by Brad Latham
Finally, he left, wondering if the doctor was actually telling the truth.
Lockwood wasn’t satisfied. The half-baked theory that had been buzzing in his bonnet was buzzing again. Maybe Lorenzo Jones had actually ruined his arm during that last game. Maybe Wade figured he would lose a bundle from his five-year contract with Jones, and maybe he bumped Lorenzo off to save his dough.
Doc was a wiley old geezer. Five times he had insisted that his examination showed that Jones was injured only superficially. But he looked nervous. No, he wasn’t telling the truth, instinct told Lockwood.
In a minute, Lockwood tiptoed back. He listened at the door and heard Doc talking to someone over the phone, “… Yeah, the snooper was here, but he’s gone. No, I didn’t tell him anything. I am not drunk.” Then a receiver was put down. A short time later, more snoring.
Not exactly innocent talk but nothing specific. Possibly it had been Wade on the other end. Lockwood checked his Longines. Time to see Robin at 21. It wouldn’t do to keep a lady like her waiting. Besides, those dapper gents who frequented the club wouldn’t leave her alone long.
As he was about to start the Cord, Hook noticed that the coffin hood was up just a bit. He immediately took his hand from the ignition key, went out, and raised the hood. Neatly attached to the distributor was a bomb.
Hook could hardly believe it—ten dynamite sticks wired with blasting caps, all neatly joined to the distributor. One twist of the key and good bye to Transatlantic’s ace troubleshooter.
Lockwood was angry. Who the hell had done this?
As he stood there at the curb, stupified by the sight of the ten sticks of dynamite, his stomach felt queasy. That feeling always came with the realization that going out on a routine case could lead to his demise if he wasn’t careful and lucky.
Jesus, another second and boom!
His mortality normally didn’t cross his mind. When it did, it just kept walking. But this bomb—could it be connected with the Lorenzo Jones case? Was this case going to be dangerous? It had looked to be a nice, albeit, hopeless task. He would run up the expense account on Robin and maybe get the company off the hook by finding someone who would swear that Lorenzo Jones had been bent on suicide when he took off that day. Simple. Now things were looking down, not up. And he didn’t even know who was on first. But whoever planted that bomb was Major League. All the way.
When he finished disconnecting the bomb, he didn’t know what to do with it. He dropped it in the trunk, got in the Cord, turned on the Motorola to a Glen Miller tune, and started driving slowly.
A flood of possible enemies came to mind. Trouble was, most were in jail. There was Lefty Springfield, doing time in Sing Sing as a result of Hook’s handiwork. Then Inky McGuinness, the two-bit card shark he had helped send up. Hook had eliminated those two. They would be incarcerated for a while yet.
No, the most likely guy was Jerry Castagna, the safecracker. Jerry had gotten in Hook’s way once and was sent up as a result. He was out on parole as of last week. But safecrackers were safe-crackers, not killers.
It could be related to this new case. He hadn’t even gotten started yet; but the smart boys knew his reputation. Maybe there was foul play in this after all. Gray had a nose for these things. He had mentioned murder. Maybe someone was playing fast and loose with dynamite to get Greerson on the case. Greerson was Transatlantic’s second-best troubleshooter. They might want to deal with him instead of Hook.
A few blocks on, Lockwood spotted a familiar figure entering a telephone booth. It was Half-Pint, the two-bit hired heater. Hook had tangled with him before. Maybe he should see what Half-Pint was up to. Maybe he had been wiring bombs to Cords.
Half-Pint was called Half-Pint for obvious reasons. He could barely reach to put the nickel in the telephone. He was as mean as they come, however. Scorpions were small but deadly. He always had a toothpick working in his mouth, and his teeth were bad. He was out of Chicago, where things had gotten too hot for him. For the past few years he had been working for the Mob out of Hell’s Kitchen, doing unpleasant things to people’s knuckles and thumbs if they didn’t pay the five percent weekly interest his bosses charged.
Not that the squirt worked people over himself. No, he was the brain, the director of a group of bruisers who had tagged along when he left Chicago. He scared people because they saw the sadism and the insanity in his little beady eyes. He could think up lots of things to do to your arms and legs if you didn’t pay up. Then he would stand there and snicker, working that toothpick around, as his goons did the work on you.
