by Brad Latham
While she poured him a gin, a tall thin man in his fifties emerged from a door in the back wall, looking sheepish and anxious to leave. A few seconds later the girl he’d been with came into the room and plunked herself down on the couch next to the blond. She was black and pretty, except for terribly thin legs. Rickets. But the thin man hadn’t cared. Not till he was through, anyway.
“You’re one of the patient ones, aren’t ya?” the madam told Lockwood, intrigued, happy for a little diversion.
“Very.” He sipped at the gin. Good stuff. Imported from England. Probably the only bottle in the place that wasn’t half H2O.
“Two dollars,” she told him, palm out.
He stared at her. “That’s practically the price of a bottle.”
“Not here it ain’t.”
He forked over the two bills as another satisfied client came out from the back, trying to look unconcerned and dignified, his slightly awkward shambling giving him away. He had the appearance of a broker, well-dressed, about sixty. The girl behind him was nondescript, average-looking, about twenty, with mouse-colored hair. She had on a heavy robe, and seemed to be shivering, despite the heat in the room.
Two new customers came in, then a third, and finally another man emerged from the back with an expansive smile on his face. “She’s the greatest, Kate!” he waved to the madam. “You know how to pick ’em!”
Kate gave him a friendly hug, and showed him to the door, as all the girls waved goodbye. Obviously one of the more favored customers. In a moment his date came into the room, and left almost immediately with one of the new arrivals. She was a redhead and sharp. Everything on her was where it should be, and exactly the right amount of it. Either she was new to the business, or enjoyed it, because she seemed to glow with good health and exuberance.
Kate came up to The Hook. “How about it, big fella? About time for you to make a pick.”
He shrugged. “There’s still one left to see.”
She looked at him curiously. “You’re awfully choosy, aren’t you? No sense waiting, anyway. Madge’ll be tied up all night.”
“Sooner or later she’s got to come out. I can wait.”
She’d seen all types, so nothing much surprised her anymore. “Suit yourself,” she told him, “but it’s going to cost you five, no matter what. Diddle or don’t diddle, it’s a fiver just for being here.”
Lockwood wasn’t listening to her. The door had opened, and a half-clad man was standing there. “Kate,” he started to say, “where the hell’s the liquor you—” and then he saw The Hook.
“I’ve been looking for you, Borowy. I’ve got a score to settle with you.” The women looked up, afraid. Kate started to reach for something, and Lockwood grabbed her, twisting her arm behind her back. “Don’t,” he said.
One of the girls began to scream, and the others picked it up. Borowy had already spun on his heel, exiting through the doorway and slamming the door behind him.
Lockwood flung the madam away from him and sprinted toward the door. As he reached it, he heard the front door open, and Galento’s uglier version stood there, blackjack at the ready.
The .38 was in the detective’s hand, and he pointed it at the lookout. “It’s not worth it,” he called. “You’re better off getting out of here—all of you!”
They took him at his word, the girls grabbing for whatever clothes they could find, with Kate urging them along. Someone started pounding on the back door, and Lockwood pulled it open. Two of the girls and their johns poured out, wide-eyed, the johns scared out of their minds, running toward the front door for all they were worth. Lockwood peered down the corridor as they rushed past him. No one there. Either Borowy was already out of the building or he was waiting for him behind one of the doors that lined the passage. Eight doors and an exit door beyond.
He had to get to the end of the hall first. If Borowy had exited that way, he’d be out of sight before Lockwood checked all of the other possibilities. He took a deep breath and ran down the hall, praying he’d pass the wrong doorway, if there was a wrong doorway, before Borowy could get a shot off.
He made it down to the end, threw open the exit door, and heard a bullet whistle over his left shoulder. Borowy was behind him.
He dropped to the floor, rolling out onto the concrete landing by the exit stairs, and fired blindly down the hall, trying to throw Borowy off.
Immediately, he peered around the doorway, and jumped back, as he saw Borowy aiming the .45 at him, the bullets ripping past him a split second later.
Once again he chanced a look down the hall, and this time, he saw Borowy’s heels, as the gunman sped through the door at the end of the passage.
