by Brad Latham
“You been readin’ too many funny books, Hook,” Toomey said. “I’m a legitimate businessman; what would I be doin’, messin’ with anyone’s personal property?” A few guttural chuckles issued from Toomey’s men. They liked his little joke.
“I’m not a cop, Toomey, you know that. I’m not out to arrest anyone.” Lockwood reached into his shirt for a Camel, then into his jacket pocket for his lighter. Toomey and his men tensed, but didn’t commit themselves. Lockwood had to give it to them. They were pros at what they did and had the confidence to allow him to keep them on the qui vive. He lighted the Camel and continued.
“I’m in the insurance business. The insurance business doesn’t like to lose money.” He turned toward Stephanie. “How about letting her out of here? She’s got nothing to do with any of this.”
“Stow it, Hook. Keep talkin’. Might as well use your mouth while it still works.” Toomey’s voice was genial, but there was death in his eyes.
“Okay. So occasionally we work deals that maybe a cop might not be too happy about. There are times when we know we’ve got to take a financial fall, so we try to soften the blow.”
Lockwood drew in on the Camel, his mind still working, trying to figure out how best to defend Stephanie and himself when the inevitable showdown came.
“So we find the guy, who, say, stole a truckload of furs, and we offer him some money—enough money to make it worthwhile—but less than we’d have to pay out in benefits —and we get the furs back and return them to our beneficiary, and everybody’s happy. Sure, we’re out something, but not as much as it would be otherwise.”
“I’m lookin’ at your woman, Hook. Very nice. I might want to keep her around a while,” Toomey grinned, his mouth a sneer.
Stephanie involuntarily drew nearer The Hook. “You’re losing track, Toomey,” Lockwood said. “We’re talking business. Money. You like the sound of that, don’t you? Money.”
“So what’s the deal?” Toomey asked, flatly.
“The jewels are insured for $50,000. There’s no way you could fence them for more than—oh say, $10,000.”
“What’re you, some kind of college professor, you know everything?” Toomey asked, sarcastic.
“I’ve been around. Okay, maybe you get lucky, somebody offers you $20,000, but that’s not likely.”
“So what’s your deal?”
“I’ll give you twenty, or rather the company will. Put up the diamonds, and I’ll give you twenty. All it’ll take is twenty-four hours, tops.”
“Give it to me now,” Toomey answered, chuckling, and his boys laughed appreciatively. “I’m not good at waiting. Give it to me now.”
“Twenty-five. That’s my final offer.”
Toomey turned toward his gang. “Twenty-five. He says that’s his final offer. What he don’t know is it’s his final everything.” The eyes of all of them were on Lockwood now, their laughs mocking, their bodies tensed.
“Don’t be an idiot, Toomey. There’s no way you can torpedo me without winding up in the big barber chair—the one where they shave the top of your head and forget about the rest of it.”
Toomey rose, and his men followed suit. “You killed two of my guys, Hook. Nobody gets away with that. You also stood me up. I don’t take too kindly to that, either. I put time aside for you, and you chose not to honor it.” Lockwood started to speak, but Toomey cut him off. “I don’t care what your reasons were. Petey and Slops, keep a gun on the moll. That way, we won’t have to worry about Hook here getting too big for his britches.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Stephanie implored Lockwood. “I’m not important. Do what you must.” Was she reassuring him, or egging him on? It was a mixed message she seemed to be sending out, for sure. Was she here to protect him, or did she have a darker motive in mind?
“I’m not going to let you get hurt, if I can help it,” Hook told her. “What do you want, Toomey?”
“What do I want? He wants to know what I want,” Toomey chuckled to his all-too-willing audience.
“I’ll tell you what I want,” he continued, turning back to Lockwood. “I want you to be worked over, real good. And then I want you to deep six it, get wood-boxed after a little instant lead-poisoning. You follow my drift?”
Stuff and the anonymous hood were moving toward Lockwood now.