Half-Pint stood in the telephone booth, his oversized suit-coat (they didn’t make them ready-made that small) hanging over him like a curtain.
Damn, Lockwood wished he could hear the voice on the other end. Hook got out of his car and slipped unseen into the next booth and listened at the glass. Half-Pint’s back was to him.
Lockwood only heard Half-Pint say, “Yeah.” a few times before he hung up.
Lockwood grabbed the lapel of the little creep as he stepped out. “Going somewhere, squirt?”
Half-Pint paled as if he had seen a ghost. “B-b-ut y-you’re de—”
“Why should I be dead?” Lockwood grabbed the punk and shoved him against the wall. Half-Pint was never good at keeping his trap shut, so Lockwood thought it would be easy to get him to squeal. Easy except for the two goons who suddenly came at Lockwood from behind.
A blackjack blow glanced along his left ear, stunning him, and landed on his shoulder. It would have cracked his collarbone were it not for his suit’s padding. Lockwood went with the force of the blow, moving to absorb its energy, and then turned to face his adversaries.
Killer Dumbrowsky came rushing toward Hook, his huge ugly face contorted with manic laughter. His hands looked as big as bulldozers as they swept toward Hook’s head, ready to start digging. Hook had gotten his name for a reason, however, and leaping to the left, he let Killer fly. Just as the big mug’s face went by, Hook smashed a straight right into his nose. Crack, they all heard it break, and blood streamed down the nostrils that looked like they belonged more on a horse than a person.
“Want more?” Hook asked, his fists raised in the classic boxing pose. Behind those fists was an expert boxer, one who could weave and duck and throw out jabs that would make his opponent’s head spin. Killer was still shaking his head, trying to clear it.
Hook heard a noise to his side and turned to see Walter-the-Waiter coming at him with the blackjack. Walter seemed to snarl; a strange, animal sound issued from his throat. Walter wasn’t nearly as large as Killer Dumbrowsky but was covered with muscles. At the gym they said he could press 500 pounds.
Walter leaped at Hook, who danced away, leaving the man floundering in space.
Walter flailed madly at Hook with the blackjack, swinging it every which way, but Hook kept dancing backward and off to the side. He played with Walter for a few seconds before he started punching. His first jab got Walter right in the eyebrow. His head jerked back like he’d been hit with a hammer. Hook moved in as Walter raised the mean little weapon in his hand, and caught him square on the jaw.
Walter grunted and raised his hand again.
“Fools never learn, do they?” Hook asked and gave Walter the old one-two.
The first one caught Walter on the side of the head. As his body fell, Hook gave him a sharp uppercut with his right. That was it for Walter-the-Waiter. He pitched forward, his body stiff as a piece of wood, and fell face down onto the sidewalk.
Half-Pint, who had been standing off to the side smirking, didn’t look so happy now. He started jumping up and down in frantic fear.
“Get him, you idiots,” he yelled at Killer Dumbrowsky who stood about ten feet away rubbing his head. Dumbrowsky didn’t look enthusiastic about the task, but he stood up straight and headed back toward Hook, who just waited.
“That’s it, Killer! Get him! Break his neck. Smash his face.” Half-Pint was in a rage now. He wasn’t going to let some lousy dick l
ike Hook get one over on him. Especially when he didn’t have to do the fighting.
Killer approached cautiously. He waved his fists around in front, trying to catch Hook on the shoulder. But Hook just kept moving, staying out of Killer’s range only by inches.
Killer looked increasingly frustrated. “I’m gonna get you, worm,” Dumbrowsky yelled.
“Well, you don’t have to look far to find me,” Hook said. He sneered at his attacker.
Killer Dumbrowsky had had enough. He leaped through the air, 340 pounds of angry flesh aimed at Hook’s head.
Hook spun and tried to move out from under the giant’s weight. He had just about gotten away, when Killer reached backward with his long arm and caught Hook by the hair. He pulled Hook forward and got him in a headlock with his other arm. He had the bastard now, the creep who had just humiliated him.
“Yeah, break his head. Now, do it now,” Half-Pint screamed, jumping up and down like some broken jack-in-a-box. At last, he’d gotten Hook.