Lockwood leapt to his feet, pursuing his quarry, when suddenly something hurtled at him, knocking him against the wall. It was Madge, stark naked and growling like an animal.
“You leave him alone,” she cried out, hanging onto him, attempting to bite him. He tried to push her off but she clung to him like a madwoman, her lithe body employing every ounce of its surprising strength.
Finally, he picked her up and heaved her away from him, sending her sliding down the hall, her bare skin helping her skid halfway along the highly-polished floor. Free of her, Lockwood started to resume his pursuit of Borowy, but the gunman had already left the building, and there could be a whole gang waiting for the detective on the street outside; Borowy, Galento, maybe even Kate and a few of the women. Weapons wouldn’t be new to some of those girls.
He sighed, then turned. He’d have to take the exit door. Madge was crouched there on the floor, eyeing him, looking like a slimmed-down Rubens. He pointed the .38 at her. “Get into one of the rooms, and close the door behind you.”
Satisfied that he couldn’t hurt her man now, she complied, spitting in his direction as she did so.
As Lockwood left, slamming the heavy exit door behind him, he smiled to himself. Unless his luck proved bad, he’d had himself a thoroughly satisfactory night.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
“Where the hell’d you get these, me bucko, and just whose are they?” Lt. Jimbo Brannigan asked Lockwood the next morning at the headquarters of the Midtown Precinct. He shifted his great bulk in the battered swivel chair and held two small objects to the light.
“I pulled them out of the hall of a cathouse,” Lockwood offered.
“A cathouse, eh? Not in my precinct, by God!” Very little got by Brannigan in his domain, and when it did, he went on the warpath.
“No, nothing to worry about, Jimbo,” his friend assured him. “It was downtown, on Water Street.”
“Ah. Kramer’s beat. I’m not surprised. My guess is, Kramer’s running it.” The big Irishman roared, enjoying the conjecture.
“I don’t know. Not important.” Lockwood pointed to the objects in Brannigan’s hand. “What do you think they are?”
“.45 slugs, would be my guess,” Brannigan grunted.
“Yes, but whose?” Lockwood asked.
Brannigan shot him a look, then turned to a nearby aide. “Mellory, get these two slugs to ballistics. See if they match up with either of the bullets they found in Frankie Nuzzzo’s wife.” He looked at his friend again. “That right, pal?”
Bill Lockwood smiled. He’d expected the answer. “Still keeping your ear to the ground, eh Jimbo?”
“Got to know what my friends are doin’,” Jimbo said offhandedly, and a little too modestly. Friends, enemies, and most of those in between, if they were in any way touched by crime—he kept tabs on all of them.
The big detective pulled a crumpled pack of Wings out of his pocket. “Want one?” Lockwood eyed the third-rate butts, and shook his head no.
“If you’re going to buy garbage like that, you might as well get yourself a can of Bugler and roll your own.”
Brannigan shrugged. “My kids like the airplane pictures that come with it. Besides, if you smoke as much as I do, nothing’s got any taste to it anyway. Thanks,” he said, as Lockwood lig
hted the battered cigarette, and then one of his own. “The word is, you think Borowy’s the guy who stashed Frankie Nuzzo in a closet, and then pumped a coupla holes into the missus.”
“You’re a wonder, Jimbo.” The Hook smiled. “How about telling me what I’m going to do next.”
Brannigan tipped back in his chair and grinned. “If I don’t miss my guess, as soon as the report comes back from ballistics, you’re gonna be doing a lot of head-scratching.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Wait and see. In the meantime, let’s have lunch.”
The report was waiting on Brannigan’s desk when they returned.
“What’s happening on Fish Lomenzo?” Lockwood asked, as Brannigan picked up the papers.
“The usual stuff. Picked up, interrogated, let go for lack of evidence. He’s got a dozen witnesses who’ll attest he was someplace else playing tiddley-winks instead of torturing Agitino, and ordering the execution of the three of you. Sure, there’s you and the widow to testify otherwise; but if we try to bring her back, she’s dead somewhere along the line. So that leaves just you, if you make it to court by then.” Brannigan’s eyes narrowed as he read the report. “Okay, it may make it to court yet, if the judge and prosecuting attorney haven’t been paid off. But I wouldn’t count on it. Just like,” he handed the papers over to Lockwood, “I wouldn’t count on being too thrilled with this. Life being what it is, you can’t really count on anything.”
