The Death of Lorenzo Jones

by Brad Latham

  “Please,” she said. “Let’s spend no more money tonight. You must have struck oil, Bill. But don’t spend so much on me. I’m not worth it.”

  “You’re worth it, baby,” he said.

  He tipped Mario for bringing back the Cord in the same shape he had left it. Lockwood was ready for dancing at the Copa, conversing over a split of champagne, but Robin said he was crazy, laughed, and suggested a movie.

  “If that’s what you really want to do. I love movies.”

  “Then a movie it is.” Gone was her look of sadness. Back was the freshness of her smile and the sensual turn of her lower lip.

  Lockwood would have liked to have held her long into the night, dancing cheek to cheek. But some other time. He didn’t rush women, he understood them.

  They saw Brother Rat starring Errol Flynn and Ronald Reagan. Afterward, Robin told Lockwood that he was handsomer than both of them put together.

  “And you’re better looking than Ava Gardner.”

  “You’re nice to say that… .” she said sweetly. The moon played tricks with her eyes and hair, making them sparkle in the night.

  She was so vulnerable. Too vulnerable, he could see that. A nice small-town girl with a build that got her into trouble. She needs a nice guy, not me, thought Hook. A guy who will go easy on her, protect her. A guy to make her a home.

  No, he thought, as he drove her home, she certainly doesn’t need me or anyone like me. Especially not a slimy creep like Wade.

  He resolved to take care of Wade tomorrow.

  They didn’t go up to her aunt’s apartment, and Lockwood didn’t offer to take her to his hotel. Not yet.

  Before he left her, she drew him behind a palm tree in the lobby of her building. There, she leaned closer. Her breathing was warm. He took the hint and kissed her. Long and hard.

  She sighed and said, “That was nice.” She grabbed his face and kissed him back passionately. Her body leaned against his, and he loved the feel of her hills and valleys.

  She finally broke away and said, “Please, call me again. Here’s my number, it’s unlisted because of….”

  Wade! Lockwood thought. He kissed her once more and left.

  Mr. Wade would have a visitor first thing in the morning, and a knuckle sandwich unless he agreed to lay off. Lock-wood’s hands felt itchy, the way they did before a fight.

  As he opened the door to the Cord, he saw he had visitors.

  CHAPTER

  7

  How did they know to lay for him there? Lockwood didn’t have much time to muse about it. It was Half-Pint again with his two bruisers, Killer Dumbrowsky and Walter-the-Waiter. Half-Pint snickered, working that half-chewed toothpick about in his mouth. His arm was in a sling.

  “Surprised to see me, Hook?”

  “Not really,” Lockwood answered laconically. “Every time I turn over a rock, you’re under it, like a worm.”

  Half-Pint spit out the toothpick. “Get him,” he yelled.

  Killer Dumbrowsky came at Lockwood first. He was ugly as ever, six-four with a hook nose busted to the side and a scar half across his cheek. His bald head glistened.

  Lockwood blocked him effectively with a tremendous kick of his left heel to the brute’s midsection. It would have put anyone else out of service, but it just stopped the hulk for a moment.

  The meaty ham hock of a fist belonging to Walter came at him from left field. Walter’s smaller but more muscular body slammed into Lockwood shortly after the fist—not because Walter had intended to dive at Lockwood but because Dumbrowsky was staggering forward again and bumped into his companion from behind.

  The initial clumsiness of the two made Lockwood confident. That confidence faded when Walter spun him around, and Dumbrowsky brought an elbow against his neck from behind. Dazed, the investigator tried to get away to recover, but they wouldn’t let him.

  Dumbrowsky, the wrestler, was in his element now. He caught Hook around the waist with a huge grunt, squeezed as he lifted him to chest level, then turned him upside down and dropped him.

  Lockwood had lost his hat at the first blow, so he landed on his skull without the benefit of a cushion. Dazed, he bit at the big brute’s ankle, getting his teeth into the Argyle socks. That brought a scream from above. While Dumbrowsky hopped about on one foot, Lockwood rolled to his feet, and although still dazed, kicked Dumbrowsky in his hopping leg, sending him sprawling.

