by Brad Latham
He walked out the front door, and two of his men followed, one of them carrying the cage, which was once again covered, once again nondescript-looking.
When the long black Packard outside roared away, Vinnie cut a piece off Agitino’s shirt, and stuffed it in the bound man’s mouth, then sliced another strip, and tied it around Agitino’s head so that the gag couldn’t be dislodged.
“Hey, what you doin’?” one of the other two asked, the big one.
“I wanna have a little fun, Loomo.”
It was Phil’s turn to speak. “C’mon, Vinnie, I’m tired, I wanna get home.” He was screwing a silencer onto his automatic. “We can be outta here in less than a minute.”
Vinnie whipped around toward Phil, his eyes like the rats’. “This is my show, Phil! I’m in charge of this one! And I wanna take my time!” He withdrew the stiletto from his pocket, and waved it in the direction of Agitino. Agitino’s wife started to throw herself at Vinnie, but Loomo grabbed her from behind, and held a pistol to her head.
Phil’s silencer was already pointed at Lockwood’s heart. “Put it to his head, Phil,” Vinnie said. “Right up against his temple. That’ll keep him quiet.”
Phil did as ordered, and Vinnie turned toward Agitino.
“You thought you escaped the rats,” he sneered. “Just for that, I’m gonna show you, you didn’t. I’m gonna carve a big fat rat right on your belly.” And he took his knife and once again traced a drawing on Agitino’s body, some of the design obscured by the blood that was still flowing down from the cobra that had been carved in his chest.
Lockwood tensed and waited. He had only one chance and it was a small one. He had quick hands, far quicker than an ordinary man’s, but he didn’t know if they were quick enough. And if they weren’t—he shrugged to himself—if they weren’t, it wouldn’t make any difference. He’d never know.
Vinnie had finished tracing the outline of the rat, and now his knife was poised over Agitino, enjoying the fright in the red-headed man’s eyes, taking it in for all it was worth. And then, finally, he sank the blade a quarter inch into Agitino’s midriff.
They were all watching, spellbound by the horror of it, and that was what Lockwood was counting on. Phil’s attention was, however slightly, diverted, and this was the opportunity The Hook had been waiting for. His hand flew straight up, and then out, slapping Phil’s pistol away from his head before the gangster could pull the trigger. There was a dull sound as a bullet whirled through the silencer, but The Hook had no time to follow the missile, as he whipped a left into Phil’s soft gut, then grabbed for the gun, swinging the mobster around so that his back was to Loomo and Vinnie. Loomo’s gun was already pointed in their direction, and it barked once, twice, its contents whistling by the two of them.
Finally, Lockwood had the pistol wrestled out of Phil’s hand, and as Phil swung at him, he fired at Loomo, trying to put him out of the way before the hulking gunman redirected his attention to Mrs. Agitino. Phil’s fist caught him flush on the jaw, but as he flew backward he saw Loomo stagger and crash to the floor, hand clutching his chest.
Phil was on him before he could aim the pistol, and as they grappled, he heard someone being punched and hitting the floor. And then the sound of footsteps, running, and Vinnie was near, stiletto poised, itching for action. Lockwood pulled Phil with him, backing himself into a corner, Phil’s body between him and Vinnie.
“Break away! I’ll get him!” the crazed shiv man screamed, the bloodlust on him.
Instead, Lockwood tightened his grip on Phil, thrust a foot against the wall and pushed off, the two locked men sweeping into Vinnie, knocking him off-balance, and then crashing into Agitino, still bound to his chair. The three of them went down, Agitino first, then Phil, then Lockwood atop him. As they hit, the detective wrenched his gunhand free of Phil’s, whirled and fired at the oncoming Vinnie. A bullet ripped through the thin man’s side, and he stopped, stunned, and then, in disbelief, put his hand to where the bullet had entered, removed it, looked at the rich red fluid that coated his palm, turned chalk-white, and fainted dead away.
