summerfield.”
“They didn’t know where you were out there. Did you come back because you found that thing, whatever it is?”
“No. I spent the afternoon returning a few favors the T-men have given us.”
“Doing what?”
“Planting microphones in a suspect’s house.”
“A suspect? We’re getting hot, then?”
“They think so. I’m not so sure. This house belongs to a woman they think has been hired by the Germans to get info out of the president of Northstar.”
“Ummmm,” said Gray. “Interesting. You put in these microphones so they could listen to the suspect? Can you get us some?”
Lockwood changed the subject and said he had to go out.
“Go out where? You’re still on this case, you know. I want you on this all weekend.”
“Chief, I plan to be. I want to check with some of my contacts around Times Square,” Lockwood said. The trouble with Mr. Gray was that he never let up; TA lost a lot of good men because he rode them too hard. Lockwood worked at not letting Mr. Gray’s pushiness bother him. He explained, “We’re supposed to be at peace with the Japs, the Huns, and the Italians, and they’re the only people who’d want a—an object like this one.”
“Hey, Lockwood.”
“Yes, Mr. Gray?”
“What is this thing, anyway? You can tell me.”
On his end Lockwood grinned and made Gray wait for his answer. “You won’t believe this, but I’ve been sworn in as a Treasury agent, and I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I wish I could tell you, but I just can’t.”
Knowing Mr. Gray, Lockwood immediately held the telephone receiver eighteen inches away from his ear.
“Goddamn it, this is an insurance company!” Gray roared. “You’re supposed to know what you’re paying off for when it’s stolen!”
For another minute, more thundering gabble.
At a pause Lockwood said, “I’m not getting a thing done while I’m jawing with you, Chief.”
“What are you in town for?”
“Clean clothes,” Lockwood answered. “Unless TA wants to see a couple of suits on its expense account. For another, I want to check my Mob contacts. These foreign bimbos might not want to get caught with their hands in America’s underpants while we’re supposed to be at peace with them.”
“Not bad, Lockwood. They’d hire criminals to steal this ‘thing’?”
“Maybe. It’s worth checking.”
“Those devious intimates of yours would know about it?”
Lockwood let it go and decided to cut this short. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
In a surprised voice, Gray said, “See me when you come in.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday, Chief.”
“We have to pay Northstar Monday, don’t we?”
“All right, I’ll come in—but I’ll be late. Mob guys don’t keep office hours.”
With that Lockwood hung up. With any luck, Mr. Gray would sit there looking at the dead receiver in his hand and might figure out that he had pushed his best man too far, and he would open tomorrow morning with some sort of half-assed apology. Or ignore Lockwood’s hanging up. Ignoring his own pushiness was often Mr. Gray’s method of apologizing.
Lockwood finished dressing and went out.
Lockwood didn’t reach the first bar and grill till almost 9:30 that night. He ordered his usual Canadian, and as Hecker put it down, the barkeep said, “Say, Hook, where you been?”
“Hi, Hecker. Here and there. Seen Benny or Tooths around?”
Hecker gave a slight shake of his head.
“Things been quiet around here the last couple days,” he said.
Lockwood smiled and sipped the Canadian. He felt the tension ease out of his stomach. It wasn’t easy to get even the right time of day out of the Times Square crowd. “I’ll be around tonight. You see one of the guys, tell him I’d like to talk to Benny, okay?”
Hecker just smiled, no register of agreement or non-agreement, as if the name Benny had never been spoken. With variations, Lockwood repeated this scene half a dozen times in bars between Times Square and 48th Street. Lockwood seemed in no hurry, as if he could spend the whole night drifting from bar to bar, sipping Canadian, nodding, smiling, and speaking in short staccato riffs to the men and women he knew in each place.
He was having a drink with Terry in Nathan’s Place and talking about the Dodgers’ chances when he felt a nudge at his shoulder. He turned to see Tooths O’Grady looming over him.
“Jesus, Tooths,” Lockwood said, “aren’t you ever going to stop growing?”
“Hiya, Hook,” the big guy said. He smiled with pleasure and looked bashful at Lockwood’s friendly banter, as if he had been handed a bouquet he didn’t know what to do with. “Benny, he wants to see ya.”
“Isn’t that funny now,” Lockwood said. “Here I’ve been hoping I’d run into Benny all night.”
Lockwood followed Tooths into the back room of Nathan’s, which was empty of customers except for Benny, who sat in the middle booth, and a couple of Benny’s boys, who sat in the booth by the entrance.
