Hate is Thicker Than Blood

by Brad Latham

  “It couldn’t have been Frankie. I know Frankie.”

  “You didn’t know that he’s—what he is.”

  “No,” she admitted. “But I know him as family. Maria was family to him; I am, too. To family he’s always been nothing but good. I swear it’s true.”

  “Gina, I don’t like to do this to you, but when it comes to your family, I don’t think you see any of this clearly. Frankie sent a crew of gunmen after me; your brother, Albert, did the same thing. His men were planning to weight me down and toss me in the river. He had the woman who informed on Red killed—had her throat slit, and her tongue cut out. And last night I was there when Albert had Red Agitino tortured—in front of Agitino’s wife.”

  Her head dropped, and her words were barely a murmur. “I’m not surprised about Albert. He was always like that. Cruel. A sadist.”

  She began to shake, and he held out his hand. She grabbed it and held on tightly. “Frankie couldn’t have had Maria killed, that I know. But—maybe—Albert.”

  She was in his arms now, sobbing. “Do you have any reason to believe Albert did it?” he asked her.

  “No. No reason. But maybe when he found out she was unfaithful to Frankie—to Albert that would be like being a—a—” the word was hard for her to say—"a—prostitute.”

  “I don’t think he knew. It was because he followed me that he found out about Agitino.”

  “Maybe … maybe there were other men besides Red. Maybe Albert found out about them.”

  It was a possibility. There was no point in talking anymore about it. She obviously knew nothing, and it was wrong for him to keep pulling her down into this muck. She didn’t deserve it. He looked at her, her whole body shaking, arms tight around him, and he tried to keep it from happening, but couldn’t. He found himself being aroused by her.

  Her sobs had slackened, and he handed her his handkerchief. She wiped her eyes, and looked up at him, completely open, completely vulnerable. Her lips were parted, moist, and red, and he found himself drawn to them. Unable to look away, his head irresistibly moved toward them. Trying to fight it off, but not succeeding, he then saw that she was waiting for him, no more able than he to pull away.

  Their lips met, and hers were soft, warm, and as fresh as dew, the lips of the unkissed. And gently his lips explored hers, as he felt her hand slide up his body and rest at the back of his neck, stroking it softly, delicately.

  Their lips parted, and she rested her head against his chest, and sighed; then touched his neck some more, and once again looked up at him with yearning in her eyes.

  They kissed again, and this time her lips already seemed wiser, with an urgency that replaced the innocence. Lightly, his tongue explored the soft underside of her lips, and she tightened against him, and her breathing became deeper and more rapid.

  Her hand dropped to his back, where she stroked and explored it, and as her breathing deepened, she pulled at it. His hand in turn began to move over her body, along her neck, down her back, then tightening on her and pulling her closer to him.

  Once more their mouths broke away and she looked at him, bewilderment in her eyes. “I never knew—” she began.

  He held her away from him, and she looked startled, uncertain. “We’d better stop,” he said. “It’s not fair to you.”

  “No.” It was an entreaty. “Please don’t. Don’t stop.”

  “You’re young and innocent. I shouldn’t have taken you here.”

  She shook her head. “I’m a woman.” She smiled at him, and it was as if spring had entered the room. “Remember? You told me so yourself.” This time it was she who approached him, drawing herself close to him, slowly bringing her lips up to his.

  Both of her hands caressed him now, feverishly, as her tongue began to respond to his, flicking out at it, tentatively at first, and then more boldly, finally caressing it sensually, feverishly, with little sighs escaping her as they embraced.

  His hand went under her sweater, and up her back, along the silk of her slip, and up to the nakedness of her shoulders. Her skin was smooth and warm, and it quivered as he touched her. Another moment, and her hand had pulled the tail of his shirt out of his pants, and her hand slid up his bare back, revelling in the feel of his feel, lovingly annexing each square inch of it as hers.

  He gave her another chance. “It’s getting dangerous,” he told her, smiling gently. “Soon we may not be able to back out, either of us.”

