The Death of Lorenzo Jones

by Brad Latham

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply that you had an emotional motive for making a decision.”

  “Good day, Lockwood.” Gray hung up.

  Lockwood parked a block from the Midtown Precinct. He and Robin walked slowly up the stone stairs of the building and into the main hall. Jimbo sent Early down to bring the pair upstairs.

  Early hated the job. Usher! He glared at Lockwood and escorted them without a word. He opened the door to Brannigan’s spartan office.

  “That will be all, Early,” Brannigan said.

  “Thanks, pal.” Lockwood smiled. Robin looked at the big Irish cop apprehensively.

  “My, my, Hook, are you turning over a new leaf? Bringing in a fugitive? I suppose you never knew where she was, right?”

  “Right. She asked me to arrange for her to surrender. She’s totally innocent of all charges.”

  Brannigan leaned forward and cracked his knuckles. “Oh? Then just why would this lovely run away?”

  “Because her life was in danger from the real killers.”

  “And who’re they?”

  “Wade and Cynthia Jones.”

  “Oh come on, Hook.” Brannigan looked annoyed. “No more of that.”

  The phone on the desk suddenly rang. It was Early downstairs, speaking so loudly that all three heard him.

  “Some high-powered shyster, name of Bleiberg, is here with some writs. He wants to see his client, Robin Mobley.”

  “Send Mr. Fancy-Pants up.” Jimbo sighed. “Hook, you’re a pain.”

  Bleiberg, in a crisp, tailored, three-piece suit, didn’t waste any time. His client would say nothing. The whole group went before the judge in half an hour.

  “What’s this man doing here?” asked the same old judge that Lockwood had appeared in front of before. “I thought a young lady was the defendant.”

  Holding his hat, Lockwood said, “Fiancée, your honor.”

  It was news to Robin—and news to Lockwood, too. He just had to say something.

  She hugged him. Now I’ve done it, he thought.

  “Well, I guess you can stay while we deal with the case.”

  “Your honor,” Bleiberg intoned solemnly, “my client is innocent. She is not a fugitive from justice, but rather from injustice… .”

  Bleiberg droned on eloquently for twenty minutes. Impressive. He seemed to Lockwood a bit like the Statue of Liberty, “a shining pristine lady surrounded by a sea of swill.”

  The judge granted Robin’s release on $3,000 bail, and Bleiberg guaranteed the court that Transatlantic would meet it.

  CHAPTER

  25

  Lockwood took Robin to her aunt’s, who was out of town. She had thrown in the towel on Robin after all the scandal of the past week. Good riddance, Lockwood decided.

  Later, he took Robin to the Stork Club; they had reason to celebrate. Both were no longer hunted criminals.

  Sherm came over and pinned a cream-colored orchid on Robin’s blue dress.

  “A beautiful flower for a beautiful young lady.” Hook smiled; it was the same line Sherm used with all the girls.

  Sherm welcomed Lockwood back from “the pits of this hellish judicial system.” He ordered a huge cake for the couple. Several other people drifted over to the party.

  One was Groucho Marx, whom Lockwood had met once before through Sherm.

  Robin was surprised to see that Marx did indeed walk that way. He looked smaller in real life than on the screen.

  Groucho said, “So you’re Hook’s fiancee, huh? That reminds me of the last time I was married. She was so ugly the mudpacks fainted when they went on her face. But you’re beautiful,” he said, staring at Robin. “Where did Meat hook you? I mean where did Hook meet you?”

  They all laughed.

  It was like a dream. Robin and Lockwood danced to “Autumn Leaves” and drank champagne. Robin was giddy with the evening. She was flying. Lockwood’s pleasure was only tempered by knowing that he was always bad luck to women who fell for him. Very bad luck. Jesus, he didn’t want anything to happen to Robin.

  Suddenly, Walter Winchell was by his side. He put his arm on Hook’s shoulder.

  “Got to talk with you, boy.”

  They walked behind a large potted tree.

  “Hook, Cyrus Wade and Charles Waters are one and the same. I’m sure now.”

  “Thanks, Walter.” Though that wasn’t anything Lockwood didn’t already know.

  “Listen, Walter, what I really need is a big play in your column about how anyone who can clear Robin should come forward.”