His attention diverted by Vinnie, Bill Lockwood wasn’t ready for Phil’s punch as it came in at him, smashing him full on the back of the neck. He could feel the atoms in his neck separate and flash outward, as he tried to hold on, to keep his consciousness, feeling himself falling forward, unable to get his hands out as he saw the floor coming up toward him.
He hit heavily, but his will didn’t fail him, and he remained conscious, and whirled just in time to see one of Phil’s size twelves slashing in at him. His hands flew up and grabbed, and twisted, and Phil, caught off-balance, went down, his side cracking against the edge of the living room sofa.
The wind was out of the hood, but he didn’t let it stop him, immediately picking himself up and hurtling toward Lockwood, and the gun that was raised to his eye level.
“Stop!” Lockwood cried, but Phil didn’t, too far into trajectory to be able to reverse himself. No choice could be made, and the silencer thudded again, and Phil stopped in midair, the impact of the shell a match for the velocity of his charge. And then he went down. And remained where he lay.
Lockwood didn’t move for a moment. Spent, his body refused his command to rise. He looked at Phil, now dead, then at Vinnie, who was beginning to stir, then at Loomo, who hadn’t changed position since he hit the floor minutes before. And wouldn’t ever again.
Beyond Loomo Agitino’s wife lay, and just a few feet from her, her husband was lying on his side, inert, still tied to the chair.
Slowly Bill Lockwood rose. Vinnie was awake now, and again he was pulling at his side, and again his eyes were filled with wonder and fear as he saw his fingers covered with his life’s fluid. He began to tremble and then to cry, and then to scream.
“No! No!” He seemed to be trying to pull away from himself, as if attempting to disassociate all that he was from the gaping, oozing hole that had been torn through him. And then his eyes fell on Lockwood.
“You did this to me! You!” And he grabbed the knife and threw it as Lockwood defended himself, as the silencer once more filled the room with its eerily muted sound.
Vinnie went down again, for the final time, a bullet in his throat, a look of sickened disbelief in his eye.
Lockwood felt a twinge in his gunhand, and examined it. The knuckle of the index finger was bleeding slightly. The stiletto’s aim had been true, too true for Vinnie’s good. It had been directed straight at the heart, and that was the direction in which it had flown. But the pistol in Lockwood’s hand had been held at chest level, and so the knife had hit the pistol, and a small portion of the detective’s hand, then bounced off, harmlessly. Almost absent-mindedly, the detective pulled a handkerchief from his suit’s breast pocket, and wrapped it around his hand, his attention directed to the Agitinos.
Neither of them was moving, and The Hook’s heart sank. Had his slapping at Phil’s gun caused Loomo to instantaneously shoot Mrs. Agitino? He didn’t think so, but….
He lifted her up partway off the floor, and checked her over. She seemed to be-all right—a bruise on her chin, probably from a punch by Vinnie, but nothing else showed. He put a hand on her heart. It was beating. Gently, he lowered her to the floor, and looked at Red. He prayed the same was true for him.
It was hard to be sure at first. All the blood from Vinnie’s knifework could easily blend with anything more. He took a jackknife from his pocket and worked on the ropes. In a moment, Agitino was freed.
It wasn’t till he pulled him away from the chair that he saw it. A part of the snake where the bleeding was more profuse, where more of the flesh was gone. A bullethole. Lockwood’s eyes closed. When he’d pushed the gun away from his temple it had fired. Maybe, maybe it hadn’t happened then. But anything else was unlikely.
“I’m sorry, Red,” he breathed. “You were a good man, despite everything. You didn’t deserve this, any of it. You loved your wife, in your way, really loved her. I’ll take
care of her for you.”
He rose and went into the kitchen. The stink of burning metal assaulted his nostrils, as he strode to the stove, and switched off the burner. He owed Lomenzo one. Next he turned to the sink, and filled a glass with water, then ran cold water over a dishtowel.
It took a minute or two to bring her around, rubbing her forehead with the towel, sprinkling her face with water. Then, when she was beginning to stir, he put the glass to her lips.