Killer’s bald head glistened in the bright sun as he tightened his grip around Hook’s head. Just as Killer began to smile, he screamed. And screamed again, for Hook’s hand had reached down and grabbed the big oaf’s nuts, and he held on.
Dumbrowsky straightened up like a telephone pole and then collapsed. He seemed not to know which way to move, but jerked about frantically like a fish out of water at the end of a line.
“Aahh, enough,” Hook said, and he let go of the giant’s jewels. “Here, let me take a look at you.”
Hook stood up and looked at Killer Dumbrowsky, who seemed unsure whether to scream, cry, or just fall down. He had both hands covering his private parts and cowered.
Hook gave Killer a series of sharp quick punches to the face, just to remember him by—one, two, three, four. The hard fast hands of Hook flew through the afternoon air and found their mark. Dumbrowsky’s big elephant eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he fell like a tree onto the sidewalk and rolled halfway into the gutter, his nose an inch away from a chewed-up cigar butt.
Hook heard a rustling and spun around. Half-Pint, the fool, was running at him with his shiv out. He had the thing extended way out from his body as if he were scared of it himself. The gleaming blade rushed at Hook like a bolt of electricity. Hook spun his foot up and caught the side of Half-Pint’s hand. The knife spun out of the tiny fist and flew through the air, end over end, across the street like a spinning dollar.
Hook grabbed the punk’s hand. He pushed his other hand against Half-Pint’s elbow. Crack! It snapped like an old chicken bone. Half-Pint screamed and fell to the ground clutching his broken arm. He writhed around like a snake looking for a hole to crawl in.
“And that’ll teach you assholes. I hope,” Hook said to the three.
Suddenly a citizen came running up.
“I saw you!” he screamed at Lockwood. “Those fists are lethal weapons. Cut it out. You’ll hurt them.”
“What!” Lockwood said. “That’s the idea.”
Damn! When he turned back, the three were scampering down the street.
At least they didn’t bust my lip, Lockwood thought, or rip my suit. Not bad. He swept his fingers through his hair, which that overstuffed dinosaur, Dumbrowsky had managed to tangle, and made off for the rendezvous with Robin. He could use a drink with a pretty dame.
Lockwood stopped in a drugstore to phone Mr. Gray. He wanted Gray to insist on a meeting with Wade. He told Gray what he had done so far and said he was on his way to an important meeting with “a possible informant.” Lockwood didn’t say she was voluptuous and blond. He took two aspirin with a seltzer at the soda counter and left.
Gray had said he was glad Hook wasn’t fooling with women this time. He would arrange a meeting with Wade, if possible, for this evening. Hook told Gray he wanted to ask Wade if he had any short friends.
Lockwood wondered, what if Robin wants to spend the night? Not that he was rushing the young lady. Yet they might get along real fine. He had a sixth sense about women. If he was right, Robin had an eye for him. There was something else he remembered aside from her perfume, something desperate in those eyes, something yearning to break free and open up to someone. Him maybe.
Jesus, he was twenty minutes late. He got back to the Cord and floored it. In a minute, a police Plymouth pulled him over. Lt. Jimbo Brannigan was scarcely half-way out of the black and white door when Hook recognized him. Jimbo had a demeanor of a bulldog sizing up a mailman for a bite. He was big and tall, but everything about his build inside that blue uniform said bulldog, too.
Lockwood watched him approach in his side mirror. Brannigan, of course, would know by the car that it was his old pal and irritant, Hook Lockwood. They went back a long way, often at odds, more often working together. The towering bulk of the well-weathered Irishman filled the mirror. Brannigan leaned on the sill of the open window and put his weight on the running board. The car tilted slightly. He was that big.
“Hiya, dimple face. You seemed to be speeding, or was it my imagination?” The caustic grin of the cop met Lock-wood’s sheepish one.
“Really? I must have the speedometer checked. It gets all clogged up with the cinders from these filthy streets.”
Brannigan removed the grin; he was all bulldog again. “I hear that you’re off and running on a new case, me boy. I suppose you’ll soon be asking me for favors and assistance.”
“I won’t need assistance, thank you. Listen, I’m sorry about going too fast. I’ll slow down. Can I go? I’m in a hurry.”
