Hate is Thicker Than Blood (3 page)

“Get out!” Nuzzo was livid with anger, his left eyelid flicking up and down with machine-gun speed.

“I’ll be happy to, Frankie. Just remember: drop the claims or I’ll see that you wind up in the hot seat.”

An animal-like snarl spitting out of him, Nuzzo sprang at The Hook, the two of them flying against, and then over, the plush,
violet-covered couch that was the living room’s centerpiece.

“I’ll kill you, you bastard!” Nuzzo, his face red, had his hands around his adversary’s throat, squeezing with maniacal strength.

The Hook tensed, then threw his legs up in the air, unbalancing Nuzzo, the grip loosening, and The Hook tearing free.

Before he was halfway up, Nuzzo was at him again, wild with rage, fingers again reaching out for his throat. Lockwood shifted
to one side and Nuzzo caromed off him, each hitting the floor again. Still sprawled there, Lockwood threw an uppercut, but
Nuzzo slipped it, and fired back a short jab of his own which just missed its mark.

“Pig!” This time Nuzzo went for his gun, but Lock-wood’s hand flashed out and stopped him in mid-motion, his iron-like grip
on Nuzzo’s wrist. A straight left to the mid-section and Nuzzo grunted in pain, then lunged forward, his stiff index and middle
fingers aimed for the detective’s eyes.

Lockwood rolled, at the same time kicking back at Nuzzo. Springing to his feet, he kicked again, sending the .32 revolver
sailing across the room.

But now Nuzzo was up, and Lockwood could see his hands were quick, and practised, the venom behind each punch lending it just
that much more impetus. A right smashed in at his cheek, a whistling left caught him in the pit of the stomach before he could
set himself. A large vein was now throbbing in the middle of Nuzzo’s forehead.

“You’re a dead man, Lockwood. Dead.” Nuzzo shot in another left, but this time his opponent was able to parry it, and came
back with a right of his own which caught the mobster over the left eye, laying open the flesh that rooted the eyebrow.

Nuzzo reacted with a wild right, which Lockwood blocked, sending off a hard left to the midsection in return, then following
up with the left hook that had given him his nickname. Nuzzo flew back, landing on the couch cushions.

Wild-eyed, he looked for the .32, located it, and dove in its direction, grabbing the gun and aiming it up at Lockwood. Already
a lamp was sailing unerringly in his direction, smashing harmlessly against his head, but giving The Hook time enough to crash
his heel down on the wrist that held the pistol, the sound of splintering bone followed immediately by the clatter of the
falling weapon. Another flick of Lockwood’s foot, and the gun sped to a far corner of the room. As Lockwood bent, he grabbed
Nuzzo by the shirtcollar and pulled him to his feet. Then, as he jerked Nuzzo’s head toward him, he rocketed a right into
it, the resultant collision instantaneously transforming Nuzzo into a sagging, inert bundle of cloth, skin, and bone.

The Hook paused a moment, watching as the bundle toppled heavily to the floor. He then strode to a mirror, adjusted his silk
navy blue tie, brushed off his Brooks Brothers gray flannel jacket, buttoned it, smoothed back his hair, and, without glancing
back, left. He nonchalantly descended the brick steps that led from the nondescript two-story frame home, got into the silver-and-black
coffin-nosed Cord that stood in front of the house, and drove away.

Nuzzo hadn’t wasted any time, Bill Lockwood mused, as he stared in the rear-view mirror at the black De Soto that was dogging
him. The car seemed to have four occupants, big ones. He pressed his foot all the way to the floor. The Cord’s specially installed
Packard twin six engine roared, and the car leapt forward, instantly doubling the gap between it and the De Soto. For a moment
Lockwood relaxed, but after another glance at the rear-view mirror, he swore. The De Soto seemed to have a custom power rig
of its own, and was slowly making up the distance it had lost, despite the never-yielding pressure of Lockwood’s foot against
the gas pedal.

Damn. Lockwood felt a twinge in his right arm. Gray had promised this would be an easy one. Easy! This time he might not be
as lucky when he stopped a wad of lead.

Already one was screaming by him, as one of the De Soto’s occupants leaned out and got off two quick shots. These guys had
obviously been told to do the job, or else. This was roaring twenties kind of stuff, a the-hell-with-the-law approach that
had fallen into disfavor in recent years as the mobs found that subtle approaches worked best. Too bad I’m not one for nostalgia,
The Hook thought.

