by Brad Latham
CHAPTER
EIGHT
It was a big funeral. Huge. Plenty of cops, too. Should keep things cool if Frankie Nuzzo happened to spot him.
He’d parked the Cord a few blocks away. No sense flaunting it in Frankie’s face. Even from that distance, the funeral made its impact; people on the quiet street of small one-family houses hurrying in the direction of the church, little figures off in the distance melding into the enormous crowd that stood outside, gawking, and weeping.
Even most of the women among the onlookers outside the church were in black, The Hook saw, as he moved into the crowd. The Nuzzos were big news here, and bad news on occasion. The women took no chances about showing disrespect. The men, perhaps braver, perhaps less aware, were a more motley crew; some in their Sunday best, others bare-headed, even bare-armed, as they looked on.
He wove his way in and out of the crowd, moving toward the talkers, listening a while, and then, when it was obvious he’d learn nothing from them, edging to the next likely knot. It was hot in the sun, and he began to perspire in the crush of it all, but kept at his job, and finally found himself rewarded.
The two women were conversing, sotto voce, and he avoided looking in their direction, never gave them any reason to fear that what they were saying was being overheard.
“Maria was playing around. That I know.”
“Come on.”
“Yes, and I’ll tell you something more.”
There was a pause, and The Hook could feel the other woman lean in.
“I think Frankie had her killed.”
“No!”
“Sure. Why not? He found out, and so he had her killed.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Like a fox.”
“Ah, gowan.”
“I’ll tell you this. Sure, maybe I’m wrong about Frankie. But I know Maria had a lover. And I know who it is.”
The church doors opened at that moment, and the crowd surged forward, and rearranged itself. Out of the corner of his eye, Lockwood got a fix on a woman. She was tall and bold-looking, in her early thirties, dramatic. He’d have no trouble remembering what she looked like.
Satisfied, he directed his gaze to the funeral procession as it left the church. He looked over the pallbearers. Fish Lomenzo. Some of his goons. Frankie Nuzzo. Some of his goons. Nuzzo looked at him, unseeingly, as he went by, coffin on his shoulder, then again, head snapping back, and then quickly away. A few steps after the coffin came Maria’s parents, and Gina, looking small against her father, tear-stained but erect and proud-looking, loyal. For a while, he forgot about business and simply watched her, from the top step all the way to the bottom, then onto the sidewalk and into one of the big black limousines that awaited the mourners. Lovely.
The crowd was slowly beginning to disperse, a little bit at a time, fragmenting, an island here, an island there, drifting. He saw his target and watched her as she drew away, chatting for a moment with a couple, stopping briefly to pat a small boy, then ambling across the street, and down to the next block.
He took his time following her so that anyone trailing him, and he was fairly sure someone would be trailing him, would have no idea of what he was doing. When she turned into a small wooden home, weatherworn and crumbling, his head never swerved to follow her, and he kept on the same course, strolling down the street for another six blocks, then turning, and slowly circling back along another route, as if he’d simply been stretching his legs, or, at most, scouting out the entire neighborhood.
They were waiting for him when he got back to his car. Renza the Stickman, Junior Grosso, Big Angie Russo.
“Goin’ somewhere, scumbag?” Renza asked, his lip in a practised curl.
Lockwood looked at him, and said nothing.
“My frien’ ast you a question,” Grosso told him. “It ain’t polite to ignore my frien’.”
Lockwood directed his cool glance to Grosso, still saying nothing.
“Maybe he’s smarter than we think,” Big Angie offered. “Maybe he’s smart enough to know he’s not goin’ no place. Now.”
Lockwood looked up the block to where the funeral had been. The streets were empty.
“You waited too long to leave, shamus,” Renza growled. “The cops is gone. Long gone.”
The Hook shrugged. These three were a little different from the trio of the night before. Each of them had a hand in his jacket pocket. Plus something heavier than a hand. Heavy and metallic. “It’s your play, gentlemen. Obviously.”
