Hate is Thicker Than Blood (6 page)

“I’m telling you the truth.”

The voice again was impassive. “I’m tolerating you, Hook, remember that. I’m just tolerating you. Don’t expect me to do it
for too much longer.”

“Okay, Borowy, I’ll make it plain to you. You don’t mean anything to me in this case. Nothing. I want to nail Frankie Nuzzo.”

“Only Frankie, eh?” The voice was disbelieving, taunting.

“Frankie Nuzzo filed two claims against Transatlantic,” The Hook told him. “Big ones. We don’t want to pay. We shouldn’t have
to pay. That’s where you come in.”

“No. This is where you get out.” Once more Borowy’s fingers moved toward the button.

“Wait.” The hand stopped. “You know I’m not a cop, Borowy. I’m an insurance investigator. I don’t make arrests, I don’t make
judgments. I’m out to help my company any legitimate way I can. I know you killed Maria Nuzzo, and if I know it, sooner or
later, the cops are going to know it.”

Borowy ran a manicured hand over his smooth-skinned face. “Not if I take care of you, they won’t.”

“Come on, Borowy, if
I
came up with the dope, what’s to stop
them
from finding out the same thing?” Borowy’s fingertips paused in mid-motion, and The Hook continued. “Look, if you get caught
for this, that’s it for you. One night all the lights in Ossining will go dim, and people will be blaming you. Not that you’ll
be aware, of course. I’m giving you an out.”

“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.

Hook Lockwood wiped away the steam on 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.