  Half-Pint was cringing in a doorway, pallid and covering his sling with his other arm. Lockwood eyed him, figuring to undo what the doctors had mended, but before he could take a step toward the squirt, Walter-the-Waiter came at him with a good imitation of a windmill. The blows were hard, but Hook blocked effectively and got in a few good ones to Walter’s chest and chin.

  “You bastard,” snarled Walter, backing off.

  Walter dropped his guard when he suddenly backed into Dumbrowsky, who was still writhing on the ground. Hook took advantage of the opening and delivered his special, a solid left hook.

  Walter went limp, his headlights rolled up, and he fell back over Dumbrowsky.

  Dumbrowsky thought it was Lockwood who had fallen on him and tried to tear Walter’s head off. When the dumb bastard realized what he was doing, he started shaking Walter, saying, “Hey, pal. I’m sorry. Wake up.”

  Lockwood turned again toward Half-Pint, who was still cowering and holding his sling against his chest with his good arm.

  “How come you don’t come out here and join your pals?”

  “L-let me alone, Hook. Don’t h-hurt me. I-I’m a cripple.”

  Lockwood expected Half-Pint would get down on his knees any second, but it was just a stall. Walter had awakened, was on Lockwood from behind, and punched him in the kidney. Pain shot through Lockwood, but he turned and smashed an uppercut into the muscular sneak. It took two, a right, then a left, to down Walter this time, and when Lockwood turned Half-Pint was not to be seen. The investigator spun to see him leaning into the window of a black Dodge, his feet off the ground. But before Lockwood could go over and pull the pip-squeak out by his rump, Half-Pint dropped back out of the car window and turned. He held a mean-looking .38. That snicker was back.

  “Guns?” asked Lockwood. “Isn’t that upping the ante?”

  “Just stand still, Hook,” threatened the little creep. “I’ll ventilate you.”

  Half-Pint’s goons got up and started working Hook over. Lockwood couldn’t do much because Half-Pint had a gun. They pushed him in the alley when they had finished.

  They then left him for unconscious or dead. He was neither. As Half-Pint turned to leave, Lockwood grabbed hold of the squirt’s shoe and tripped him. Although he was beat, Lockwood then knocked the gun into an ashcan by smashing Half-Pint’s wrist on the metal edge. Then he got in a few fists to the twitching face before the odds took over again. The three got the upper hand and were going to finish him. Someone was yelling “Police,” and he heard a distant siren.

  Half-Pint yelled, “Cheese it!”

  The three ran off, leaving Lockwood lying there. The police siren wasn’t for him; it went past. Lockwood picked himself up, fell down, picked himself up, fell down again before he staggered to the car and somehow drove home to the Summerfield Hotel.

  His ribs on the left side felt like they were cracked. They jabbed him every time he took a deep breath. His eyes were so swollen that everything looked blurry. His teeth felt loose.

  But he didn’t like hospitals. People died in hospitals.

  How he had made it to the Summerfield, he didn’t know. He got into the elevator in a stupor. The elevator operator, James, asked him what the hell had happened.

  “Tell you later,” Lockwood mumbled.

  He staggered to his room, found the key, entered, and fell on the bed. He slept in his clothes. When he awoke, hours later, his tongue felt swollen and his face felt like one large bruise. It seemed like a horse had sat on his stomach.

  Wait till I get my hands on that squirt, he thought. He showered for
thirty minutes in water as hot as he could stand. He cut himself three times shaving. He had six cups of black coffee and lay back down for another hour.

  In boxing circles they say you should be in a doctor’s office if you piss red, but he ignored it. Once, after being in the ring, the same thing happened, and his kidneys had recovered. Of course he had been a lot younger then.

  A second trip to the bathroom mirror confirmed what the first had told him. He looked like something the cat had dragged in, dragged out, and dragged back in again. Bad.

  Puffy, red, cracked lips, and abrasions. He groaned softly, poking at his lip as he tried to get a toothbrush in. There was a knock at the door.

  He stumbled over and answered it. It was the Summer-field’s number-one bellboy, Diego. Diego was a Filipino with lots of ugly moles peppering his face. He was so ugly that everyone tipped him well just so he would leave. But he was a real pal, a great guy. The little fellow had a roller cart full of remedies. Iodine, Vaseline, gauze, bandages, and a raw porterhouse steak.

