Hate is Thicker Than Blood

by Brad Latham

  “Everything you’ve said so far is dog-piss, Lockwood, but if you wanna keep lifting your leg, go ahead.”

  “All I want from you is a written confession, Borowy.” The Hook, who’d been standing near the door, walked to Borowy’s desk, and seated himself in the chair next to it. Borowy tensed, but said nothing, as The Hook pulled out the Camels. He offered one to Borowy, who took it with a sneer, and the two of them lit up.

  “A written confession,” he continued. “Admitting your guilt, and stating exactly what Nuzzo’s involvement is in the case—that he hired you for the job, that he set up his wife to earn a bit of dough for him while she was making a tidy little exit from his life.”

  “You’re crazy,” Borowy said, evenly.

  “You sign that confession, Borowy,” The Hook told him, “and before I do anything else, I’ll get you out of the country. Set you up with a little nest egg, too. Think of it, Borowy. You’d be in another country in which you don’t have a record. You could start out fresh.”

  “You’re a wise bastard, Lockwood,” Borowy snapped.

  “Sure, but wise also means smart, Borowy, and believe me, it’d be smart for you to do what I suggest. Just think about it.”

  “You’re bulling me. If I’m out of the country, that piece of paper doesn’t stand up.”

  “I think it might.” Lockwood drew in on the Camel. “But even if it doesn’t, we can use it to keep the case in the courts for years. And given the average lifespan of a creep like Frankie, there’s a good chance he’ll be dead long before my company would have to pay off.”

  “Slick.” Borowy leaned back in his chair. “Real slick.” He blew a smoke ring, but there was no way to tell if he was following it with his eyes. “You’re a slick guy, Lockwood.” He sat forward. “But not that slick. Because I didn’t do it.”

  “There’s no one here but you and me, Borowy.”

  “I’m telling you I didn’t do it. So your slick little plan don’t look quite so slick now, does it?”

  “It’s your life, Borowy.”

  “True.” Borowy was running his hand over his face again, his flawless skin glistening from a recent shave. “And it’s also yours, Lockwood. And it’s one you won’t have if you bother me again about this.”

  Lockwood eyed him calmly. “One last chance Borowy.”

  “Outta here, dick.”

  And then the gun was out of the detective’s holster, and Borowy went stiff, it all happening too quickly for him to come up with a defense. “I guess I’ll have to leave you then, Wall-Eye. Stand up.”

  Borowy hesitated, but Lockwood jerked the pistol at him, and he slowly complied. “I don’t want you pressing any buttons while I walk out of here, Edwin. Get over to the middle of the room, back to me.”

  The gangster did as he was ordered, saying nothing.

  An instant later the .38 cracked down on the back of his head, and he sagged, and The Hook caught him before he hit the floor, lowering him gently, so as not to make a sound. Another minute, and Borowy was trussed like a turkey.

  He was still out cold when the Hook went out through the door. “Wrong choice pal,” Lockwood whispered over his shoulder, “wrong choice.”

  There was no one in view, and he quickly turned to the stairs and sped down them. At their foot, a quick survey indicated there was no exit but the way he’d come. Cautiously he moved down the dark hall, all the doors closed this time, but the sounds behind them the same as before. At the end of the passage, he finally saw the shadowy figure of the man who’d let Helene and himself in. He looked big.

  The Hook played no percentages, didn’t try to con him. Again the .38 was out, and the giant saw it. “Turn around, friend,” The Hook told him, and grudgingly, slowly, the man did so, and a few seconds later hit the floor, abruptly, as the gun butt did its second job of the night.

  He had no trouble finding the door’s latch, and for a second he was blinded by the club’s lights as he entered. There was a jazz band playing in one corner now, a hot trumpet solo ripping through the room. The place was thick with people, and he had to shoulder his way through the crowd, gaining a foot here, an inch there. But Borowy was soundly stashed away, and that giant, he knew, was a long way from ending his nap.