Benny Harris’ squint relaxed as he saw Lockwood, as if the sight of his old army buddy was the best news he’d had in days.
“Get the man a refill, will you, Tooths?” ordered Benny as Lockwood slid into the seat across from him. “Howya doin’, Hook? Jesus, it’s good to see you. You look fresh as a daisy.”
“You know how it is, Benny,” Lockwood said. “I get into the office by noon so
I can get away by two.”
“Man of leisure,” joked Benny, shaking his head as if the two hadn’t mouthed this same joke dozens of times.
In front of Benny sat a glass of something that fizzed.
“Bicarbonate?” Lockwood asked.
“Yeah,” Benny answered. “It’s the only thing I’ve been able to drink this week. Even milk don’t feel so good.” Tooths returned carefully carrying a full glass of Canadian.
“Now get him a napkin, damn it, Tooths,” Benny snapped. To Lockwood, “Got to tell him every damn time.”
It was good to see Benny. Lockwood and Benny Harris were the same age and had been in the Fighting 69th together, but there the similarities ended. Lockwood hadn’t gained more than seven pounds since he was seventeen; Benny’s extra seventy-five pounds sat uneasily on his 5’4” frame. Lockwood took care of himself and enjoyed life; Benny ran the Manhattan action for the Hagerty syndicate, and it meant keeping tabs on over a hundred guys and thousands of dollars a week, every dollar of which had a tendency —unless vigilantly watched—to grow stout little legs and run off. Benny Harris probably did work harder than Bill Lockwood. His business was expanding rapidly, and he put in sixteen-hour days, from ‘noon to four in the morning, six and seven days a week. If the two hadn’t been such tight buddies back in the war, they would have been much more edgy with each other.
“You ought to take some time off, Benny,” Lockwood said. “You look run-down.”
“I feel run-down. I’ve had to work my ass off all winter. You, now—I ought to stop calling you ‘Hook’—I’m not even sure you could throw a punch any more.”
Lockwood laughed. “You want to go a few rounds with me?”
Benny laughed at the idea. Benny’s talents had. never lain in his fists, but in his managerial skills. In fact, Lockwood was one of his first ventures, one which had resulted in Hook’s nickname among all his old army buddies.
Lockwood had been seventeen when America had entered the “War to End Wars,” and, big for his age, he joined up and went overseas with the New York Fighting 69th. He and Benny had met on the troop ship, hit it off, and made an agreement to keep an eye on the other’s back while they were in combat, an agreement that turned out to be useful in poker and dice games on board the troop ships, in dance halls, and in bars all over France. Trench warfare in the Verdun Sector added a bond that neither of them could imagine anything in the civilian world ever breaking.
During a lull in the fighting, Benny, manager of the regimental boxing team, was challenged by a master sergeant in the First Marines. Cockier back then, Benny had matched Lockwood with the Marine regimental champ at long odds.
Looking back at the fight, Lockwood realized that he had been too young and inexperienced to be as frightened as he should have been; under Benny’s directions he won the bloody ten-rounder by knocking out the older and bigger Marine champ.
Nobody in the 69th ever forgot that fight or the three-to-one money they won off the marines. That money had financed the longest, wettest beer bash, three-days’ worth, in the regiment’s history and had made Lockwood’s nickname “Hook”—for the left hook that left the champ sprawled out cold in the tenth—to every soldier of the regiment.
Now in Nathan’s Place Benny asked, “So, what can I do for you, Hook?”
“I’ve been out on the Island the last few days, Benny,” Hook opened. He spoke in his most casual voice and watched Benny’s face closely, but saw no flicker of response. “I got a big case out there.”
Benny leaned back, relaxed, ready to receive the proposition. Friendship went a long way, his face seemed to say, but business was business. Lockwood wondered what Benny knew, or whether he thought this was just another case of missing jewelry or bearer bonds.
“Somebody missing something, huh?” Benny asked.
“Yeah. You hear of any action out there?”
“Nothin’ special. What’s missing?”
“All the way out, Benny. Near Islip, Patchogue, near the potato farmers.”
Benny shook his head and looked mystified, which proved nothing. “What’s missing, Hook?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Okay. Who’s missing it?”
“I’d rather not say that either.”
Benny frowned and leaned forward. “Let’s keep trying. When did they miss it?”
“Last week. Wednesday morning.”
“Ah, an answer. And they want your company to pay them off, right?”
“Yep.”
