The Death of Lorenzo Jones (3 page)

The coach, who seemed to like Lockwood, talked on.

“Seems Lorenzo was morbidly afraid of injury after what happened to Dizzy Dean. Dizzy was the greatest pitcher ,St. Louis
ever had. Then he hurt himself. Wham, he was through.”

“Listen, Medelsohn, how was Lorenzo’s health in general? Was he depressed? Unhappy about life?”

“No. The happiest-go-lucky fellow you’d ever meet.”

Lockwood frowned. “Now, how did this contract come about?”

“The Giants wouldn’t give Lorenzo a five-year contract, so Wade made the deal with Lorenzo—for a hefty 50 percent.”

“Sounds like if Jones’ arm went bad, Wade was out a bit of change.”

“Well, you’re right there.”

Lockwood began to form a theory. “Where is the doctor who said Jones’ arm was okay?”

Medelsohn gave Hook the address and phone number. Lockwood decided that a meeting in person would be better and left.

On his way out, Hook’s eyes were arrested by a shapely woman in the deserted stands. She was standing in the’ third row, counting
the “workmen who milled about and making notes on a pad.

A platinum blond. Curvy under her light blue suit. A face that could knock you over, an upturned nose, and green eyes that
flashed.

“Who is that?” Hook asked one of the workmen.

“That woman? She works for Mr. Wade. His snoop.” The swarthy man went back to ripping out a seat.

Lockwood walked over to her and put on his best smile. “What are you writing?”

She watched some workmen farther up the aisle as if she didn’t hear him. She moved a bit and snagged her stocking on the seat’s
rough wood. She unconsciously put her right foot up on a seat and pulled her skirt up to her thigh to check for a run. Immediately
catching herself, she dropped it again. But Lockwood had gotten a good look, and what he saw he liked.

Lockwood didn’t have the looks that women always went for, not at first. He was lean and hard under his Brooks Brothers gray
worsted suit. A handkerchief stood up jauntily from his breast pocket folded just right. He was exceptionally clean-cut in
appearance—and at second glance, quite good-looking. He just wasn’t a head-turner. Still, she didn’t look angry that he had
been watching her. She seemed pleased, if that was a slight smile working its way across those soft full lips.

“I asked you, what are you doing?” Lockwood repeated.

“Counting. Counting workers. My boss sent me to count them. He’s afraid they take too long for lunch. He’s—efficient.”

“Your boss is Wade?”

“Yes. I’m Robin Mobley. Who are you?”

“Pleased to meet you.” He tipped his hat. “I’m Lockwood. Bill Lockwood. How’s your stocking?”

“You never mind my stocking. You shouldn’t watch a lady, you know, when she’s—” She blushed. The shy type.

“Well, an unavoidable indiscretion because of the direction I was facing at the time.” He removed his hat and swept to the
ground with exaggerated gallantry.

She laughed, as much at her own modesty as at his gesture. “I suppose so.”

Her green eyes met his gray ones and sparks flew between them.

After a few minutes of banter Hook had found out that she was Wade’s secretary, sent by the cheapskate to watch over the workmen.

“You could say I’m an efficiency expert,” she said and gave him a sour smile.

Lockwood smiled. “Who watches you?”

“Everybody. You, for instance.”

“True.”

“Like you were watching me when I adjusted my stocking. How much did you see?”

“Not enough, but plenty.”

She laughed again.

In a few more minutes, after briefly explaining that he was an insurance man, he arranged to meet her at the bar of the 21
Club, downstairs.

“Tell them you’re waiting for me, Hook Lockwood. Hook’s my nickname.”

“I hope you’re there first. That would be better. You certainly have a lot of style—the 21 Club. You must do all right. Okay,
Hook, I’ll meet you there, in two hours exactly.”

He drove to the doctor’s office down in the decrepit factory district south of Houston Street. There was actually the beginning
of a cobweb on the door. Some practice he must have. Hook found the doctor as run-down as his digs.

His rapping got no response, so he let himself in. Dr. Carruthers was lying on his own black leather examination table, snoring
away. A half-filled quart of near-whiskey was balanced on the desk’s edge.

Lockwood looked down at the sodden, pale face of a man of sixty-five who hadn’t shaved for days. His straight gray hair fell
over his soiled white collar. He continued snoring. His breath made the area around him smell like a bog.

The doctor turned on his side and groaned.