“Pin his arms,” Two-Scar told them. “I want to get in the first few punches myself.” He was carefully removing his jacket, folding it, and placing it solicitously on the chair he’d vacated. “And don’t get funny with Stuff or Elmer. One false move out of you, and the pretty lady gets her tits shot off.”
Lockwood felt Stephanie shudder, but there was nothing he could do, not with those two pistols aimed unwaveringly at her body.
Stuff and Elmer stepped up and moved him back against the wall. The stench from Stuff’s armpits was almost overpowering. A hell of a way to die, Lockwood thought, and glanced toward Stephanie. She was looking at him, genuine concern and fear for him in her face. Maybe she was better than she seemed.
Toomey had meticulously rolled up his sleeves and carefully placed his cigar in an ashtray. He strode lightly across the floor. There was something of the cat about him, albeit a cat with less brain than it needed, a cat with two mistakes livid across its face.
Toomey was in front of him now, a practiced George Raft smile on his face, oily and false. “I like to hit people, did you know that, Hook? I really like to hit them. It feels good. I don’t know anything much better, except maybe putting the boots to a babe like this one,” he said, indicating Stephanie. “Yeah, I like to hit people, all right, but there’s some I like to hit more than others. Right now you’re at the top of the list.”
The grip of Stuff and Elmer tightened, and a frown crossed Toomey’s face. “How many times I have to tell you to wash?” he snarled at Stuff. A nice domestic touch, Hook decided, as he braced himself.
Stuff, to his credit, blushed, and Toomey redirected his attention to Lockwood. “Yeah, you’re at the top of the list, and soon you’re not going to be on no list at all, so I might as well get mine in while I can.” Toomey gently patted The Hook on the chin, and Petey Ahearn snickered.
“Yeah, I’m going to take care of your face for you, give you a facial, a first-class facial, that’ll really do the job. You won’t recognize yourself when it’s all over.” Ahearn exploded with that one, and Two-Scar smiled appreciatively. “But first,” he said, “maybe just a little love tap in the belly….”
It hurt. The punch came in at his stomach and his spine snapped back against the wall behind him. A second punch, and a third, all to the same spot. He had to do something, and he started to struggle.
Toomey’s voice stopped him short. “If he doesn’t quit now, plug her!”
“All right, Hook. That was just to warm me up. Here we go,” Toomey said, then stared to his left, eyes wide open.
“Hiyah, dimple-face.” It was the voice of Jimbo Brannigan, his bulk obscured from Lockwood’s view by Stuff’s avoirdupois, although Lockwood did experience the satisfaction of seeing Maggiatore’s mouth drop a yard or so. “Yeah, you, Toomey. Whatsamatter, rat got your tongue?”
Brannigan was in view now, near the five of them, a few cops wedged behind him in the small entrance hall. He studied Stephanie, then turned toward Lockwood. “Friend or foe?”
“Friend… I think,” said Hook.
“Oh. All right. So it’s just Toomey here and his playmates I gotta be concerned about. You’re okay, right, Hook?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then these gracious gentlemen who are doing their best to support you can drop their arms, can’t they?” Jimbo’s murderous gaze fell on Stuff and Elmer. They dropped their hands.
Jimbo looked around, found himself a promising-looking chair, lumbered over, and eased into it. He regarded Toomey.
“The patrolman on this beat saw you in the neighborhood, bright eyes. He knew you didn’t belong here, so he called me. See what good stuff yo
ur taxes are buying you? And I says to myself, what the hell is Toomey doing around here? Too early for a nightclub opening, and anything else in this area he lets his boys take care of.” He paused and grabbed a Chesterfield out of a crumpled pack. He struck a wooden match against his shoe and inhaled.
“And then I remembered my pal here,” a nod of his head indicated Lockwood. “I remembered you and him have some unfinished business. Figured that maybe you were paying him a little unscheduled visit. So I hopped in my car—just think, Toomey, your taxes helped pay for that, too—I do assume you’re keeping up on your taxes, it pays to these days for guys like you—and I took a little spin over here.” He rubbed his big hands together. “And I was right.”