  Another minute, and he was free of the place, and he moved quickly toward 125th Street, enjoying the light summer breeze and the quiet emptiness of the sidestreet.

  “There he is! Get him!”

  They were running out of the club after him, three of them. He wheeled and waited. No time to run, just time to stand and look them over, figure out what to do next, how to handle them. If he could handle them.

  These were just bruisers. No guns. Not yet, anyway. He braced himself, and as the first man rushed at him, he hooked a left into his midsection that put the guy out of it for the rest of the night. The Hook could hear him by the curbside, puking his guts out, as he took on the other two.

  One of them was small, but with hands like rattlesnakes, darting in at him, while the bigger one got off a roundhouse that just missed. The Hook ducked, then jumped to one side, putting the big guy between himself and the little one for just a moment. A right to the ribs made the big one look momentarily sorry he was here, and then the little one was in at him again, fists flying, hate spitting out of his mouth as he cursed his opponent. This one had to have a knife. Gun too, probably. The kind who’d use his fists as long as he could hurt with them, and if they didn’t work, then—I’ll just have to stop him before then, Lockwood told himself.

  The big guy threw another right, grunting with the effort, and once again The Hook ducked, and again jumped back, trying to gain a little time. The little mug was on him in a flash, stinging fists flicking out at him. This guy was poison.

  “Get behind him,” the small one cried out, and his bigger pal tried to comply. That was when Lockwood saw the garbage can. He grabbed for it, and felt a wave of gratitude when he found it was nearly empty, and lifted up easily and quickly. Just in time, as the big fist came at him again, only to find itself crashing into the immutable steel wall of the can. “Aaah!” the big man yelled.

  The Hook looked back, whirled, kicked out at the shorter man, fending him off for a moment, then swung back to the big one. He was still standing there, a little dazed with pain, but about to begin a new assault. The Hook heaved, and the garbage can came straight up, fast and hard, and the edge of it caught the big one under the chin, stretching it up and back, the huge form staggering back on the sidewalk, foot wildly in midair as it stumbled out past the curb, and then fell heavily backward onto the glittering black asphalt, a dull crunch sounding as bones hit pavement.

  The Hook never saw it. He was already driving in at the little guy, whose eyes never lost their meanness. This son-of-a-gun will fight to the death, even if it’s his death, The Hook realized, grimly.

  Now that it was one-against-one, it was no contest, and as one punch after another rocketed into the little man, The Hook kept his eyes peeled, waiting to see a hand snake into a pocket. And when, in desperation, the hood went for the knife, a knee went into his groin. As he sagged, the perfect left hook caught him on the chin, and it was all over.

  Lockwood ran a block, and then, a few steps later, was on 125th, and a cab responded to his whistle. He looked back over his shoulder and saw no one. For the first time since they’d come at him, he had time to think. How the hell had they known? Who had tipped them off?

  He gave the cabbie directions, and sat back, and wiped away the moisture on his brow. Helene. It had to be Helene. She’d gone back to Borowy’s office. And untied him. And didn’t try to stop him when he hit the button, despite knowing what the button was for. That’s what she was like now. That’s what Borowy had done to her. He looked out at the streets as the cab headed downtown. He was grateful now that Borowy had rejected his offer. If it was the last thing he did, he’d see him dead.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Hook Lockwood wiped away the steam o
n the bathroom mirror, and regarded himself. Not too bad under the circumstances. A small blue mark on the right cheekbone, a couple of red welts along the ribs. Considering that the little guy could really throw them, he’d come off easy. He looked at the bullet wound on his right arm. Seemed okay. Nothing pulling away, no infection. Apparently it was able to take much more of a workout than you’d expect from a convalescent.

  The maid had cleaned the bedroom while he showered and shaved, and he took his time dressing, selecting the right shirt, the right tie, checking the suit to be sure it was freshly pressed and cleaned. Hook Lockwood liked to dress well, but he always took a little more time when he figured he’d be seeing a woman. Especially a beautiful one.