“Have another drink,” Lockwood said.

The doctor sat up. His colorless eyes swirled to a rest in their watery seas.

He burped. “Don’t mind if I do.” Then his eyes focused ever so slowly on Lockwood’s gold badge. That sobered him up.

He put his legs over the edge of the table and stepped off it. “Just testing the thing,” he muttered apologetically. “What
can I do for you?”

“First, sit before you fall.”

Lockwood pulled over a walnut chair and sat Doc down. Then he sat in a cushioned one that creaked as if it might give way.

“Say,” Lockwood asked, looking around. “Is this chair okay?”

“Right as rain, young man.” He burped again. “ ‘Scuse me.”

Hook was glad he hadn’t come in with a broken bone. He looked around. The ceiling seemed solid enough, but the walls were
all cracking and the wallpaper, little muskets and revolutionary scenes—awful—was peeling. The bare floor was scratched from
pulling chairs about carelessly, and the two enamel cabinet doors were open, with gauze, scalpels, and the like haphazardly
littering their counters. Two dead potted palms completed the effect. Lockwood never went to doctors or hospitals if he wasn’t
unconscious and dragged there against his will.

At first the doctor didn’t respond to his questions and stared off blankly into space.

“Hello, are you there?” Lockwood yelled at him.

The doctor suddenly came to life, “Young man, I’m a lot more here than you are. For instance, that badge notwithstanding,
you’re not a cop.”

“Didn’t say that I was.”

“That suit. Too nice for a cop. And these old eyes can see your shoes aren’t worn at the heels. Your voice is too cultured.”
He squinted at Lockwood’s face. “So what’s your game, sonny? You another rich one that’s got a dose? I can give you some tablets,
pop you with needles, can’t guarantee anything.”

“No. I’m an insurance investigator for Transatlantic Underwriters. I have some questions.”

“And I don’t have to answer them. Good day, sonny. The door is thataway.”

“Maybe you’d like it if I visited the police and had a friend at Headquarters close you up? You’re violating every health
code on the books here.”

“Don’t let the disorder fool you.” The doctor burped. “Everything here is absolutely sterile. But—ask away.”

He picked up his hooch and poured a shot into a dusty glass. Maybe he could drown the thing down there.

“I’m investigating the death of Lorenzo Jones. I want to know a few things. Like about his arm. His pitching arm.”

“Ah yes, the poor young man. Wouldn’t catch me in one of those damned airplanes. No, sir. Like all young men, a fool. They
come in with the syph all the time and expect -me to wash it out of their systems. Not Lorenzo, of course. No, he was married
and clean. But others.”

“The point is, Doctor,” Lockwood continued, “how was his pitching arm? I heard it was injured.”

“Minor strain. I have the X-ray plates right here. Nothing a few weeks’ rest wouldn’t cure. He worried too much, that kid.
He should have worried more about flying around in that plane.”

“What did he worry about, aside from his arm?”

“Didn’t say he worried about anything else. Just a figure of speech. He was a happy young fellow. Do wou want to see the X-rays?”

“They wouldn’t mean anything to me.”

“Well, anything else? I’m a busy man.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Don’t let this office fool you. Too busy to clean up. Patients all the time, just had time for a snooze. Expect that doorbell
will be ringing any second now.”

Lockwood asked more questions about Jones’ arm but got no more information.

Finally, he left, wondering if the doctor was actually telling the truth.

Lockwood wasn’t satisfied. The half-baked theory that had been buzzing in his bonnet was buzzing again. Maybe Lorenzo Jones
had actually ruined his arm during that last game. Maybe Wade figured he would lose a bundle from his five-year contract with
Jones, and maybe he bumped Lorenzo off to save his dough.

Doc was a wiley old geezer. Five times he had insisted that his examination showed that Jones was injured only superficially.
But he looked nervous. No, he wasn’t telling the truth, instinct told Lockwood.

In a minute, Lockwood tiptoed back. He listened at the door and heard Doc talking to someone over the phone, “… Yeah, the
snooper was here, but he’s gone. No, I didn’t tell him anything. I am
not
drunk.” Then a receiver was put down. A short time later, more snoring.

Not exactly innocent talk but nothing specific. Possibly it had been Wade on the other end. Lockwood checked his Longines.
Time to see Robin at 21. It wouldn’t do to keep a lady like her waiting. Besides, those dapper gents who frequented the club
wouldn’t leave her alone long.