Stephanie had melted against Lockwood now, sagging into his body with relief. He put an arm around her. He’d seen Jimbo when he was like this before, and he found himself feeling a little sorry for Toomey.
Brannigan picked up a magazine and rifled through it. “You know, dimple-face, I get paid to do a job,” he said, addressing Toomey, “and it’s a very simple job. But once in a while a guy comes along and makes it hard. I’m a lazy guy, Toomey. I really don’t like to have to work.”
Lockwood looked at Toomey. Toomey had no idea of what was coming, but everyone knew the detective’s reputation, and there was no question he was beginning to feel the menace of Brannigan. A little tear of sweat began to form on the gangster’s upper lip.
Brannigan put down the magazine. “I don’t have to work much if the guy stays out of my precinct, you see, so sometimes when he doesn’t, I have to convince him he’d be better off in far more comfortable pastures.” He looked at Petey Ahearn and Slops Weinstein. In their trance, they still had their guns leveled at the space where Stephanie had been. “I think you’d best put down those water pistols, gents.” Ahearn and Slops, startled, looked first at Brannigan, next at Toomey, then abashedly lowered their automatics.
Brannigan turned his attention back to Toomey, rising as he did so. A trail of ashes descended as he lifted his rumpled form.
“So I’m going to try to convince you not to invade my territory. Not even at night, not even for those nightclub openings you love so dearly. Used to love so dearly.”
The room was dead silent, all eyes on Brannigan.
He strode over to Toomey and slowly pawed at Two-Scar’s collar, fingers casually locking onto it. Toomey tried to look fearless, but he couldn’t bring it off, his eyes wavering uncertainly as the courage in him sank.
“C’mon.”
Brannigan had Toomey by the scruff of the neck and was walking away from the rest of them, toward the window. Toomey’s legs were rubber.
They reached the window, Brannigan doing all the walking, pushing Toomey ahead of him. “Some people learn easy,” he said to Toomey. “Some learn hard. I get the feeling it takes a little doing to teach you anything.”
The window was open, and Brannigan placed one arm to the side of it, bracing himself. “Sometimes a slow learner, once he absorbs something, he just never forgets it. That’s what I’m hoping will happen for you.” Toomey was inert in his hand, apparently stricken dumb.
“So remember, my fine-feathered acquaintance, I’m doing this for your sake.” And with that, in one quick movement, Brannigan impelled Toomey out the window, one hand dangling him above the pavement, twelve stories below. Toomey now found his voice, but all that came out of it was screams.
Toomey’s men had gone white. True, there were cops in the room, but even if they hadn’t been there, it was unlikely Ahearn and Weinstein and the rest would have moved. Brannigan had that quality about him; a quietly murderous fury that virtually everything in nature quailed before.
A quick yank and Toomey was back in the room. He sprawled on the floor, gripping at the rug as if to assure himself he was no longer out there, teetering on the brink of eternity.
“This his?” Brannigan had picked up Toomey’s jacket, shooting the question to Lockwood.
At The Hook’s nod, he dropped the jacket on Toomey. “Okay, Vernon, me bucko, time to get dressed. School’s over, and you can go home. Remember, I’m expecting you to be a star pupil.”
Toomey, pale, shaken, dressed hurriedly, giving a flut-. tering hand signal to his boys to follow him, too ashamed to look at them. The cops made way for them, and by the time they reached the hall and the threat was over, Toomey went back to George Raft. “You surprised me that time, Brannigan! I’ll get you yet! You—and that goddamned Hook!”
Brannigan feinted at them, and they hustled away like frightened barnyard fowl as the detective broke into a deep, wry chuckle.
“Thanks, Jimbo,” Lockwood said.
“Looks like they had you foxed pretty good,” Brannigan said, disinterestedly straightening his perennially rumpled suit a bit.
“Better than that.”
“Ah well, I owe you a few, don’t I?” Brannigan turned toward his men, indicating they could leave. “You’re all right now, I guess?”
“Yes. Fine now.”
“That’s all very well then. Goodbye, Miss,” he said to Stephanie. Then, straightening his tie, so that it was even more askew than before, he left.