Renza grunted. “I guess you’re right,” he told Big Angie. “He’s smarter than he looks.” The hand in the suit-pocket jerked at The Hook. “We’re gonna use your car. Get in, an’ I’ll tell you where to go.”
Lockwood got behind the wheel, and Renza slid in beside him, the gun out of the pocket now, jammed in his side. “Just so you don’t try nothin’ foolish. An’ if you got any ideas about screwin’ aroun’ wit me, Junior’s sittin’ behind you with a gun pointed at the back of your seat, right where your spine is put. An’ Big Angie, he’s ready, too.”
Lockwood said nothing but turned on the engine, and waited.
“Turn aroun’. It’s okay. It’s legal to make a U-Turn here,” Renza said, and the two mugs behind him gave short, ugly laughs.
The Hook did as instructed.
“Now straight ahead, till I tell you to turn. An’ remember, any funny business an’ you get it three ways.”
“I take it you’re still Frankie’s boys.”
“Tha’s right. An’ we were frien’s, good frien’s, of Cicci Caminaro an’ German Moscowitz, an’ Tommy Mao an’ Vinnie Riordan. We owe you, copper.”
Lockwood said nothing, and Junior Grosso leaned into him. “What happened to our friends? We wanta know.”
“I told your boss. They’re making the eels happy.”
The gun at his side dug deeper into his ribs. “Wha’ you mean? Wha’d you do to them?”
Lockwood looked at Renza. “It was a hot day, Stickman. I gave them the opportunity to cool off.”
“Where?”
“Off Van Brunt. There’s a little sidestreet, Kane. Nice little spot to swim. No lifeguards, no rules. You can do whatever you desire in the water. If you want, you can even take your car in with you. They decided to take the De Soto.”
“You’re lyin’!” This time it was Grosso, voice savage in his ear.
“You don’t have to take my word for it. One of your pals can check it out personally. ‘Fish’ Lomenzo. He’d be a natural.”
Grosso palmed the back of The Hook’s head, hard. “Cut it out!” Renza shouted. “We don’t want nobody spottin’ us. You can have your fun with him later.”
The Stickman turned back to Lockwood. “Tha’s a very int’restin’ coincidence. Cause where we’re takin’ you is just a few blocks away from there. You’re goin’ swim-min’, too. We’ve even got a bathin’ suit special made for you. Nice color: gray. Concrete gray.”
Renza knew the streets, and they passed few people, and no cops. Lockwood drove, and made plans. These guys were cocky, too cocky. They hadn’t even bothered to search him, knowing they had the drop on him. Sometimes it paid to be cocky. Sometimes it … didn’t.
They were two blocks away from Kane when Renza ordered “Turn left, and pull over,” and Lockwood obeyed. He had only one chance out of this, he knew, a slim one, and it would be given to him in just a few moments.
He hit the brakes and the car slowed, and came to a stop. The gun dug into him. “Outta the car.” Renza had his hand on the passenger side-door, and the other two were stirring behind him.
He threw open the door, and dropped.
Even as he hit the street, the .38 was in his hand, and he was under the car. He heard the noises of Grosso and Russo above him, and aimed in their direction, firing up through the bottom of the Cord. A scream told him he’d hit paydirt, even as he got off another shot, this time out from under the car, at street level, splintering Renza’s ankle. He knew he had to m
ove fast, and hoped he was doing it in the right direction, as he pulled himself to the rear of the automobile, and then out from behind it. Russo was in the street, back to him, gun in hand. “Russo,” he called, and as Big Angie whirled toward him, he put one deep into his chest.
Grosso was still screaming, and clutching at his groin, but Renza was out of sight. A shot cracked out, and he caught a glimpse of the Stickman, firing from the shadows of the entrance to the old warehouse they’d parked beside. He dropped behind the car and fired once, twice, then broke open the barrel, and swiftly fed in six more rounds.
Grosso had slumped to the floor of the car now, and was moaning softly to himself. The Hook had no real beef against Renza, but he knew there was no way he could get back into the Cord, dump Grosso, and drive away, without Renza pumping him full of lead. He’d have to take care of him first.