“Off to meet a dame, aren’t you?”
Jimbo wrote him a ticket.
“Drop around soon and maybe I’ll ‘fix’ it for you, Hook. I want to talk to you. Before I have to identify your body with a tag around its left toe in the morgue. You drop around. Okay?”
Grumbling, Lockwood took the ticket and pulled away. He had promised to see Jimbo at the first opportunity.
CHAPTER
5
“Thirty-five minutes late!” Robin cooly stated as he slipped into the corner booth beside her at 21. “Are you always late?”
“I’d say that depends on the circumstances.” Lockwood took off his hat and threw it across the booth onto the rack.
“Good aim. What circumstances? Or are you just playing hard to get?”
“Another appointment, with a doctor—a check-up. Took longer than I expected. Then I got a speeding ticket because I was in such a hurry to meet you, my dear. That’s the truth.” Almost, he thought.
“I don’t believe you.”
Lockwood produced the ticket. She looked it over. “It appears genuine.”
She had soft blond hair, shoulder length, and now that she shed her jacket, Lockwood saw an inviting pair covered by her silk blouse. He sighed. They leaned forward, and he tore his eyes away to smile back at her. She was young and fresh, and she looked as if no man had yet put his paws on her.
The wavy blond hair fit better in the booth at 21 than keeping track of workmen in a blustery baseball stadium. Her long fingers—Lockwood bet she played piano—were cupped about a Black Russian on the rocks. She seemed to be slightly high, for her smile looked a bit crooked.
Lockwood looked into electric green eyes. He felt aroused. Her soft creamy complexion, those perfectly formed questioning lips, that subtle chin—he wanted to run his hands over her.
“I see you managed to change your outfit,” he said. “Green looks swell on you.”
“Well, in that case, you’re forgiven for being late.” She handed him back Jimbo’s ticket. “What’s a Cord?”
“I’ll show you, but first, I need a drink.” He called Joe, but as usual Sam, his assistant, hopped to it and came over, a towel on his arm. Like all the waiters here, Sam wore a black tie and tuxedo jacket. Gentlemen didn’t get in without a jacket and tie. That was why he had asked Robin to meet him here rather than O’Malleys. Classier.
“Canadian and soda,” Lockwood ordered. “And another of whatever the lady’s dr
inking.
“Now,” he continued, “what do you think of taking a spin in my Cord? Maybe a steak place I know out on the Island, and then dancing?”
“Aren’t you moving a bit fast, Mr. Lockwood?”
“Bill.”
“Bill, then.” She paused, looking deep into his steel gray eyes, and her gaze lingered there. “Maybe I will go for a spin with you. Cheers.”
She worked for Wade as a publicist and a secretary, a job that often gave her the day off, since Mr. Wade didn’t seem to want publicity or make many appointments. The pay was lousy. She was from a small town and lived with her aunt on 57th Street. Lockwood filled her in on his angle.
“A private eye?” Lockwood sighed. “Not exactly. Actually, an insurance investigator.”
“Maybe you’ll show me your gun sometime. I’m sure you have a big one.”
Either she is a complete innocent or I’m being teased, he thought. He ordered-another set of drinks.
Robin had a soft voice to go with her soft lips. She didn’t slurp her drinks, and she was intelligent. She was also holding something back. Whenever Lockwood brought the subject around to Wade, the conversation turned to gardening, the shops along Fifth Avenue, or—interestingly enough—Indian jewelry. Robin had a small collection of turquoise, so she said, and several rings made by the Zuni Indians from a trip to Arizona two years earlier.
Indeed, she wore a large stone, mottled green on blue in a silver hand-hammered ring, on her left index finger. Not your usual ring. Most women preferred the small delicate creations of New York.
It was an opportunity to hold her hand as he examined the ring. Her hand felt nice. Warm and not tentative. He held it for a good little while, and they smiled at each other over the table.
She agreed to go for dinner.
They were just stepping on the first stair, arm in arm, when Joe came running up.
“Hook, it’s Mr. Gray on the phone, and he’s mad. He wants to talk to you.” He glanced significantly at Robin. “Should I tell him you’re not here?”
Lockwood decided he had to take the call. “Wait here a minute baby.”