  The Hook knew the rackets; the basic facts, the ins and outs, the fringe areas. One of the fringe areas was that the late Maria Nuzzo was not an only child. There was a brother, too, and a sister.

  He opened a telephone book. Brooklyn. The fattest directory in the city. He turned to the Ls.

  Lomenzo. Albert “Fish” Lomenzo. That was the brother. And the sister of Maria Nuzzo lived with him. He found the number. Albert Lomenzo. 440 Lenox Road. A PResident exchange.

  Lomenzo was bad news, The Hook knew. Another Frankie Nuzzo, but smarter, and older. He’d been around for a long time, and he was a power in the Brooklyn rackets. More of an executive type than Frankie. Killing was nothing but a matter of economics for Lomenzo. For Frankie it was business mixed with pleasure. He dialed the number.

  Gina Lomenzo, Fish’s sister, was something else. The scuttlebutt on her was that she was the one decent member of the family. Bright. Honest. Unaware, possibly, of all that her relations were. They’d let her go to college, a Catholic girls’ college. Unusual. And now she was graduated, and home, and waiting to be married. They wouldn’t let her work. Degrading. Like a prostitute. They’d let her have her little fling with school, and now it was time for marriage, and bambinos. That was the way it was.

  “Hello?” The voice at the other end was light and sweet-toned.

  “I’d like to speak to Gina Lomenzo.”

  There was a pause. “This is she.”

  “You don’t know me. My name is Lockwood, I work for Transatlantic Underwriters. It’s an insurance company.”

  “Yes?” There was no suspicion in the voice, no hostility.

  “Your late sister had several policies with us. Jewelry, life insurance. Two claims have been filed.”

  The voice was anguished. “I think you’d better talk to my brother.”

  “No.” His tone stopped her. “It’s you I want to talk to now. I’m investigating your sister’s murder. I want to talk to you to see if you know anything that could lead to the murderer’s conviction.”

  “I don’t see how I could help you. I don’t know anything.”

  “Miss Lomenzo, I’ve been in this business a long time. Often, people know things that turn out to be helpful. Small things, seemingly unimportant things. Little details that, once they’re put together with other little details, can sometimes lead to a solution.”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Lockwood. Bill Lockwood.”

  “Bill Lockwood. Do you have another name?”

  “Some people call me The Hook. Hook Lockwood.”

  Her voice was nervous. “I heard about your fight with my brother-in-law.”

  “Yes?”

  “How can I talk to you? You’re my brother-in-law’s enemy. He’s out to get you. I’ve heard him.”

  “Did you love your sister?”

  There was a pause, and then, “Yes.” Her voice was sincere.

  “Would you like to have her murderer caught and get the punishment he deserves?”

  “It’s too late—” she said, and then added, “but if it would keep him from killing anyone else…”

  “Then you have to talk to me.”

  She said nothing for a moment. And then, “All right. But not here. Not even on this phone. I can’t let anyone know I’m talking to you.”

  “Perhaps we can meet somewhere.”

  “Yes,” she said, and even in her apprehension, her voice sounded young and fresh. “The Concord Cafeteria. Near the corners of Church and Flatbush.”

  “I know it,” he told her. “How about two?”

  “All right,” she answered. “But how will I know you?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he assured her. “I’ll know you.”

  She was even more beautiful than her picture, The Hook thought, when he saw her come in through the revolving door. Her hair was dark, straight, and shiny, and her eyes were even darker, large and luminous and vital. Her nose was small and dainty, her lips full, her brows dark and delicate. She was wearing a white summer dress, and her body was ripe inside it, moving with a womanly grace that belied her years. He rose, and went to her.

  “Hello, Gina,” he said.

  “Mr. Lockwood?”

  “Call me Bill,” he told her.

  She searched his face, and seemed to like what she found there. “I think I might,” she smiled.

  They moved down to where the drinks were, scores of filled glasses standing in crushed ice, and he selected an iced tea and she a lemonade. They seated themselves in an area isolated from the few tables that were occupied at this intermediate hour.

  “I took the trolley, and then the subway, and then a cab,” she told him.

