Hate is Thicker Than Blood

by Brad Latham

  Another few seconds and he reached the exit, a dim light above it the only indication. He sprinted through the entrance and up the iron steps, to an opening where the grating had been laid aside. This being New York, already some curious passersby were staring down into the unfamiliar hole.

  He thanked their curiosity, grateful that their milling above indicated Borowy wasn’t waiting there for him, pistol ready.

  The crowd gave way, startled, when he broke to the surface, gun in hand, black with the grime of the underground. Down the street, he saw his man.

  “Borowy! Stop!” he yelled, and then immediately regretted it, fearful for those about him, as Borowy stopped, spun, and fired. This time the .45 tore into a nearby car, a car vacated just a moment before by a man who otherwise would be dead.

  Lockwood began running again, as Borowy once more disappeared into the crowd. He was heading west on 44th Street, toward Eighth Avenue. Borowy knew his city. Much less chance of bumping into a cop in this area.

  Just past Eighth, Lockwood, trying to get past a group of construction workers, suddenly saw Borowy duck into a building. Either an escape route Borowy was familiar with, or maybe the big man had done all the running he could. Lockwood hoped it was the latter. He had to get the walleyed gunman. Had to.

  It was a small office building, narrow, with a single elevator at the rear of the miniscule entrance hall. Everything in him screamed to race up the stairs, to keep up the pursuit, but instead he forced himself to sag back against a wall, and wait. Wait for the elevator to reach its final goal, and then begin its journey downward. Its slow, torturous journey downward, The Hook realized, with a groan, as the elevator began its eccentric, lengthy descent.

  Finally the doors opened. Two passengers were discharged, and then The Hook was able to board. The operator shrank back in fright as he saw the gun, and The Hook’s desperate, disheveled appearance.

  “Quick! You just took a man up! A big, blond man. Eyes like this,” he shouted, fingers again describing an angle from his eyes. “What floor?”

  The man, bug-eyed with fear, didn’t answer.

  “What floor?” The Hook asked again, grabbing him by the lapels of his uniform jacket.

  This seemed to help. “T–t–top!” the little man told him, his carefully trimmed moustache quivering.

  “Okay! Get me up there! No stops!

  “Y–yessir.”

  The operator’s gloved hand pushed the door shut, the other hand yanked all the way down on a lever, and the narrow compartment began its ascent, faster than before, but still slow enough to madden Lockwood.

  “Can’t you go any faster?” he cried, but the man simply cowered back against the steel wall and shook his frightened head.

  “No.”

  “What’s up on the top floor?” Lockwood asked.

  “Ph–photographer’s studio.”

  “Anything else?”

  “N–no.”

  “What about the roof? Could he get to the roof from there?”

  The little man nodded, numbly.

  “On the roof—any fire escape—any way to get down?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Good,” Lockwood grunted, somewhat satisfied. If Borowy wasn’t already making his exit down the stairs, he might have him where he wanted him.

  The elevator was nearing the tenth floor. “When we get to the top,” he told the operator, “just open the door partway. Don’t show yourself. You might get shot.”

  The little man’s eyes widened, and he nodded.

  He was still nodding as he reached the top, and slowly edged the door partway open.

  The Hook looked out, waited, then sprang through the door. “Thanks,” he called back, as the heavy gate swung shut behind him, and the elevator immediately described an escape.

  The studio seemed to be deserted. No lights were on, and there were no sounds of activity.

  The Hook stopped, listened, and when he heard nothing, moved to the exit door. There was a wooden stop lying near it, probably to help bring air into the studio when the heat got bad. Slowly he swung the door open, .38 ready, and when he was satisfied no one was there, he jammed the stop under the door. He’d investigate the studio first, and if Borowy should start coming down from the roof, he’d be able to hear him.

  It was a large space, broken up into a number of rooms; reception area, offices, file room, an artist’s studio, darkrooms, a production department. No sound was heard, aside from the faint city noises, leaking up through the closed windows.

