Hate is Thicker Than Blood (18 page)

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.

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.

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.

They had passed 14th Street and the silence was beginning to get to him. In desperation, he was about to turn on the radio,
just for the sake of some sound, when, suddenly, Gina spoke.

“We’re coming near Canal Street.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “What—” he began, and then stopped, as he felt the hard coolness pushing into his neck.

“Go through the Holland Tunnel,” a voice ordered from behind him. The voice was Frankie Nuzzo’s.

He said nothing, and did as instructed, wheeling right when they came to the entrance, the rain still beating down hard, the
usual light of an early summer evening eliminated by the thick black thunderclouds.

He felt the gun leave his neck. “We’re comin’ to the tollbooth. Don’t do nothin’ funny. I’ll be down here behind you coverin’
you all the way,” came the voice, insolent and coarse. All the desperado flash was back in Frankie Nuzzo now, now that he
had nothing to fear.

He handed over the toll and drove on, finally entering the tunnel. His eyes shot toward Gina as she was illuminated by the
bright lights that bathed the tube, but she was looking straight ahead, silent again. She appeared to be off in another world.

A truck rumbled by, and Lockwood’s eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. Nothing there. Nuzzo was still crouched on the floor
behind him.

They passed the New York-New Jersey border marking, its variegated colors standing out on the white-tiled wall, and finally
Nuzzo spoke again. “When we get out of here, head to the Jersey swamps. You know where I mean.”

“You’re the boss, Frankie,” Lockwood shrugged, and continued to drive, passing the tunnel cops in their glassed in booth.
So close, and yet…

The end of the tunnel loomed up ahead, and in a moment he switched on the lights. It was a summer storm, the sky as dark as
midnight, the rain coming down in sheets. A couple of cars had pulled to the side, deciding to wait it out.

“You killed her, didn’t you, Frankie?” he said, finally.

“Shuddup an’ drive.” The gun was in his neck again, jammed there.

He shrugged, and continued on. A dancing line of white sliced through the sky, and a moment later the crash of thunder rattled
the side windows of the Cord.

Again he looked to Gina, and still she was the same. Silent, forlorn-looking, her eyes never swerving, always straight ahead.

He reached the turnoff, and moved on down it, none of the traffic following him, the ramp ahead empty.

A mile, two miles, three, and still the gun’s muzzle, pressed into his neck. Only a few miles from the city, they might as
well have been in the wilds of Africa. Nothing could be seen in any direction except wildly thrashing rushes and black swamp
water whenever a bolt of lightning tore through the dark and illuminated the space around them.

A few more yards, and Frankie’s voice barked again. “Pull over here. Over to the side.”

He did so, braking slowly and carefully, not wanting to wind up with axles a foot deep in mud. After all, he might be driving
away from here. Might.

“Okay, out of the car.” Frankie had pulled the gun away, and as he looked around, waved it at him. “C’mon! Fast!”

He pulled open the door and stepped out, Frankie following an instant later. His practised eyes sensed an opening, a small
chance of beating the gangster to the punch, but he held himself in check. Dammit, he had to know what the story was. The
whole story. Including how Gina figured in all this. If she
did
figure.