  Lockwood, sitting there on the toilet, let Diego do it all, wincing at the slightest touch while Diego administered to him.

  He took six aspirins and had a scotch. That didn’t go well with the coffee.

  Then he went back to bed, this time with his clothes off and under the sheets. Diego made a neat pile of his clothes and took them out to be cleaned and pressed.

  Eighteen hours later he woke up. The bruises had turned a bit blue, but a little talc made them fade. He still felt sore as hell, but he was ready to go.

  He made sure he had his .38 in the holster in his waistband underneath his jacket in back, cop style. He wasn’t going to let himself get suckered into any more fights.

  What was it he had to do? Oh yes, take care of that sinister boss of Robin, Cyrus Wade. Lockwood grinned; that ought to make his morning.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Lockwood caught Wade leaving his office for lunch. He left the Cord and trailed him to a remarkably modest restaurant. Lunch in a dive. Wade was as cheap as he was a bastard. The beanery was called Lulu’s, scarcely more than a diner.

  The investigator followed Wade in and grabbed him at his table right after he ordered.

  “Lockwood! Let go. What’s the meaning of this? Unhand me.”

  “Not on your life.” Lockwood tightened his grip on Wade’s wrist.

  “Wha-what happened to your face, Lockwood?”

  “Pretending you don’t know? Your friends have itchy hands. Now I’ve got itchy hands, Wade. We’re going for a walk.” Lockwood lifted the thin man up by the wrist, stuck a finger in his pocket against Wade’s back. “This is a gun. Move.”

  Lockwood told Wade to put a dollar on the table. “You leave a big tip.”

  Outside, Lockwood looked both ways as he pushed Wade along the sidewalk.

  “Where—where are we going?” Wade was sniveling. At the same time he was looking for an out. Lockwood watched for sudden moves. This guy was dangerous. The sneaky kind. He was stringy, too, and stronger than he appeared.

  “Here!” Lockwood shoved him into an alley. “I think you’re having me beat up in alleys, and I’m returning the favor.”

  “No. Let me go.” The quick eyes searched for a weakness in Hook.

  “And anyway, even if it wasn’t you who ordered up goons-to-go, I’ve got to teach you to be the gentleman you pretend to be.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been pawing your secretary, Robin Mobley. You’re pretty free with your fingers. Here, let’s see those fingers.”

  Lockwood forced Wade’s right hand up to face level, careful that those manicured nails didn’t have the opportunity to strike out at his eyes.

  “Hmm. Nice manicure, but I think you need another.”

  Lockwood pretended to pocket the non-existent gun and grabbed both of Wade’s hands. He forced the fingertips against the rough brick of the building. Wade screamed. Lockwood continued to scrape the fingers against the brick.

  “Just giving you a better manicure, Mr. Fingers, Mr. Grab-the-Girl-and-Make-Her-Sweat.”

  The millionaire squirmed and fought to escape. When Lockwood felt finished, he let Wade slide to the ground.

  “Take my advice, Wade. Tell the cops about this, or hire any punks to take me on, and I’ll come back and do the same with your prick, understand?”

  Before he left, Lockwood suggested that Wade double his secretary’s salary. Wade was agreeable, especially after Lockwood had adjusted his tie a little tighter. Big shot. The minimum wage under Roosevelt’s new Wage and Hours Act was 25¢ an hour. Wade had been giving Robin 20¢. And pawing her. Now it would be 40¢ and hands off—or else.

  Lockwood left Wade in the alley, whimpering and blowing on his raw fingertips.

  Lockwood had been kicked around enough on this case, it was time to push back. Wade, the evil bastard, was a good place to start. It had felt good. Real good.

  Now Hook could do some company business. Like drive to the airfield and do some interviews. He enjoyed the ride, chuckling when he thought of Wade. What would Robin think when her salary was doubled? She’d figure out what had happened. Wade was really scared: he’d never tell the cops.

  At Flushing Airfield Lockwood walked to the main hangar. Farther out on the field a red biplane was sputtering to a stop after landing.