“Give it up, Renza,” he yelled. “Your boys are done. You’ve got no chance.”
A flurry of shots whistled by him. He fired twice, waited for the answering volley, and then took his chances, and made a broken-field run to the side of the warehouse, while Renza reloaded. He edged his way to the rear of the building, which faced onto a deserted wharf. The back door stood open, and he ran up to it, then flung himself inside, pistol ready. From deep at the end of the building an automatic cracked, and he heard wood split a few feet behind him. Not a bad shot, at that distance. Either Renza had been lucky, or he was an uncomfortably good marksman. Finger-crossing time.
He was facing down a long, wide aisle, and on either side of him were long rows of large wooden crates. He rolled over behind one, and removed his shoes. With that bullet in his ankle, Renza wouldn’t be going anywhere fast. That’s my advantage, Lockwood thought, and got to his feet, moving past three solid rows of crates to a back aisle. He peered around and down it, saw nothing, then started running along the aisle, hugging the wall of crates, his stockinged feet silent on the cement floor.
At the end of the aisle he stopped, and listened. Silence. Cautiously, he peered around the crates. He saw no one.
At the far end he could see the entrance door standing open, the front of his car visible, shining in the sun, a startling contrast to the dimness inside the warehouse. Then he saw the blood on the floor near the door, trailing into the warehouse, till it was lost in the murk. Halfway down the aisle to the right was another door, probably the warehouse office. Renza might be there. On the other hand, he might be a few steps to the left, in the middle aisle. Perhaps, Lockwood thought, if he got closer he could see the blood, see where it led.
He moved up and edged along the front of the building, toward the center aisle. So far he saw nothing. Heard nothing.
He froze for a second as he suddenly heard the door of the Cord slam shut. A moment later Junior Grosso staggered into view. “Help! Help me!” he cried. And then slumped to the ground, a red puddle spreading out around his pudgy body, the agony leaving his face as the life ebbed out of him.
Again he waited, and again there was no sound. He moved on, and came near the intersection, middle aisle to left, office door to right. His eyes searched the floor, and now they could see it. Dark splatters leading to the office door. Renza was waiting there.
He moved to the door, turned to face it.
“Freeze, sucker.” It was Renza’s voice from behind him.
“I figured that little trail of blood might attract your dumb cop instincts. Jerk! I walked up to that door, put a rag around my ankle, an’ came on back here. An’ waited to get the drop on you. Dumb flatfoot.”
There was a lightswitch in front of Lockwood, and his hand went up to it as he leapt to the side. Light filled the place, and for an instant it blinded Renza, an instant too long.
The .38 cracked and Renza crashed back against a crate, doubled over, with a slug in his midsection. It didn’t stop him. He got off a shot, then another, but his hand was unsteady, his aim wild, and a moment later he went to his knees, and an instant after that all the way to the floor as the third bullet from Lockwood’s pistol dropped him.
The Hook walked over to Renza, and turned him over with his foot. He’d had it.
He made the long walk down to the end of the warehouse, retrieved his shoes, and made his way outside. Russo and Grosso were still lying there, flies already feasting on the thick red ooze that covered them and the nearby ground, the blood warming and congealing in the intense summer sun. He got in the Cord and turned the engine over. Renza. Grosso. Russo. Moscowitz. Caminaro. Mao. Riordan. Frankie Nuzzo had a problem. If things continued the way they were going, soon Nuzzo would be a mobster without a mob.
CHAPTER
NINE
This time the Brooklyn neighborhood was more attractive. The night was soft and people were out strolling and talking, sitting on their porches, playing cards, listening to the radio.
The Hook turned up the short walk to the tiny wood house and pushed the buzzer. He heard no resultant sound, tried again, and when once more he heard nothing, knocked. Somewhere toward the back of the house he heard a stirring.
A few moments later, the door opened. The woman from the funeral was standing there. “Yes?” she asked.