  She said nothing, just brushed his lips with her hand to silence him and then kissed him, again her breath coming in staccato gasps.

  He wanted her now, totally and fully. There was no going back. His hand sought her breast, rising straight up under her sweater, and folded over it, feeling it full under his hand. She broke away from his lips, thrusting her head against his chest, lost in the feelings he was stirring in her. Her hand in turn had left his back, and was now traveling up the front of his body, along the midriff, fingers spreading wide through the hairs of his chest.

  “I want you,” she breathed.

  His hands sought her thighs now, caressing them, running up and down over her skirt. Her hips began to undulate, and soon her mouth was hard against his, her teeth digging hungrily into his flesh.

  His hand slid under her slip, over her stockings, and up along her naked thigh. She was squirming in his arms, as his hand went up past the little mound of flesh and hair, and stroked the curve of her belly, feeling it soft but firm, womanly.

  Her hands were in his hair now, frantic, pulling at it, tearing, then breaking free as he slowly removed her sweater. In turn she unbuttoned his shirt, then threw her arms around him as he reached beneath her slip and unbuckled her brassiere, then slipped the fragile white straps of her slip over her shoulders, and pulled both garments down off her, leaving her half-naked, her full breasts standing straight out, nipples hard and long, feverish-looking.

  She brushed a hand against his penis, and began to shake, and then brushed it again, lightly, lovingly.

  He held her to him and kissed her, deeply, one hand fondling the richness of her breast, feeling the quickened tempo of her heart, which seemed to race yet faster with each new caress of her bosom.

  He stood up, and she looked at him with bewilderment and fear. Fear of losing him.

  And then he bent down and lifted her, and she melted into his arms, a small cry escaping her, as he carried her into the bedroom, her lips on his, her hands wonderingly exploring him, his back, his shoulders, the muscles of his arms.

  He laid her down on the bed and undressed her quickly, expertly. She made no false gesture of refusal, just lay there, open to it all, every inch of her accepting, hoping.

  He undressed and stared at her lying there, young and fresh and beautiful. She was magnificent; full-breasted, narrow-waisted, hips a perfect circle, legs smooth and shapely, rising to the dark triangle of hair that seemed to be trying to thrust itself toward him. He lay down on the bed and pulled her to him, and her two thighs encircled one of his, and she ground against him as they kissed, roughly at first, then more smoothly, as the fluid between her legs provided lubrication. Again her hand darted onto, and away from, his penis, and again she shook. This time he took her hand and placed it on him, kept it there till her grip tightened, and she held on, moaning, almost drunk with pleasure.

  He ran his hands all over her, mouth upon hers, caressing, stroking, until he knew she was ready. Her eyes closed in excitement as a stream of moans and cries issued from her, her movements against him more and more agitated. “Put me inside you,” he told her.

  And she tried. She guided him between her legs, helping to push it inside her, but it didn’t work. He felt the membrane stopping him, and he started to withdraw.

  “No!” Her cry was hysterical, afraid he would stop. “Don’t take it away. Push. Push against me.”

  Her fluids were hot on his phallus, almost burning, as he pressed against her, gently at first, then harder. She began to moan, more and more loudly with eac
h thrust, and still she clung to him, pulled him ever more closely to her.

  He felt something give, slightly, and she cried out, her hand flying to her mouth, and then back to him, entreating him to fill her, to come all the way in. She was pumping against him, straining herself against him, and finally, instantaneously, he broke through, as if all at once he had been sucked inside her.

  “Aaaaaaaah!” she cried, tears streaming from her eyes as she gripped him closer. “Stay there. Don’t move. Ohhhhhh.”