Finally, fully awakened, she looked at him, and the terror was still there.
He tried to comfort her. “They can’t hurt you now. They’re all dead.”
It took a moment for it to sink in, and then she sagged against him, grateful for just that instant. And then, “Red. Where’s Red?”
“We’re going to have to leave,” he told her. “We’ve got to get out of here before any of Lomenzo’s boys come back looking for their pals.”
“Red!” She refused to move.
“I’m afraid he’s been shot.”
“Is—is he—” her eyes were wide, frightened, filled with a different kind of terror from what they’d held before. He couldn’t take it, and looked away.
“Yes,” was all he said.
“Oh, God.” She crumpled against him, and began to sob. Her man, for better or worse, gone. He held her, and let her cry.
Finally, she stopped, and looked up at him. “I’ve got to see him.”
“We have to get out of here.”
“I understand. Just let me see him first.”
He helped her up, and walked her into the living room. It was like something out of a war, the place a shambles, the four bodies lying there, rumpled and bloody. She said nothing, just walked over to Red, and sank down beside him, and began to stroke his hair. And then tenderly kissed him on the forehead, and rose. “I’m ready to go now,” she said.
He took her into the small upstairs bedroom, and she showed him the suitcase in the closet, and he filled it for her, putting everything of hers he could find in the case, the total barely taking up three-quarters of the cardboard and metal container. He snapped the case shut, then took her arm, and led her down the stairs, her body offering no resistance.
He made her wait by the door while he checked outside. No one around yet. When he led her out, she never looked back, just allowed him to seat her inside the Cord. She patiently sat there, hands in lap, as he put away the suitcase, then got behind the driver’s wheel. He started the car, and they left, her eyes never turning, always straight ahead.
All the way into Manhattan, he kept checking the rearview mirror, but no one followed them. Finally, a few blocks from Times Square, he pulled up to the Greyhound Station.
“You’re going to have to get out of town,” he told her.
She nodded numbly.
“Do you have anyone you can go to?” he asked.
She looked at him, the life in her eyes a bare flicker. “No one. Red was all I had.”
He took out his wallet, and counted some bills. “Here’s three hundred dollars. This should keep you going for a while, until you can find yourself a job and a new life.”
She said nothing as he placed his card in with the bills. “If you run into any problems, if you need more money, whatever, call me at this number, collect, no matter what the time is. There’s always someone at the hotel to handle my messages.”
She nodded numbly. They went inside the terminal and he bought her a ticket to Chicago. Big city. Easy to hide there. More jobs available. More people to meet. Maybe, in time, someone to love.
He put her on the bus and waited till it left, watching her as she sat by the window. She never looked at him, not even when it finally pulled away, no acknowledgment of any sort. Hell, why should she, he thought. If it weren’t for me, her husband would still be alive.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
He didn’t want to call Gina. He’d been responsible for the deaths of enough innocent people already. But he did want to call her. With Maria a cheater, it seemed more likely than ever that Nuzzo had killed her, and if Gina could be convinced that Maria had been fooling around, her loyalty might diminish, and she might be more likely to cooperate. Besides, he wanted to see her again. Had to. With Susan Venable, the company’s doctor, it had been nothing but physical. Already that had been consummated and was over with. Gina wasn’t like that, although certainly he felt a physical pull. There was something more there, much more. Gina felt like forever.
He wasn’t surprised at the feeling that ran through him when he heard her voice on the phone. “Hello?”
“Miss Lomenzo—Gina,” he said. “This is Bill Lockwood. From the insurance company.”
“Yes, I know. I recognize your voice. It’s funny—I’d been thinking about you.”
“Something about the case?”
“Yes, I—no,” she admitted. “I was just—thinking of you. Isn’t that odd?”
“I hope not,” he said. “Look, I’ve got to see you.”
Her breathing quickened. “I don’t know.”
“It’s important.”
She hesitated, started to speak, stopped, and finally said, “All right. Where?”