“But if the goods is returned, you’d be prepared to pay something for it, no questions asked, right?”
“Benny, I’m asking questions. I haven’t asked my boss for a nickel yet.”
“Maybe you ought to,” Benny said.
Lockwood became more alert. “You know something, Benny?”
Benny smiled. “Easy, Hook. It’s just you catch more flies with something sweet than with nothing. How much?”
Lockwood reflected for a moment. “It ought to be worth five aces to TA, if the goods are recovered quickly and quietly.”
For the first time since Lockwood had arrived, Benny looked happy, as if the mention of a specific amount of money were a tonic.
“Some score!” Benny said. “I can’t even remember that cheap boss of yours offering five Gs—you sure you can talk him into going that high?”
“Depends on how quiet and how fast we get the goods,” Lockwood answered. “Speed’s important—the goods are perishable.”
Benny frowned. “A snatch? A baby belonging to some rich guy?”
Hook shook his head. “We don’t insure babies, Benny. If I could say more, you know I would.”
“You ain’t giving me much to go on—practically nothing, Hook.”
“Try this,” Lockwood said. “Whoever was in on the job could have got the layout of the place from one of his truck drivers.”
Benny squinted as he thought it through. “So—somebody who might have an interest in the trucking business out on the Island.”
“A somebody who knew how to use his drivers to pick up information.”
Benny nodded. “You going to be at the fight tomorrow?”
“Vecchio and Polanski? No.”
“Be there, Hook,” Benny said. “I might have something. I’ll leave you a couple of tickets at the box office. Ask Ernie for them.”
“You’ve got a meet, Benny,” Lockwood said as he rose to go. If anybody could find out what the organization’s role at Northstar was, it was Benny. Lockwood left satisfied.
Chapter 9
That night Lockwood woke up five separate times, which was five times more than usual. Each time he came out of a sound sleep in order to enjoy the something good that was now in his life only to find that it wasn’t there, and he went back to sleep excited and disappointed.
The something good was Myra Rodman, that she lived in the same world he lived in at all, and that Myra liked him enough to have spent Thursday night with him. But she wasn’t in bed with him tonight, and he couldn’t go out to the Island tonight because he needed to see Benny. Next week he might not need to revisit Northstar at all; the case might take him to Boston or Cincinnati.
When he woke up Saturday morning, a little groggy from the ups and downs of the night, he called Myra and invited her into the city to spend the evening.
The warmth of her answer made him want to leap through the phone and kiss her. “Ummmm,” she said, “I’d love to, Bill.”
“I have to drop by the fights tonight,” he said. “But we don’t have to stay long.”
By 11:30 he was ready to go to his office. He called Mr. Gray first.
“How about some lunch?” Lockwood asked.
“I was about to call out,” Gray answered. “Could you bring—”
“—a pastrami on rye, mustard on the side, two pickles, light coffee,” Lockwood finished for him.
“Thanks,” Gray said in a surprised tone, as if he couldn’t figure out how Lockwood
had known what he was going to order.
On the way up the elevator in the RCA Building, holding the two bags from Stage Deli, Lockwood shook his head over his boss’s habits. He couldn’t figure out how any man could live, much less thrive, on a daily diet of forty cigarettes, three pastrami sandwiches, six light coffees, and little else, if you didn’t count the six pickles.
Lockwood knew his boss. He waited till the last piece of the spiced meat had slithered over Mr. Gray’s lips.
“What’s it worth to get this ‘object’ back, Chief?”
Gray perked up, like a meandering dog who’s just scented a rabbit. “You onto something, Lockwood?”
“I’ve got some feelers out.”
Mr. Gray leaned back, and Lockwood knew what this gesture meant. The old man was turning over figures, how much, and he was pulling away from Lockwood while he considered.
“Two or three thousand,” Gray said, but Lockwood heard a quaver in his voice. Probably nobody else in the world could have heard it, but Lockwood made it his business to catch it.
Lockwood shook his head. “I want to offer 10 percent.”
Gray dropped his poise and shot forward. “$7500! No!”
“Give me something to work with,” Lockwood said. “I’ve got people out there who will find this thing, but there’s got to be something in it.”
“Who?”
“I went over the front-gate guard’s logs,” Lockwood answered. “I didn’t think any of the employees at Northstar were in this, so I asked myself who entered the place regularly.”
“Suppliers,” Gray said reflectively.
“Or truckers. Give me $5000.”
Mr. Gray sighed. He opened the box of English Ovals and lit one. “Not for information, for the return.”