“I wonder if I could trouble you for a few moments.” He flashed his wallet at her, showing her the badge. “I’m investigating a crime.”
The woman looked bewildered.
“Nothing to worry about. Nothing you’re involved in. It’s just that I have reason to believe that you may be able to contribute some evidence.”
The woman still stood there, silent, disoriented. Something like this was never a part of her world.
“May I come in?” It was a tone of assurance, a tone that nearly commanded because it was so in possession of itself, and almost involuntarily the woman opened the battered screen door.
“Thank you,” he said, and removed his hat. “My name is Lockwood. I’m an investigator for Transatlantic Underwriters—the insurance company.”
“Oh, ah, yes, Mr. Lockwood, won’t you sit down? Here, in the living room where it’s cooler.” And she led him into a small area, just big enough to hold a couch, two chairs and a desk. It had the air of a room rarely used.
“It’s a hot night,” she continued. “Would you like something to drink? I have some Pepsi in the icebox.”
“Thanks, no,” he told her. He took out a pack of Camels. “Would you like a cigarette?”
“Thank you, yes,” she said, real gratitude in her voice “Since my husband died, there hasn’t been much money for—this kind of thing.” He lit her cigarette, then his own. “Keep the pack,” he said.
“No.”
“It’s all right,” he told her. “My company will pay for it.”
His smile seemed to reassure her, and she nodded, and smiled in return. “Thanks.”
“Has your husband been dead long?”
“A year,” she answered, simply. “The Depression. He lost his job. Couldn’t find any other. Killed himself.” She took another puff on the cigarette. “I’m about over it now, though,” she told him. “It was never too good, anyway. It was the wrong time to get married. We were the wrong people.” She looked at him. “You know how it can be.”
He nodded. “They say things will be getting better.”
“Probably. A little too late for me.”
“No, not for you. You’re a handsome woman.”
She looked at him and flushed, then tried to shrug it off. “People like me, we’re not meant to win. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. How can I help you?”
“I was at the funeral today.”
She looked at him, saying nothing.
“Maria Nuzzo’s funeral.”
“I see.”
“I heard you talking to a friend.”
She started, then collected herself. “Oh?”
“I’m investigating Maria Nuzzo’s murder for my company. I’d like to hear more about what you know.”
He saw the fright flash into her eyes. “I
don’t know anything.”
“I heard you. Remember? At the funeral. When you talked to your friend.”
She looked at him for a long time. Finally, she said, “You’re not one of them, are you? You don’t look like one of them.”
“One of Nuzzo’s men? Or Lomenzo’s? No.” She nodded as he said it, relief in her face. “I’m legitimate,” he told her.
“I guess this teaches me to keep my big mouth shut.” She smiled a warm smile, framed by full, generous lips.
“On the contrary. What you said today could lead to the arrest of Maria Nuzzo’s killer.”
She studied him. “I’m thirsty. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a Pepsi? You look warm.”
She was right. “Okay, thanks.”
“Just a minute.” She turned toward the kitchen.
“That’s all right. I’ll come with you.”
“Suit yourself.”
The kitchen was small, too. He could hear the drip, drip of the ice as it melted into the pan at the bottom of the box. It was easily ninety degrees tonight, a little more inside the house.
She chipped a couple of slivers off the ice, put them into two jelly glasses, opened a bottle of soda, and poured it equally into two glasses. Her eyes were big when she looked at him. “Skoal.”
“Skoal.”
They stood in the kitchen, eyes on one another as they drank.
She put her glass down first. “It’s been a year,” she said.
“A year?”
“A year since Harry—died. And it wasn’t that good to begin with.
She moved toward him, and her arms opened, and then closed around him. “People like me, we’re losers,” she said. “But not all the time. Not always. Sometimes we know when to take.”
Her lips neared his. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. After,” she told him.
Her eyes were soft as he left her. It had been good. He got into the car and flicked the ignition. Maria Nuzzo’s lover lived less than a mile away.
When he got there, a woman answered the door.
“I’m looking for your husband,” he told her. “Red Agitino.”