  Painstakingly, quietly, he investigated each room in turn, slowly drawing open closet doors, silently dropping to the floor as he entered, searching under desks and tables, any place Borowy might be crouching.

  He made no noise as he moved, practised in that art, stealthier than an Apache, all the while fighting that impatience that raged through him, that wanted to immediately tear open each door, quickly overturn each desk, in the fear that with every moment Borowy might be getting further away from him.

  But there was no other way to do this. And so he continued on, checking, scrutinizing, searching. He came at last to a darkroom. Slowly he turned the knob of the door. Slowly, quietly. And suddenly Borowy barreled out at him, exploding against the door, knocking him back against the wall.

  Borowy’s gun hand came up, and the butt of his pistol cracked against Lockwood’s jaw, just as the detective’s foot came up and smashed into Borowy’s gut.

  Borowy fell back, arms around his middle, and Lockwood raised his pistol, hoping to stop Borowy, but not kill him. He needed his testimony. He was the whole key to this thing. If Borowy died … he couldn’t die.

  He fired, and Borowy grunted, and leapt behind a desk. And then the desk came up into the air, rushing straight at Lockwood, a great, solid mass of wood coming at him with only one intention: to crush the life out of him.

  He leapt to one side, as the desk splintered against the wall space he’d vacated. Borowy was already running, heading toward the exit.

  The Hook’s pistol had skidded away, and now he ran after Borowy, and overtook him, leaping onto his back. The big man went down, but immediately bucked, throwing Lockwood off him.

  Again he pointed his gun at the detective, but a metal file tray was already hurtling toward him, smashing against his face, the sharp steel sides etching two lines into his face, two lines that soon began to drip crimson.

  Lockwood was at him again, hitting him with a straight right, driving him back, then doubling him up with a left to the midsection.

  For most opponents, that would have been enough, but Borowy was fighting for his life, and for the chance to kill the man he hated beyond reason. He came back with a roundhouse right of his own, missing with it, but following up with a left that caught Lockwood in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.

  Fighting for time, the detective closed with Borowy, clinching, trying to get his breath back. It was a move of desperation, because, bigger and heavier, Borowy had the advantage in a situation that involved wrestling, rather than throwing punches.

  And he used that advantage, pinning The Hook, moving him back into the room, back toward the window that overlooked Eighth Avenue. Grinning, grimacing, his one thought was only to push The Hook through that window, cracking his head against the glass, the shards of it puncturing mortal flesh as the head moved through and then down, down, down, body flailing, legs akimbo, down to the rubbish-strewn pavement below.

  Lockwood thought of Gina. He couldn’t die. If there was even a million-to-one chance of his getting her back, then he couldn’t die. Desperately, he locked a foot around one of Borowy’s, and pushed against his adversary, pulling up against Borowy’s foot as he did so.

  It worked, the big man tottering backward for a moment, then crashing down against a desk.

  Before Borowy was halfway up, a hard left to the chin rocked him, and a right to the stomach sent him back onto the desk, flattening him out. Lockwood reached for the thug’s collar, but
Borowy had brought up a foot, and shoved off against Lockwood’s belt, propelling him back half a dozen feet, giving Borowy time to swing off the desk, and back into action.

  This time he ignored Lockwood, diving for the .45 that lay a few feet away, but stopped in mid-motion as the detective leapt on him, pulling his hand away from the firearm, his other arm around Borowy’s neck.

  Borowy heaved, strained, and rose, picking the lighter man up with him, then tried to run backward against the nearest wall, once more attempting to crush his adversary, stun him into submission.

  Lockwood saw it coming and let go, dropping away as Borowy continued his rearward course, unable to stop himself. He hit the wall, bounced off, and once again the two faced each other.

  “You’ll never get out of here alive, Lockwood,” Borowy snarled at him, already on the move.

  “Don’t bet on it,” his opponent answered, his face grim, hands rising to block Borowy’s first blow.

  The parry was effective, but it left him open to Borowy’s second punch, and in the split second before it arrived, Lockwood saw there was more than just fist coming in at him.