“Quite a man,” Lockwood said.
“Yes,” Stephanie agreed. “But not, I think, your equal.”
The Hook said nothing, silently offering her a Camel. She shook her head no, and he took one for himself. He inhaled deeply and felt himself relax for the first time since he’d entered the apartment.
“Can I make you a drink?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Canadian?”
“That—that would be good. A little water, please.”
He went into the kitchen and fixed two drinks. This one would taste particularly sweet, he knew. Good old Brannigan. Okay, there were some who said he was a cop who didn’t play by the rules, but sometimes, perhaps, there were occasions when rules no longer applied.
Stephanie had removed her jacket when he returned. She was wearing a short-sleeved silk blouse, open at the neck. In the fading light of the day, she looked fine, just fine.
He gave her the drink, then sat beside her on the couch and took a pull on his own. “Okay, now what’s it all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you really here?”
“I told you—to protect you,” she protested, earnestly, then smiled a small smile. “I have not done so well though thus far, have I?”
“I don’t buy your story.”
Her eyes widened and misted with sudden tears. “I—I am sorry.”
“Yes?”
“I am sorry you don’t believe me. I have told you the truth. But of course there is nothing that says you must believe me. It hurts, your disbelief, but I must accept it.”
“What do you know about the theft of the jewels?”
“Nothing.” The thunderhead-color of her eyes never cleared. “I am only a maid. Was.” She corrected herself.
“You’re too bright for that. Too beautiful. Why were you Muffy Dearborn’s maid?”
Stephanie smiled at him ruefully, the merest hint of a line forming in her flawless facial skin. “The Depression. Many of us were—are—too bright, too beautiful for many things. But we have had to do them.”
Lockwood shrugged. She won on that one.
“What about the people surrounding Muffy? Could any of them have had anything to do with it?”
“I don’t understand.” Stephanie’s face clouded. “I thought it was already decided that that Toomey man had done it.”
“Could be. Probably so. But my guess is he had inside help. Why else put a bullet through poor Jabber-Jabber’s skull?”
“I see.” Her eyes dropped, and she folded her hands in her lap. “I wish I could help somehow. But I know nothing.”
Her perfume was doing the same job on him that it had in the hospital. “You’re really very beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you,” she answered, a kind of physic
al silence hanging over her.
“Do you plan to stay here?”
She looked at him, inquiringly.
“In this apartment with me?”
“I have told you I would,” she said simply.
“You’re asking a lot of me.”
“I can pay my way.”
“I don’t mean that,” he laughed, surprised. Then, “You’re a woman—a very attractive woman. And I’m—” he shrugged, “human.”
Her face was serious. “I understand. After all, in my country we feel differently about these things.”
“More sophisticated, you mean?”
“However you wish to put it.”
“Come here.” He extended an arm toward her.
She looked at him for a moment, seemed to hang back, and then slowly moved to him, allowing him to hold her.
They sat like that for a while, relaxing against each other. Then, “I think you may be out to kill me,” Lockwood said flatly.
She stiffened, but his arm brought her back to him. “How can you say this?”
“Because that’s what I think. What I feel. But not,” he took a deep whiff of her perfume, “what I smell.”
“You frighten me,” she said.
“Me? Why?”
“I—I don’t know. Because—because, I think, there is something relentless about you. Indomitable.”
“At the moment I feel very domitable.” He ran his hand over her arm. It was warm and smooth, and she shivered as he did it.
He turned her toward him and looked down at her lips. They were slightly parted, lush and full, and rich with promise. “You’re frightened by me, and I in turn wonder just when you’ll do me in. We’re quite a pair.”
Her lids half-closed as she looked up at him. The storm clouds that were her eyes were darker than ever, and he could feel her breath deepen as he bent down to kiss her.
Her lips were all they had seemed, as he placed his own lightly on them, and then more firmly. He felt her body tense, and then relax, as she gave herself up. He pulled his head back and stared down at her, and her mouth was half-open, glistening teeth showing, as if every last bit of her were hungry for more.