Lockwood studied the assessment of the ballistics department. “I’m not scratching my head,” he told Brannigan. “The slug from Borowy’s gun matches the slugs in Mrs. Nuzzo.”
“You’re gettin’ sloppy in your old age, Hook my boy. Read on.”
Lockwood did so. “Goddamn,” he growled, and then, catching himself, stopped his hand halfway up to his head.
Brannigan leaned back in his chair and roared. “What’d I tell ya!”
Lockwood read it all over again. “It doesn’t make sense, Jimbo.”
Brannigan’s laughter picked up steam. “Okay! Now scratch the head, Billy!”
Lockwood wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, although he had to admit the impulse was there. “Two slugs. One of them .45 calibre, but the .32. Jesus. Borowy’s never packed two guns.”
“That’s right.” Brannigan grinned. “And if he did, it’s not likely he’d use two different kinds. Mugs like him don’t do too well in the flexibility department. If a .45 does the job for him, when it comes to adding another gat, it wouldn’t be anything but a second .45.”
“Nuzzo said there was only one gunman,” Lockwood mused.
“You think Nuzzo put the other slug into her?”
“Could be. I’m convinced he hired Borowy.”
“Well, there you are. Catch Nuzzo in a cathouse, get him to throw a few at you, and the next morning you can dig his slugs out of the wall, too. Then just come on over. We’re open twenty-four hours a day.”
Lockwood crushed out his cigarette. “That looks like the next step. But somehow this whole thing’s just not smelling right.”
“I know what you mean,” Brannigan grunted, sympathatically. “But hell, you’re at least one step further along than you were. We can put out word to bring Borowy in now. If we snag ‘im, could be he’ll clear up the mystery of the .32. If we don’t come up with him—well, hell, when the time comes, and he pops up in your vicinity, just don’t forget to duck.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Leaving Brannigan, Lockwood realized he was bone-weary. He’d had little sleep the night before, rising at seven-thirty to insure getting to the law office when it opened, then prying the .45 slugs out of the wall while four gaping barristers watched him. The saps had never suspected the office was being used at night. Kate and her pals straightened up everything hours before anyone came in. One or two of the junior partners had looked more than a little intrigued when he’d finally told them what was up.
He decided to grab a nap before the long trip to Brooklyn and Nuzzo’s house. It was imperative he keep at top form. Too many Indians out there after his scalp.
He reached the Summerfield Hotel on West 47th Street, picked up his mail in the lobby, and took the elevator to his floor. He walked to his apartment, unlocked the door, and entered. He was halfway into the living room before he realized just how tired he was. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t have been caught napping, wouldn’t be doing what he was doing now. Staring into the muzzle of Frankie Nuzzo’s gun.
“Hello, Frankie.”
“Lockwood.” The barrel of the pistol was wavering slightly.
“Isn’t this the part where you tell me to say my prayers?” The Hook asked, watching Nuzzo closely, waiting for an opening.
“Sit down,” Nuzzo said. He didn’t look good.
Lockwood complied. “There’s not much sense in this, you know,” he said. “There’s an all-points out on Borowy. If you think he won’t squeal when they bring him in…”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nuzzo answered, and The Hook heard a tremor in his voice. What the hell was going on with Nuzzo?
“Promise me you won’t try anything, Lockwood,” Nuzzo resumed, and as his gun began to shake even more, he put a second hand on it, in an attempt to keep it steady. A vain attempt, as the automatic continued to do an erratic little dance. “Not until I’ve finished talking to you.”
Maybe Nuzzo was a hophead, coming down off a high. What the hell else could it be? The detective shrugged his acceptance of Nuzzo’s terms, and the gangster continued.