  Lockwood told Winchell about the problems Robin had.

  “Hook, I’ll do everything in my power to get down to the truth in this mess. But it’s my exclusive on the next few cases you’re on, okay?”

  “Sure,” Hook agreed. “With pictures, of the bodies and everything.” He smiled at Winchell.

  “I’m effective, Hook,” Winchell went on. “Never underestimate the power of public opinion—or my column. When Winchell talks, people listen.”

  “You’re a good friend, Walter.”

  “One hand washes the other.”

  The party was great. The huge cake, in the shape of a big hook, arrived after everyone had stuffed themselves. Vanilla icing, six layers, with little inner partitions of chocolate. From baloney sandwiches in jail to cake fit for a king, Lockwood thought. The world was a strange place indeed.

  Way after midnight, when they finally left, Hook noticed a police tail pull out behind his Cord.

  He drove directly to Robin’s aunt’s house, stopping only at the corner news stand for the late edition. In the house, Lockwood opened the Daily Mirror to page two.

  There they were, in separate photographs. FUGITIVE GIRL SURRENDERS IN ARMS OF BEAU. Oh brother.

  The story, thanks to Doug Sheer, went on about how such a lovely couple couldn’t have done the things the police suspected them of doing.

  Robin was annoyed when she saw her picture. “God, that’s my Plainville High graduation photo. I hated it!”

  While Robin was reading the article, Lockwood noticed something funny. The lights were on in the back room. Hadn’t he turned them off just before leaving?

  He rose quietly, so as not to alarm Robin, and walked toward the door. He pulled his gun out. No more getting hit in the head, Hook thought.

  He took a few tiny steps into the other room and saw someone bloody, garish, and dead on the carpet.

  “Oh no,” he gasped. He pushed the bedroom door all the way open so that anyone behind it would be caught against the wall. Then he leaped around to look.

  No one.

  Lockwood went over to the body. It was small and had sneakers on. Under it, he saw a spreading pool of blood.

  He knew who it was, without even turning the child’s lifeless body over. Oh God. Oh goddamn.

  Now they’d gotten Stinky, too.

  CHAPTER

  26

  Lockwood bent down next to the sixteen-year-old. He felt his carotid artery, up near the kid’s neck. There was a pulse!

  “He’s still alive. Call an ambulance!” Lockwood yelled.

  To her credit, Robin kept her cool. While she dialed, he turned Stinky’s limp form over and found the wounds—deep knife gashes in the stomach.

  He ripped a piece off Stinky’s sleeve to make a compress against the bleeding. The kid was barely clinging to life, but he made a noise.

  “Uhhhh….”

  “Easy there, Stinky. It’s Hook. An ambulance is on the way. Listen, kid, you’re going to be all right.”

  “Yeah, sure, Hook.”

  “Stinky, who did this to you?”

  “Don’t—know,” he gasped. “I heard two guys talking at the hangars—said—they want to jump—you here. F-first they waited for y-you there. Y-You never came.”

  “What did they look like?”

  Stinky’s face grimaced in pain. “Don’t—know—I was hiding in closet—heard them. One was tall, hair 1-long, parted in middle. Othe
r short in b-big brown coat—they were gonna kill you, H-Hook, so I had to—warn you.”

  “Don’t talk, kid. I know who they are.” Lockwood could picture the two of them working the little kid over. The rats.

  The lousy, scum-sucking, pig-faced, pea-brained gangster bastards had done this, and they didn’t deserve to live.

  “The b-big guy tried to stop the 1-little one who s-stabbed me. They must have g-got here first, before me—I r-rode my bike. The d-door was unlocked a-and I came in and they j-jumped me, Hook.”

  “Okay, kid, okay. Easy, save your strength.”

  Lockwood heard the scream of an ambulance in the street below.

  “Robin, go down and get them up here fast. The desk clerk might stall them or something.”

  Robin ran out of the door. “I’ll get them.”

  Stinky moaned and grimaced again. “I-I’m gonna be a pitcher, maybe—s-someday—”

  The kid was getting woozy and delirious. Loss of blood Hook tried to make the compress do more of a job, but he suspected internal bleeding.

  “I—I heard them say they would go to Sty-Styson’s fence place—something—something like that, to see the b-boss.”