As he was about to start the Cord, Hook noticed that the coffin hood was up just a bit. He immediately took his hand from
the ignition key, went out, and raised the hood. Neatly attached to the distributor was a bomb.

Hook could hardly believe it—ten dynamite sticks wired with blasting caps, all neatly joined to the distributor. One twist
of the key and good bye to Transatlantic’s ace troubleshooter.

Lockwood was angry. Who the hell had done this?

As he stood there at the curb, stupified by the sight of the ten sticks of dynamite, his stomach felt queasy. That feeling
always came with the realization that going out on a routine case could lead to his demise if he wasn’t careful and lucky.

Jesus, another second and boom!

His mortality normally didn’t cross his mind. When it did, it just kept walking. But this bomb—could it be connected with
the Lorenzo Jones case? Was this case going to be dangerous? It had looked to be a nice, albeit, hopeless task. He would run
up the expense account on Robin and maybe get the company off the hook by finding someone who would swear that Lorenzo Jones
had been bent on suicide when he took off that day. Simple. Now things were looking down, not up. And he didn’t even know
who was on first. But whoever planted that bomb was Major League. All the way.

When he finished disconnecting the bomb, he didn’t know what to do with it. He dropped it in the trunk, got in the Cord, turned
on the Motorola to a Glen Miller tune, and started driving slowly.

A flood of possible enemies came to mind. Trouble was, most were in jail. There was Lefty Springfield, doing time in Sing
Sing as a result of Hook’s handiwork. Then Inky McGuinness, the two-bit card shark he had helped send up. Hook had eliminated
those two. They would be incarcerated for a while yet.

No, the most likely guy was Jerry Castagna, the safecracker. Jerry had gotten in Hook’s way once and was sent up as a result.
He was out on parole as of last week. But safecrackers were safe-crackers, not killers.

It
could
be related to this new case. He hadn’t even gotten started yet; but the smart boys knew his reputation. Maybe there was foul
play in this after all. Gray had a nose for these things. He had mentioned murder. Maybe someone was playing fast and loose
with dynamite to get Greerson on the case. Greerson was Transatlantic’s second-best troubleshooter. They might want to deal
with him instead of Hook.

A few blocks on, Lockwood spotted a familiar figure entering a telephone booth. It was Half-Pint, the two-bit hired heater.
Hook had tangled with him before. Maybe he should see what Half-Pint was up to. Maybe he had been wiring bombs to Cords.

Half-Pint was called Half-Pint for obvious reasons. He could barely reach to put the nickel in the telephone. He was as mean
as they come, however. Scorpions were small but deadly. He always had a toothpick working in his mouth, and his teeth were
bad. He was out of Chicago, where things had gotten too hot for him. For the past few years he had been working for the Mob
out of Hell’s Kitchen, doing unpleasant things to people’s knuckles and thumbs if they didn’t pay the five percent weekly
interest his bosses charged.

Not that the squirt worked people over himself. No, he was the brain, the director of a group of bruisers who had tagged along
when he left Chicago. He scared people because they saw the sadism and the insanity in his little beady eyes. He could think
up lots of things to do to your arms and legs if you didn’t pay up. Then he would stand there and snicker, working that toothpick
around, as his goons did the work on you.

Half-Pint stood in the telephone booth, his oversized suit-coat (they didn’t make them ready-made that small) hanging over
him like a curtain.

Damn, Lockwood wished he could hear the voice on the other end. Hook got out of his car and slipped unseen into the next booth
and listened at the glass. Half-Pint’s back was to him.

Lockwood only heard Half-Pint say, “Yeah.” a few times before he hung up.

Lockwood grabbed the lapel of the little creep as he stepped out. “Going somewhere, squirt?”

Half-Pint paled as if he had seen a ghost. “B-b-ut y-you’re de—”

“Why should I be dead?” Lockwood grabbed the punk and shoved him against the wall. Half-Pint was never good at keeping his
trap shut, so Lockwood thought it would be easy to get him to squeal. Easy except for the two goons who suddenly came at Lockwood
from behind.

A blackjack blow glanced along his left ear, stunning him, and landed on his shoulder. It would have cracked his collarbone
were it not for his suit’s padding. Lockwood went with the force of the blow, moving to absorb its energy, and then turned
to face his adversaries.