He drew the .38 Colt Detective Special from the spring holster clipped under the waistband of his trousers. The street there
in North Brooklyn was empty, and he could chance a shot or two.

His eyes flicked up to the mirror and then he wheeled, firing twice, then whirled back to straighten out the wheel as he nearly
careened against a curb. Another look back in the mirror but nothing had changed. The car was still relentlessly pursuing
him, one of the mobsters again leaning out the side window, pumping bullets at him.

One crashed through the back window and then through the right side of the windshield, with a crack extending half over to
the driver’s side. Again Lockwood spun and fired, this time in the direction of the De Soto’s tires.

No dice. They were still coming after him, and getting closer. He tried to remember where the nearest precinct house was.
Maybe he could draw up to it; maybe make it inside before they opened up. Or with luck, there’d be some cops standing around,
and these mugs would have to give it up, Nuzzo or no Nuzzo.

Too far. He remembered now, and realized he could never make it there in time. Another shot cracked, and something grazed
the top of the Cord. Gray’s going to love this expense sheet, The Hook thought.
If
I get the chance to make one up.

There were two shots left in the chambers of his .38 and he tried again, hoping to hell he didn’t crash into anything as he
roared up the narrow street. His back to it, eyes fixed on the car behind him, he sent off the remaining shells. This time
one of them seemed to make it. He watched, first over his shoulder, then an instant later, after he righted the Cord, in the
rear-view mirror, as the thug next to the driver clutched his throat, and then slowly sank out of sight. One down, but three
too many to go.

Despite the loss of one member of their party, the men behind him never hesitated, and the De Soto continued to race after
the hurtling Cord. Lockwood wheeled right, off Hamilton onto Van Brunt. There was one chance, one small chance. He jerked
the pedal to the floor again, pouring on every last ounce of speed, counting on the De Soto to follow suit.

A truck loomed up, a big moving van, and, frantically, Lockwood swerved to the left, hoping nothing was coming his way. The
truck driver hit the brakes, swearing, as first the Cord, and then the De Soto, zoomed by, a trail of black smoke pouring
out of its exhaust.

A sound like firecrackers echoed behind him, and The Hook knew they were throwing more lead his way. He sank deeper into his
seat, hearing one, then two bullets thunking into the Cord’s trunk. Another two blocks. If he could evade their bullets, keep
ahead of them for just another two blocks….

They were near Kane Street now, and Lockwood leaned forward, every muscle taut, waiting… .

At the last moment, just as the intersection of Kane and Van Brunt came into view, he wheeled the car to the left onto Kane,
all the way to the left, a quarter-inch from the side of the big brick warehouse, and suddenly slammed on the brakes. There
was no time to watch what was happening behind him. He started to break open the .38 on the chance his plan hadn’t worked,
on the chance he’d have to shoot it out. And then he heard the De Soto, and as his head snapped up, he saw the wide-open eyes
of the three gunmen as they screeched past him. The big black car skidded its way down the end of the street, its brakes on
a fraction of a second too late. It slammed into the low barrier at the street’s end, and somersaulted, almost as if in slow
motion, hundreds of pounds of metal upending, high, higher, then higher, and then sailing, like some ancient mammoth that,
in its dying moment, had been gifted with the power of flight, sailing through the blue of the sky, the distant buildings
of Governors Island forming a misty backdrop as the car continued on and then, reaching the crest of its arc, began to fall.
Screams, three of them, all from the same hurtling source, yet each separate and distinct, issued from the car as it continued
on its predestined course. Lockwood’s eyes closed involuntarily for an instant. A hell of a way to die, he thought.

There wasn’t much of a splash as the car hit the river. Just a soft ker-chunk!, and nothing more. Lockwood sank back against
the leather seat, and then mechanically opened the car door and wearily moved to the large, weather-beaten wooden beam at
the end of the block. Thirty feet away, the De Soto’s black underside showed briefly, then settled into the oily muck that
was the Hudson. Lockwood continued to stand there, numbly watching the trail of air bubbles as they broke to the surface.
Finally, after a minute or two, when there were no more bubbles, Lockwood slowly turned and walked away.