  “Stysons?”

  “Y-yes. That’s all.”

  Hook grabbed Stinky’s arms; the kid’s eyes were rolling over. “Stinky! Do you mean Stymie’s? Stymie the fence?”

  “Yes. That’s it! They—went—to a guy—n-named—Stymie to see—b-boss—”

  The kid breathed out but didn’t breathe in again.

  Enraged, Lockwood shook him violently. No go. Stinky’s eyes rolled up in his head. The kid’s life was gone.

  The ambulance attendants took Stinky away. Hook just sat and stared at the blank wall.

  Robin sat on the floor next to him, her arms wrapped around his leg. Tears slowly ran down her cheeks.

  It had always bothered Lockwood that he couldn’t figure how and through whom Wade the businessman had hired these goons. Now everything fell neatly into place.

  Stymie. Stymie was a fence. A slimy, sniveling little water rat who chewed crackers in his yellow teeth over in his crooked pawnshop on the West Side, hard by the river.

  Lots of times Stymie was the receiver of stolen merchandise that Lockwood had to recover for Transatlantic.

  The word around town was that if you wanted to take out a contract or find a safecracker you looked up Stymie. For a fee you got a name and phone number.

  So Wade must have asked around. And when you asked around, Stymie’s name came up. Wade hired the goons to do his dirty work so he wouldn’t have to get his dainty little fingers dirty.

  Now Half-Pint and Iron Man were going to meet the boss—meaning Wade—at Stymie’s, unless Lockwood was dead wrong. Probably to tell him they had botched the job on Hook and killed a kid instead.

  Lockwood was just standing up and reaching for his hat to go to Stymie’s when Early and Knapp walked in.

  “Killing kids now, Hook?” Early asked. He tsk-tsked.

  “Get the hell out of here, cop. I’m in no mood to play with you.”

  “Well, we want to play with you, Lockwood. You and this dame here are under arrest for suspicion.”

  “You can’t arrest anyone for suspicion.” Lockwood glared at them.

  “Let’s see now. We got you. We got a body. The two of youse is out on bail—why not? Cuff Hook, Knapp. For the dame I don’t think we’ll need them.”

  Lockwood might have punched his way out, but two more, beefy cops walked in just then. He sighed as the cuffs were once again snapped around his wrists.

  CHAPTER

  27

  With Early between them, Robin and Lockwood rode in the back seat of the patrol car. Knapp drove. The other cops followed in a second car. Jesus, Lockwood thought, was he Public Enemy Number One now?

  Early smiled. “No fancy lawyer is going to spring you now.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” insisted Robin. “We didn’t do it, and you can’t hold us.”

  “Watch me,” Early retorted.

  Lockwood had to leave, and right now. A raging voice was screaming inside him: Get out of here! Get away, get to Stymie’s, and get that lizard Wade.

  “Robin,” he whispered, while Early was leaning forward to talk to the cop in the front seat. “Make a loud noise, like you’re in pain.”

  Robin screamed with all her might, scaring even Lockwood. Early turned toward her as she pretended to faint. Lockwood grabbed the door handle, opened the door, and leaped.

  Since they had just rounded a curve, they weren’t going very fast. Still, it was a hard landing.

  Hook couldn’t break his fall with his hands or arms, for he was cuffed behind his back. But he took the fall just like a roll from his old gymnastics class. He hit with his shoulder and immediately turned end over end like a kid doing somersaults.

  He scrambled up onto the sidewalk as bullets whizzed by inches over his head. He ran down an alley. He knew this part of town and quickly lost his huffing and puffing pursuers in a maze of basements and backyards.

  Lockwood probably looked funny sitting with his hands up under the back flap of his jacket as he rode the subway. But better to look ridiculous than to have the other passengers see his handcuffs. Ziggy in the machine shop on Twelfth Avenue cut the cuffs off.

  He hoofed it to Radio City and called Hank, the garage-man, from around the corner.

  “Hank, loan me your old LaSalle. I’ll pay you a fiver. You know that spare .38 I gave you? Right. I’ll give you the keys to the Cord as collateral. Yes, I’m in a jam. Thanks, you’re a real pal. Bring it around to the Rexall on 48th and walk away from it with the key left in the ignition. Thanks a million.”