“I think I’m poison in Brooklyn. We’d better stay away from there. Look, there’s an Indian restaurant on West 49th Street here in Manhattan. Between Broadway and Sixth. The Bombay India Inn. Do you think you could find it?”
“Yes. I know New York.”
“Good. Seven o’clock all right?”
“Whatever you say.”
“Okay. Listen, remember the way you came last time —trolley, subway, cab?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Do it again this time. Only more of it.”
The restaurant was quiet and discreet, the booth they were seated in partly screened off from the rest of the room.
“Any problems getting here?” he asked, drinking in the looks of her.
“Only all the transportation” she laughed softly. “I think I even lost myself a time or two there.”
He smiled. “You don’t think anyone followed you?”
“I’m sure they didn’t,” she said firmly. “Now, why is it you wanted to speak to me?”
“There’s new evidence in the case, Gina.”
“I see.”
“Your sister, Maria, was involved with another man.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. A man named Red Agitino.”
“Red!”
“You know him?”
“Sure. He’s from the neighborhood. Lived there before he got married, anyway. We use him sometimes as a mechanic.”
“Used him.”
“What do you mean?” Her eyes got big and worried, flashing their concern.
“He’s dead, Gina. He died after confessing his affair with your sister.”
She seemed to hunch up, as if trying to shield herself from anything else. “How did he die? Someone killed him?”
“Your brother’s men.”
“Albert’s? What men?” She seemed incredulous.
“Gina, what do you know about your brother and brother-in-law?”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you think they make their living?”
“Why—they’re businessmen.”
“I’m afraid not, Gina. They’re … criminals.”
“You’re crazy!” she cried, rising. “I’m not going to listen to any more of this!”
“Please.” His hand encircled her wrist. “It’s important. I’m not lying to you.”
She looked at him, and what she saw there convinced her. She sat back down.
“My brother has a construction service,” she said simply. “Frankie leases vending machines.”
“They’re fronts, Gina. They’re a way of laundering money. Albert and Frankie are both in the rackets—deep in. Haven’t you ever suspected?”
Her eyes fell, and she toyed with the water glass before her. “Not really. Not to th
ink about it. But now when you say it,” she looked at him, thick black lashes framing the large dark eyes, “suddenly little things that didn’t seem to make any sense—suddenly they begin to fit. What a fool I’ve been!” Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away.
“I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you.”
“Don’t be. I’m glad I’ve been told.” She looked at him again. “I’m glad it was you who told me.”
He didn’t want her to go back to Brooklyn. He wanted her to stay with him, always. Everything about her —everything—was right.
“I think maybe this place was a mistake,” he told her. “I don’t imagine after all this, you’re very hungry.”
“I would like to go,” she admitted. “This is too—public. For what we’re talking about.”
“We could go to my place,” he suggested.
She considered him, and finally shrugged. “All right.” She added, “I trust you.”
She took his arm as they walked to the hotel, and her touch was light, but strong. He found himself wishing they were just a guy and girl out on a date, nothing on their minds but each other. It wasn’t right. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into this cesspool. “Maybe we’d better not,” he said.
“What?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t involve you in all this. I shouldn’t put you in jeopardy, I have no right to.”
“I have a right,” she told him. “A right to know everything. It’s my family—my blood,” and they continued on.
In his apartment he offered her a drink, which she refused, but she accepted a Coke instead. She looked very young, her eyes staring at him over the glass as she drank, very young and very innocent. And then she put down her drink, and asked, “Why did they kill Red? Why did my brother’s men kill Red?”
“To salvage your family’s honor.”
She nodded, understanding. “Did Red … kill my sister, too?”
“He said he didn’t. I believed him.”
“Then who?”
“I’m afraid I still think it’s your brother-in-law, Frankie.”
“No.”
“I thought at first he did it for the insurance. I still think he did it for that, partly; but now I also believe your sister’s cheating on him gave him a second motive. Those two reasons were enough for him.”