  “Worried about something?” he asked her.

  “About you. I don’t know what you did to Frankie, but he hates you. I wouldn’t want to be the one who led him to you.”

  “It’s all right,” The Hook told her. “I can handle myself. And I get the feeling you can, too.”

  She blushed. “I’m just a girl,” she said.

  “No. More than that,” he told her. “I can see it in your face. You have character. You’re a woman of character.”

  “A woman,” she mused. “No one ever called me that before.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” he asked, and she looked at him and then shrugged, but her expression showed she was pleased.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “Did Frankie say why he’s angry with me?”

  “Not really. Just called you a—” she hesitated. “—a ghoul and a graverobber.”

  “Hmm.” He pulled the cellophane off a new pack of Camels, and offered her one. When she shook her head no, he asked, “Do you mind if I do?” and after she again shook her head, he lit up. She looked uncomfortable, but still lovely. Quite lovely. “Your brother-in-law has much reason to be angry with me.”

  “Why?”

  “In a minute. First, do you have any suspicions yourself as to who could have shot your sister?”

  “No, none at all.”

  “I have reason to believe that more than one person was involved.”

  “My brother said there was just one.”

  “Yes, I know.” He looked through the cafeteria window, and watched as a trolley car sped by the old Dutch Reformed Church across the way. “I guess you spend—spent—some time with your sister and brother-in-law. Know them and their friends.”

  “Yes. Not as much time as when I was younger, but —yes.”

  “There’s a man I’m curious about. Might have hung around their house. Rather big. Husky. Blond hair.”

  “I don’t know—” she started to say.

  “This one’s easy to recognize. Walleyes.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry. Walleyes are eyes that turn outward, fixed that way. The opposite of cross-eyes.”

  “I see.” She took a sip of the lemonade, lips pursed delicately around the straw. “I’m sure I’d remember if I’d ever seen anyone like that.”

  “I’m sure you would. All right,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “I’m fairly certain that he killed your sister.”

  She looked at him, helplessly. Her lashes were thick and gracefully curving.

&n
bsp; “But I believe he was hired by your brother-in-law.”

  Her eyes widened, and moistened. “No,” she said.

  “I need your help if I’m going to prove it.”

  “No,” she said again, and this time her voice trembled with anger.

  “You want to find the murderer of your sister.” His voice was level and cool.

  “Yes, of course I do. But Frankie couldn’t have done it. Didn’t do it.” She was adamant.

  “I wish you could convince me of that. For your sake.”

  “Look, I know Frankie couldn’t have done it. He adored Maria. In his own way. See, I know him, I knew Maria. They’re my flesh and blood. And my blood tells me he didn’t kill her; couldn’t have. My blood knows.”

  “I think he hired a gunman to kill her, with that five thousand dollar necklace the payoff.”

  “That’s crazy!” she said. “There’s plenty of young punks around who could have done it for that. That’s big money. Plenty of men have killed for less. And Frankie—well, you know Frankie, he talks big. No doubt more than once he shot off his mouth about the necklace. That’s how Frankie is. He talks big, and tough, but deep down, where it counts—with family—his heart is all gold. Solid gold.”

  “So you know nothing else.”

  “All I know is that Frankie didn’t do it.”

  “And that some cheap thief did.”

  “Why not? It’s only logical. The only logical explanation.”

  The Hook regarded her, took in the dark intensity of her young, trusting eyes. “Yes, it’s logical,” he nodded. Then, “I guess we’d better go.”

  “You first,” she told him. “We shouldn’t be seen together.”

  He rose, and as he turned to leave, she caught the tip of his suit jacket in her small, delicate hand. “I want you to understand this,” she said. “I know you’re wrong about Frankie. But if there’s any way I can help you catch the real murderer, and have him put away where he can’t harm any more people, if there’s any way I can help you do that, then I will.”

  He looked into those large, dark eyes and decided somehow he would try to find a way that Gina could help him. He would have to find a way, even that way, if it meant that he could see her again.