  Hank’s ancient LaSalle handled like a truck and had little acceleration but it climbed its way onto the ramp of the Viaduct Highway along the Hudson River. He exited at the next off ramp and headed toward Tenth Avenue.

  The cops didn’t have any idea that Lockwood was thinking of coming to Stymie’s place, so why would they watch there? If anywhere, they would be up around Wade’s, thinking he would go after him first.

  Lockwood parked a block from the boarded-up pawnshop that was Stymie’s headquarters and cut the motor.

  He walked quickly up the block of deserted factory buildings. He moved close to the walls and slipped into the narrow alley alongside the shuttered store. He didn’t see any light from inside, but that didn’t mean anything, for there were several back rooms. He wasn’t sure of their layout though.

  He took the .38 Hank had left in the LaSalle out of the holster in his waistband and proceeded carefully alongside the building. He was looking for a side window or a door he could pry, any way to get in unobserved.

  It didn’t take him long to find a filthy back window, but it was locked. He peered inside. It was totally dark, but the little light from the alley showed a room apparently used for storage. Good.

  He used his gun butt, wrapped in his handkerchief, as a hammer and broke in easily by pushing in a pane of glass and unlocking the window.

  Rats scurried around his feet as he lowered himself in. He was in a dark room, a storage area full of trunks and cartons. He heard voices. He went over to the door and opened it just a crack to see who was speaking. He found himself peering into a dimly lit room.

  Pay dirt. Half-Pint and Iron Man Lang, the big goon! There was a third figure in the darkened corner, standing over somebody in a chair. He moved the door just an inch more to get a better angle.

  It was Amanda, hogtied in a chair. Her dress was ripped and pulled down so her breasts were exposed. And so were the burn marks on them from cigarettes. Half-Pint was puffing hard on another, wreaths of smoke enveloping him.

  The three men were arguing. They all seemed to speak at the same time, and the acoustics of the place were such that Lockwood couldn’t make out who stood in the shadows.

  A shaded lamp hung from the ceiling, casting eerie shadows around the room. Lockwood saw tears streaming down
Amanda’s cheeks and dripping onto the tight gag the bastards had stuffed in her mouth.

  But Lockwood didn’t want to move just yet. He wanted to know how many and who he had to deal with. Still, he would have to move in if they started to burn Amanda again.

  The voices of the argument separated out, and Lockwood heard Half-Pint: “I say we burn her a little more before we remove the gag. That way she’ll talk. Come on, I’ve had no fun like this since Chicago.”

  “No,” insisted Iron Man. “Don’t hurt her no more. Take the gag off her.”

  He moved towards Half-Pint with his arms outstretched like some kind of movie monster. Half-Pint pulled a shiv, snickered, and jabbed the air in front of Iron Man’s face.

  “Come on, Iron Man, come and get stuck like the big pig you are,” Half-Pint invited.

  Iron Man stopped. The other guy suddenly spoke.

  Lockwood recognized the voice. He would always remember that slippery reptilian rasp.

  “Let Half-Pint have his fun.”

  It was the snake, Cyrus Wade. Amanda’s eyes were fixed in horror on him.

  Iron Man insisted, “No. It’s not fun. I don’t torture broads. Let this one go, I say.”

  Dear old Iron Man, thought Lockwood. He’s going to make my work much easier.

  Iron Man made a lunge at Half-Pint, grabbed a tiny wrist, and squeezed the knife loose. But Iron Man didn’t live long enough to finish squeezing.

  Wade pulled out a revolver and fired twice into the lug. Even that hardly affected Iron Man. He let go of Half-Pint and turned on Wade with fire in his big eyes. Wade backed off and fired once more. This shot hit Iron Man right in the forehead. The back of Iron Man’s head opened up and his long dark hair turned red. He dropped, shaking the room as he hit the floor. Amanda pushed her chair back.

  Wade stepped into the light, picked up Half-Pint’s shiv, and handed it back to him.

  “Now, cut little cartoons into her breasts. You know, not deep, but deep enough to make up for the money she made me give her. Then we’ll remove the gag and see if she’ll tell me where the thermos is.”

  Lockwood was taken aback. Was that it? Had Amanda found the thermos at the crash site? Had she been holding it and blackmailing Wade?