Hook Lockwood didn’t like fences. In fact he hated them. To a man. No exceptions. None. It was probably the part of the job
he hated most, after the cold bodies of the good and the innocent. But it
was
part of the job, and so he was doing it. He’d been to Stymie the Fence, to Joe Alley, to Reilly the Grub, to Fats Tricadiccio,
to half a dozen others, and now he was about to enter the grime-ridden hovel that Leanie Krepsman called his shop. He was
no 100 percent bona fide expert on jewelry. Although he knew his stuff in a basic sort of way, he could be fooled. So he’d
unobtrusively pocketed one of Maria Nuzzo’s necklaces while visiting her bereaved husband. Each of them, Stymie, Alley, Reilly
and Fats as well as the rest, had affirmed his judgment. It
was
the real stuff. But none of them had the five thousand dollar pearl necklace. Not that it mattered that they said they didn’t
have it: their words meant nothing. It was their eyes that Lockwood listened to when they spoke. They were all weasels afraid
of their shadows, and there was no way their eyes could conceal a thing, once fear entered their souls. And The Hook always
insured that event taking place. He hated the fences, loathed them, but after all these years of dealing with them, he had
to admit, something had formed between him and them, some kind of bond. A bond of repulsion, perhaps, a bond of disdain, of
disgust, but anyway, a bond. It sickened him to think that anything, anything at all could tie him to them. But there it was.
He briefly rubbed one hand against the other as if trying to clean them, and then pressed down the latch of Leanie Krepsman’s
front door.

It was all murk at first. Leanie didn’t believe in electricity—not if he had to pay for it. His shop was open from sunup to
sundown, winter, spring, summer, fall. He cursed the short days of winter, railed against the money he lost because of them,
but refused to turn on the lights. It was his obsession, and he would do nothing about it. Could do nothing about it. They
were all misers, nuzzling coins, pressing them against their flesh, eyes closed in an ecstasy of greed and fear, but of all
of them, Leanie was the most avaricious. If puke had value he’d scrape it off the street and sell it, piling it thick on his
tongue if that was the only way people would buy it.

“Can’t see me, eh? Leanie sees like a cat.” The voice was high-pitched, almost a cackle.

“Hello, Krepsman.”

“Good to see you again, Mr. Lockwood, good to see you again. I hope I can interest you in something. A player piano perhaps,
an art curio, maybe some only slightly worn underwear? A good washing, and it would be as…”

“Leanie,” The Hook cut him off, “I
am
here to buy. But not any of that.”

His eyes now accustomed to the dimness, Lockwood could see Leanie go tense, his face registering a mixture of anticipation
and craven fear.

“Good. Good. I’m always happy to be of service to you. Discounts—Leanie gives discounts. To you. Just to you. You can’t go
wrong with Leanie.”

Lockwood ignored him. He was tired and frustrated and hot. At least the other shops had had fans, electric fans. “Someday
I’m going to come in here, and plug in every electric appliance I can find.”

“No!” Leanie’s voice was quick with alarm, and then he tried to recover, flustered. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget what a
sense of humor you have. That
is
a good one, a nice trick on Leanie.”

“I’m not joking, Leanie. Remember that!” The Hook pulled out the necklace. “Check this over.”

The necklace was out of Lockwood’s hand and the loupe in Leanie’s eye in the time it took the detective to blink. “Hmm, nice,
very nice,” Leanie enthused, hissing out the sibillants.

“I’m not selling this. What’s it worth?”

Leanie’s face contorted for a moment in cunning, and then fell, as he realized who he was dealing with. You didn’t trifle
with Lockwood. “Twenty-five hundred. Could be even three thousand.”

“That’s in the ballpark,” Lockwood said, and, with the opening gambit over, he pressed on. “It used to belong to a lady. A
dead lady. It wasn’t all she owned.”

Leanie began to breathe heavily, terror upon him, but hell, The Hook thought, that means nothing. Half of the others he’d
seen today had already done the same thing. Damned sniveling fences.

“A lady was killed for her pearl necklace two days ago. My company insured it, and doesn’t want to have to pay for it. I’ll
buy it back. At a discount.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Hook relaxed. Krepsman
did
know what he was talking about. It was written all over him, pupils dilating with each lying word.