  She lay there quietly, rejoicing in the feel of him inside her, and then slowly she began to move against him, and slowly he responded, feeling her suction, grabbing at him as he moved away, swallowing him up as he moved back in, awash in the thick hot fluid that lined her. He’d never had anything like it. As if her vagina were alive and feasting on him, savoring him so possessively it fought not to give him up, and gorged on him gratefully when he returned, each time plunging in up to the hilt. He could feel it coming, and he knew there was no way he could stop it now, no way he could wait for her to catch up with him. His tempo quickened, sliding in and out of her, feeling the warmth, the wetness, feeling the tingle rising inside him, and then the explosion; once, twice, then again. And then a final spasm, and he subsided, falling over to the side of her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling her close. “The next time will be your turn.”

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly. She’d never known an orgasm. This, to her, was enough. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “I’m happy.”

  And he grabbed and kissed her, and she sighed, and then, locked in his arms, she joined him in sleep.

  When he awoke, she was weeping. She’d rolled over on her side, and he saw the bloodstains where she’d been lying.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, reaching out to her.

  She didn’t answer at first, then rolled over to him, and buried her head in his chest. “I don’t know why—” she began, then stopped.

  “Don’t know why what?” he asked.

  “Don’t know why I did this.” She stopped crying, and raised her head and looked at him. “I’d meant to—to save myself.”

  He didn’t know what to say, and finally she went on. “I’d wanted to be a virgin when I got married. It was my dream. Always.”

  “I’m sorry,” he told her, meaning it.

  “No. It’s not your fault. You didn’t force me. I did it of my own free will.”

  “I took advantage of you, I see it now,” he answered. “I’d shattered you with what I told you about Frankie, about Albert. I should have been aware that you weren’t in full command.”

  “No.” She put her hand over his lips. “It’s not your fault. I was just … just weak…” She dropped her head on his chest again. “And you—you’re so attractive.”

  He stroked and held her, and she subsided for a moment. Then she arose. “I have to leave,” she said. “I have to go back home.”

  “Gina,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “We can be married. I’d like to marry you.”

  Her eyes grew big and soft. “I’d like to marry you,” she told him, “but not now. Everything now is wrong.”

  She dressed, then brushed her hair, and finally turned to him. “Don’t blame yourself. I’m—I’m weaker than I thought, I guess. Maybe, maybe when this is all over, then maybe the two of us…” she began to sob again, and ran for the door.

  As she opened it, she turned and faced him, saying just before she left, “And this—this is true, Bill. It was wrong, and I’m sorry. But it—you—everything—it was wonderful.”

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Bill Lockwood tried to push Gina out of his mind. There was nothing he could do now. She’d told him that, and he believed her. She might not think it now of herself, but he knew she was a woman of strength and character. If she said it was the wrong time for them, then there would be no way he could dissuade her.

  Not that he’d be able to honestly do so anyway. He knew she was right. Certain things had to be done first. And then, if he were lucky, she’d be there for him when it was all over.

  He knotted his tie, and adjusted the holster in the waistband of his trousers. It all pointed now to Borowy. If he were the hired killer, and there seemed to be little doubt of that, somehow Borowy would have to be convinced to confess.

  It was midnight when Lockwood hit the streets. The right time to begin looking for Borowy.

  If Borowy had brains, he’d be holed up someplace, someplace no one could find him. A little furnished room in Queens, a cabin up in the New England woods. But that wasn’t for Borowy. He had to be where the action was, and Lockwood was counting on that to trip him up. On that and on Borowy’s automatic. Hit men ordinarily disposed of their guns after they’d knocked off the man they’d been paid to kill, but Borowy was different. He had a superstitious attachment to the big Army .45 he used on his jobs. It was good luck for him, he was fond of saying, and bad luck for anyone who got in its way. Borowy was a big fan of cowboy movies, and he delighted in filing yet another notch in after each successful job. The last Lockwood had heard, before Maria Nuzzo’s death, there had been twelve grooves in the automatic’s handle. If somehow he could get the gun away from Borowy, or…

  He felt himself being followed. He was on 47th near Fifth and the street was alive with people out enjoying the magic of the city. Not likely anyone would try anything on him here. He flagged down a cab and vaulted inside. “Straight ahead, and step on it,” he told the driver, who responded like a pro.