  He saw the biplane stop, and a figure jump from it. Was it—a woman? The figure had on red coveralls and huge aviator’s scarf. Baggy outfit, but yes, a woman. She was about fifty paces away, and he cut toward her through the weeds. She took coils of wire out of her baggy pockets and tied down the biplane, hammering stakes into the ground. He approached her.

  “Hello there, miss,” he yelled, waving. The wind was whipping up a bit: he could understand why the craft needed tying down. It seemed eager to take off again on its own. Such a marvel of a contraption, painted red with lots of strut wires between the double wings.

  “Hi.” She turned toward him and smiled. Her voice was strong but feminine. She had chestnut brown hair in a pageboy cut, casual. Blue eyes. No makeup as far as he could tell. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Lockwood’s the name. I was here yesterday. You wouldn’t be Amanda Seligman, would you?”

  This woman in red coveralls was certainly comely. She was tanned from the sun, had a thin aquiline nose, and a glow only acquired by being out in all sorts of weather. Her skin was flawless, and her deep blue eyes drew Lockwood in like whirlpools might a ship. He grinned. He wanted to go down with all hands.

  She answered only after checking him over as if he were a strange sea gull that had alit near her.

  “That’s me.”

  “Could I ask you some questions about Lorenzo Jones?”

  “FAA?” She looked him over again. “No, insurance company.”

  “Insurance investigator.”

  She finished with the wire, then stood up from her crouch. She was about three inches shorter than Lockwood.

  “Well, if you want to talk, you’ll have to come with me. I have to go to the end of the runway to check something. You don’t mind, do you?”

  He didn’t mind. It was a bit of a walk, but it was warm and sunny.

  “Not much of an airfield, is it?” she said.

  “It’s not Idlewild. Can a DC-3 land here?”

  “Sure. They do all the time, when they have to. There’s no housing blocking the field, you can come in nice and low except for that Old Gold sign.” She pointed at a billboard to the left. “That’s a pain in the rump.”

  “Really?” Some language. He liked the way she moved under those coveralls. Curvy. Well constructed.

  Her flashing eyes caught his again. “Say, do you have an I.D.? There’s an FAA rule about authorized persons on airfields.”

  He showed her his buzzer. She looked it over carefully.

  “You wouldn’t have been trying to make me think you were a cop by showing me that badge, would you? That would be illegal. It really looks
like a cop’s badge.”

  Most people just assumed he was a cop when they saw the badge. She had a quick eye.

  “A coincidence,” he said.

  She smiled again.

  Their destination was a snagged wind sock, the device that filled with air to show the direction of the wind, information pilots needed in order to land. It had wrapped all around itself. She couldn’t quite reach it, so Lockwood obliged by holding her up by the waist as she stretched to unsnag it. There was a small hole in the wind sock.

  “My, you’re strong. You can let me down now,” she said. “I’ll have to come out and sew it.” She frowned. “Let me down. I get the picture, you can hold me up all day long.”

  “My pleasure.”

  What a nice tight body she had, and a surprisingly small waist under those coveralls. Her breasts had brushed against him also, but she wasn’t in the least embarrassed. He let her down.

  “Now this Lorenzo, I only knew him slightly, but he was a hell of a nice hick,” she said. “He knew a lot about piloting, and I can’t see how he crashed on such a nice day, with all the maintenance he did on his craft.”

  “That’s what I want to find out.”

  “You’ve seen it? The wreck? I sneaked a peek. It must have nosed down. A wing would practically have to break off to have that happen. I know. I fly basically the same craft. Except his was supercharged.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Whatever did happen, Lorenzo turned the wrong way on takeoff.”

  “Could that have made him crash?” Lockwood was at last getting somewhere, he thought.

  “Heavens, no. It doesn’t matter except that we always turn right to avoid that sign. We like to give it lots of room. But he cleared the sign easily from what I heard. I wasn’t watching.”

  “Who was?”

  “Stinky, a kid who hangs out here, and Jones’ wife—and his boss, a Mr…. something, Glade.”

  “Wade.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s Mrs. Jones like? I know Wade.”

  “Cold, sorta. She and Lorenzo weren’t in the same class. He was a hick. A smart one, but a hick. She has family, way back to the Mayflower. How the twain met, I can’t imagine.”