  He felt the pain, the sharp sting of it, the intense ringing in his ears as he went down, willpower not enough to keep him up, despite all his desire, all his concentration.

  He was lying there, dazed, as Borowy dropped the marble paperweight he’d held in his striking hand, and ran for the .45. He was still trying to pull himself together when Borowy turned and pointed the ugly-looking muzzle at him.

  “Thought you were a big man, didn’t you?” Borowy rasped. “Thought you could collar me.”

  Lockwood stalled for time. Keep him talking, just keep him talking and wait for a break. Hope for it. “I’ll be taking you in, Borowy, don’t kid yourself otherwise.”

  Borowy laughed, the sound menacing. “You don’t think so good, do you, gumshoe? Ball my woman, get the cops after me, you don’t have a chance in hell.”

  “Better chance than you, Wall-Eye,” The Hook told him. He heard the faint sound of a siren below, and made use of it. “Hear that? I called the police before I came up here. In another few seconds they’ll have the place surrounded. No way you can get out.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” Wall-Eye’s features went crabbed for a moment, then cleared. “Just for dropping you, they should let me off for good behavior.” He leveled the gun at Lockwood. “Say your prayers, pal.”

  And then again his face contorted, and his knees buckled slightly. A surprised look came over his face, and finally Lockwood realized where all the blood that covered his hands had come from. Borowy was bleeding from the stomach, so that each punch his opponent had landed to his midsection had come away with crimson. The shot he’d taken at the contract murderer had reached its mark, just as he’d thought.

  The pistol was wavering, but Borowy was determined. Effort etched every plane of his face as he pulled the trigger of the steel automatic.

  The roar filled the room, a trail of smoke rising from the gun as it slowly dropped, Borowy crumpling unwillingly to the floor, trying to fight it off, grabbing with his free hand at a shelf to hold him up, the wood tearing away from the wall, its contents crashing to the floor, Borowy sagging into a crouch, knees on the carpet, like a beaten fighter who tries desperately to rise before the count of ten.

  And then the gun dropped, and Borowy sprawled out on the floor, face up, cursing in desperation.

  Lockwood watched it all as if in a dream, still a little dazed. Borowy’s hand had wavered as he fired, and the bullet had missed him by nearly a foot. When his head cleared, he realized he had to get to Borowy before it was too late.

  He crossed over to where the walleyed man lay, picked up the .45, and knelt over him.

  “Borowy.” His quarry looked up at him, expressionless. “Look, there isn’t time. Did Frankie Nuzzo hire you?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Borowy, it doesn’t make any difference to you if you tell me now. You’re going out anyway.”

  “The hell I am,” Borowy muttered, forcing up the words. “You can’t kill me, you two-bit flatfoot. Nobody can kill me.”

  “Borowy, believe me. The jig’s up. You don’t have more than a few seconds. Tell me it was Nuzzo. Tell me what it was all about.” Borowy was impassive, and he threw a few more words at him. “You’ll be dead and Nuzzo will have it all. Do you want that?”

  “You can’t con me, sucker. I’m not going to confess to anything. I know I’m going to live.”

  Lockwood ground his teeth in frustration. He had to get him to confess, had to keep him alive till then. He rose, and searched for a phone, found one, and dialed, hoping to get an ambulance there in time. And halfway through, put down the receiver. Borowy had twitched once, twice, then collapsed into himself. It was all over. Borowy had hit the end of the trail, and so, perhaps, in another way, had he.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Gina was still in the Cord waiting for him. It was beginning to rain, so he put the top up, then went into the station house and gave the news to Brannigan, Gina saying nothing, remaining in the car.

  Brannigan took it calmly, made the necessary calls, had his friend clean himself up as best he could, then copied down all the information he’d need for his reports. Finally, he looked up. “That’s it, Bill. You can go now. You know of course you’ve got to stick around the city for a while.”

  Lockwood nodded. “I’m going up to the office first. Nuzzo’s got nothing to worry about now. Except, if I get very, very lucky, me.”

  He left the stationhouse and got in the Cord. He nodded to Gina, who again said nothing but just sat there, looking beautiful… and lost.