  As they approached Broadway, he told the cabbie, “Make a quick right turn, slow down long enough to let me get out, behind the newsie’s stand, but not long enough for anyone behind us to think you’d stopped.” He then dropped three dollar bills on the seat next to the hackie.

  The man knew his job, and The Hook had just time enough to leap out before the cab swung powerfully into second gear, and then third, leaving a cloud of black smoke behind as a second cab shot around the corner, and followed close on the heels of the first. Lockwood, leaning against the wall of the newsstand, couldn’t see who was in the cab, but his guess was it was Lomenzo’s men.

  Two more cab rides later, certain he’d shaken the tail, the detective resumed his quest for Borowy. No one in the usual joints had seen Borowy for weeks, and it was two in the morning when Lockwood ran into an old friend at a sailor’s hangout on Tenth Avenue.

  “Borowy? I don’t know. He was always hot for the pros, wasn’t he?”

  “You mean prostitutes?”

  “That’s what I mean. Anyhow, there’s a floating whorehouse located down in the financial district this week, on Water Street. It’s a tough proposition because you know what the cops are like; they close ‘em down as soon as they get a sniff. But this one’s only been there a couple days, should still be there. Operates from midnight to four A.M. Days, it’s a law office. Tell ‘em Schatz sent you.”

  “Have you heard of Borowy visiting them?”

  The old friend’s mouth came down hard, and his eyes went blank. “I’m only tellin’ you advice, Billy, that’s all. Anything else is your decision. Just remember one thing: they’re not too friendly down there to strangers.”

  They weren’t. The voice behind the doorslit was harsh, guttural. “What you knockin’ here for? Geddout, before I call the cops.”

  “Shatz sent me.”

  The door was opened grudgingly. A mug who looked like an ugly version of Tony Galento, stood there, half-blocking the entrance. “I don’t know you.”

  “That’s okay, pal, I don’t know you, either,” Lockwood told him, and brushed on by, his manner confident enough, positive enough, to make the other man falter.

  He was in a small passageway, and saw a mahogany door at the other end. In two strides he reached it, and turned the knob. As the heavy door opened, he saw that his friend was right. They were still there. Very much in business.

  A blond in a sheer nightg
own on a leather couch looked up and smiled. “Hello, handsome.”

  Two brunettes, clad only in black bras and panties, paused in their conversation and eyed him. A beautiful Chinese girl coming out of a door stopped and surveyed him. And an older woman walked up.

  She was probably in her fifties, but in fine shape for her age, if you liked that age. Her mouth and eyes were hard, and her smile was unconvincing. “Hmm. New blood. Looks like the right stuff, too.”

  He nodded at her. “This everyone?” he asked.

  She stared, then laughed. “This everyone!” She turned to the girls. “Is this everyone, he asks.” She swung back to him. “What do you want, fella, to take on the whole place?” The girls giggled.

  “Something like that,” he told her, not giving an inch. “How many others do you have here?”

  The madam’s eyes went wary. “You don’t seem like the right kind of dude for this place.”

  He knew how to calm, her. “Does this help persuade you?” he asked, flashing a wad of bills.

  The twisted smile she gave was genuine now. “There’s four others. But—if you’re interested in them, you’ll have to wait a while. They’re a little busy.”

  Lockwood shrugged. “I’ve got time.” The blond had walked up to him, and was rubbing firmly against his body, her enormous, blue-veined breasts half-visible through the gauze of her gown.

  “How about me, doll?”

  She was probably seventeen, but looked thirty. “Maybe later, beautiful,” he told her. She angrily glared at him, then shrugged and walked away.

  “How about a drink?” the madam asked.

  “What’ve you got that’s not watered?”

  She laughed. “Hey, this is a high-class operation. We get the big butter and egg men here.”

  “Right, and their minds aren’t on what they’re slugging down. How about something from the bottle you get your belts from?”

  She laughed again, a big, raucous laugh. “You’re okay, Mac. You know your way around, all right.”