“I need your help.” His eyes were big now, and for the first time Lockwood realized what was up. Frankie’s eyes weren’t dilated by drugs. It was fear that was turning the trick.
“My help?”
Nuzzo laughed a nervous little laugh. “Yeah. I don’t know where else to go.”
Lockwood for the second time that day restrained the urge to scratch his head. First the mystery about the .32 slug and now Nuzzo was asking him for help. This had seemed like a simple little case going in. Not easy, Mr. Gray, but simple. What the hell was going on? “You’re knocking me a little off-balance, Frankie,” he told him.
Nuzzo lowered the gun. “I—I—need protection.”
“And you’re coming to me?”
“I don’t know where else to go. I know you’re straight. The cops—well, some of them are, some of them aren’t. And sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which. You, I know where you are.”
“Don’t count on it, Frankie. Anyway, what’s your problem?”
“My brother-in-law.”
“Fish?”
“Yeah, Albert. He thinks I had my wife killed because I was jealous of her. He thinks Maria was cheatin’ on me.”
“Was she?”
Nuzzo blinked, one, two, three times. “If she was, I’d a killed her.”
“She was, Frankie.”
The gun came up, wavered, and came down again. “If she was, I didn’t know nothin’ about it, I swear.”
“Okay, we’ll leave it alone for the time being. Fish is out to get you, I take it?”
“Me, and everyone connected with me. He’s put away all my boys. He made Tommy Gee drink from a bottle of lye. I saw it. Larry Rourke and Gobby Metuit he put in a grinder. Metuit was still alive.”
“Those were all your men?”
Rage swept Frankie’s face, and then he subsided, crumpling. “All that was left after you got through with ‘em. Now there’s no one left. Just me.”
“Why would Fish do all this to you?” Lockwood was skeptical. “I’ve heard Maria and he didn’t get on so well.”
“No. They didn’t like each other, that’s true. But that don’t mean nothing. Not when it comes to blood.”
Lockwood nodded. The code of family. Squabble all you want with your blood relations; hate them, kill them even. But if threatened by an outsider, unite against him. And Frankie, though a relation by marraige, wasn’t blood. Halfway in, mayb
e, but also halfway out. And if Fish thought he’d killed Maria, then he was fair game.
“What do you want from me?” he asked. He started to reach for a Camel, and Frankie’s pistol came up. “I just want a smoke.” He reached into his pocket, threw one to Frankie, and took one for himself. “There’s a lighter there on the table next to you,” he said. He waited till Frankie lit up, then said it again. “What do you want from me?”
“Protection.” A muscle in Frankie’s left cheek began to twitch. “I threw everything I had atchu, Lockwood. Good men, everyone one of ‘em. An’ you took care of ‘em all. You c’n handle yourself like no one I know. That’s why I need you. This Fish—” he started to tremble, “he’s a crazy man. Sure, he talks nice, acts real cool like nothin’s goin’ on, an’ all the while he’s lookin’ like that an’ talkin’ like that…” Nuzzo was sobbing now. “All that time he can be doin’ thin’s to you, you wouldn’t think of things like that in your worst nightmares!”
“You said you saw him make Tommy Gee drink lye.”
“That’s right.”
“That means Lomenzo—Fish—must have had you in hand, too.”
“He did. I escaped.”
“I don’t buy it, Frankie.”
Nuzzo looked stunned. “What?”
“Fish is too bright to let you get away. And you’re too dumb to figure out how to get away from him.”
“I’m tellin’ you, I did.”
“Sorry, Frankie, nothing doing.”
Nuzzo went white. “You’ve got to!”
“No.”
“Look!” Nuzzo held out the gun. “I’ll even give you my rod.” He slid it across the carpet to Lockwood.
The detective leaned over and picked up the pistol. Not a .32. Dammit. “This is your only gun?” he asked.
Nuzzo looked at him, but ignored the question. “I beg ya,” he pleaded.
“I don’t believe you, Frankie. You’ve got to be setting me up for something.”
Suddenly, Frankie Nuzzo was on his knees on the floor, crying, his hands clasped, as if in prayer. Only it wasn’t God he was supplicating. “Please, Lockwood. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”