  They reached the Radio City underground garage, and he pulled in.

  “I’ll just be a few minutes,” he told her. “Frankie’s in no danger now. I’ve got to tell him that.” Even this had no effect on her. Still she sat there immobile, sad, almost shrunken.

  He took the elevator up to Transatlantic Underwriters, then moved across the marble-lined corridor, through the clouded glass doors, then down the long banks of secretaries, typewriters chattering away, pausing only slightly as he strode by.

  Gray’s secretary hit the intercom buzzer, but there was no reply. She tried again, and when her eyes registered confusion, Lockwood pushed past her, and flung open her employer’s door.

  Gray was stretched out in the middle of the floor, bound and gagged, part of his bonds attached to a radiator, the other to his massive desk, so there was no way he could roll, no way he could bang against anything with his body, no way he could signal for help.

  Gray’s face was red with effort, his wrists chafed. He apparently had been struggling to free himself.

  “What happened?” Lockwood asked, as he removed the gag.

  “Get me up off here!” Gray spluttered, unable to take the indignity of the situation, embarrassed and angry.

  Lockwood’s hands worked quickly, expertly on the knots. “What happened?” he asked again.

  Once more Gray ignored him. There was no way he could respond in this position. “Get me up!” was all he’d answer.

  Finally, the constraints were off, and Gray was able to sit up, rub his hands and ankles, and finally rise. He drew himself up to full length, brushed himself off quickly, with abrupt, angry strokes, and then whirled full-face toward Lockwood.

  “I should have you fired for this!”

  “What happened? Where is he?” Lockwood asked again, doggedly.

  “How the hell should I know where he is?” Gray shrieked, for once allowing an oath to pass his lips. “It’s all your fault!”

  The radio was on, and Lockwood glanced in that direction.

  “That’s right!” Gray cried, noticing. “He heard it on the radio! Heard about his brother-in-law, heard about Borowy! And he realized he didn’t need protection anymore. He tried to leave, and I wouldn’t let him!”

  Lockwood looked around. There was no sign of a struggle.<
br />
  Gray seemed aware of his assessment. “He picked up a letter opener!” he explained. “Held it up to my throat! Made me lie down on the floor while he tied me up!”

  Lockwood nodded. At any other time, the idea of Gray being bound and gagged and left in that ridiculous position might have amused him, but not now. “Did he say where he was going? Did he give any indication?”

  “He didn’t say anything! Just held that damn letter opener to my throat! You thought all this was funny, didn’t you, Lockwood, leaving him with me! I saw your smile! Dammit, you’re on thin ice here…”

  “Maybe thinner than that,” Lockwood returned, evenly. “With Borowy dead, I’ve got no one to fall back on. Nuzzo will collect the claim. Unless,” he added slowly, “unless I can get Nuzzo himself to talk.”

  Gray was rubbing his sore wrists, after having gulped down half a carafe of water. “Well, you do that, Mr. Lockwood, you do that and do it damned fast, or you’ll find yourself out of a job. If you’re not already!” The last few words were shouted out over Lockwood’s shoulder as the detective left the richly-paneled office, and headed for the bank of elevators that would start him on his search for Frankie Nuzzo.

  Gina was still in the car when he arrived. He got in, and hit the ignition. “Frankie was gone,” he told her. “I don’t know where he is.”

  And still she said nothing.

  He yearned to draw her to him, but knew this was the wrong time, might always be the wrong time. He’d have to wait … and hope.

  “I’m going to drive you home,” he told her. “It’ll be safe now. After that, I’m going to look for Frankie.”

  He wheeled the coffin-nosed vehicle up the oil-stained concrete ramp, and out into the city. The rain was coming down heavily now, pedestrians racing for cover, newspapers held over their heads.

  He drove westward along 49th Street, turning left when he reached 11th. The blocks fell away, one by one, and the rain came down harder than ever, the only sound in the car the constant click-click of the steel and rubber wipers that swept back and forth over the windshield, barely able to keep up with the rain that poured down on each newly-cleared space.