Hate is Thicker Than Blood (8 page)

He was facing down a long, wide aisle, and on either side of him were long rows of large wooden crates. He rolled over behind
one, and removed his shoes. With that bullet in his ankle, Renza wouldn’t be going anywhere fast. That’s my advantage, Lockwood
thought, and got to his feet, moving past three solid rows of crates to a back aisle. He peered around and down it, saw nothing,
then started running along the aisle, hugging the wall of crates, his stockinged feet silent on the cement floor.

At the end of the aisle he stopped, and listened. Silence. Cautiously, he peered around the crates. He saw no one.

At the far end he could see the entrance door standing open, the front of his car visible, shining in the sun, a startling
contrast to the dimness inside the warehouse. Then he saw the blood on the floor near the door, trailing into the warehouse,
till it was lost in the murk. Halfway down the aisle to the right was another door, probably the warehouse office. Renza might
be there. On the other hand, he might be a few steps to the left, in the middle aisle. Perhaps, Lockwood thought, if he got
closer he could see the blood, see where it led.

He moved up and edged along the front of the building, toward the center aisle. So far he saw nothing. Heard nothing.

He froze for a second as he suddenly heard the door of the Cord slam shut. A moment later Junior Grosso staggered into view.
“Help! Help me!” he cried. And then slumped to the ground, a red puddle spreading out around his pudgy body, the agony leaving
his face as the life ebbed out of him.

Again he waited, and again there was no sound. He moved on, and came near the intersection, middle aisle to left, office door
to right. His eyes searched the floor, and now they could see it. Dark splatters leading to the office door. Renza was waiting
there.

He moved to the door, turned to face it.

“Freeze, sucker.” It was Renza’s voice from behind him.

“I figured that little trail of blood might attract your dumb cop instincts. Jerk! I walked up to that door, put a rag around
my ankle, an’ came on back here. An’ waited to get the drop on you. Dumb flatfoot.”

There was a lightswitch in front of Lockwood, and his hand went up to it as he leapt to the side. Light filled the place,
and for an instant it blinded Renza, an instant too long.

The .38 cracked and Renza crashed back against a crate, doubled over, with a slug in his midsection. It didn’t stop him. He
got off a shot, then another, but his hand was unsteady, his aim wild, and a moment later he went to his knees, and an instant
after that all the way to the floor as the third bullet from Lockwood’s pistol dropped him.

The Hook walked over to Renza, and turned him over with his foot. He’d had it.

He made the long walk down to the end of the warehouse, retrieved his shoes, and made his way outside. Russo and Grosso were
still lying there, flies already feasting on the thick red ooze that covered them and the nearby ground, the blood warming
and congealing in the intense summer sun. He got in the Cord and turned the engine over. Renza. Grosso. Russo. Moscowitz.
Caminaro. Mao. Riordan. Frankie Nuzzo had a problem. If things continued the way they were going, soon Nuzzo would be a mobster
without a mob.

This time the Brooklyn neighborhood was more attractive. The night was soft and people were out strolling and talking, sitting
on their porches, playing cards, listening to the radio.

The Hook turned up the short walk to the tiny wood house and pushed the buzzer. He heard no resultant sound, tried again,
and when once more he heard nothing, knocked. Somewhere toward the back of the house he heard a stirring.

A few moments later, the door opened. The woman from the funeral was standing there. “Yes?” she asked.

“I wonder if I could trouble you for a few moments.” He flashed his wallet at her, showing her the badge. “I’m investigating
a crime.”

The woman looked bewildered.

“Nothing to worry about. Nothing you’re involved in. It’s just that I have reason to believe that you may be able to contribute
some evidence.”

The woman still stood there, silent, disoriented. Something like this was never a part of her world.

“May I come in?” It was a tone of assurance, a tone that nearly commanded because it was so in possession of itself, and almost
involuntarily the woman opened the battered screen door.

“Thank you,” he said, and removed his hat. “My name is Lockwood. I’m an investigator for Transatlantic Underwriters—the insurance
company.”

“Oh, ah, yes, Mr. Lockwood, won’t you sit down? Here, in the living room where it’s cooler.” And she led him into a small
area, just big enough to hold a couch, two chairs and a desk. It had the air of a room rarely used.

“It’s a hot night,” she continued. “Would you like something to drink? I have some Pepsi in the icebox.”

“Thanks, no,” he told her. He took out a pack of Camels. “Would you like a cigarette?”

“Thank you, yes,” she said, real gratitude in her voice “Since my husband died, there hasn’t been much money for—this kind
of thing.” He lit her cigarette, then his own. “Keep the pack,” he said.

“No.”

“It’s all right,” he told her. “My company will pay for it.”

His smile seemed to reassure her, and she nodded, and smiled in return. “Thanks.”

“Has your husband been dead long?”

“A year,” she answered, simply. “The Depression. He lost his job. Couldn’t find any other. Killed himself.” She took another
puff on the cigarette. “I’m about over it now, though,” she told him. “It was never too good, anyway. It was the wrong time
to get married. We were the wrong people.” She looked at him. “You know how it can be.”

He nodded. “They say things will be getting better.”

“Probably. A little too late for me.”

“No, not for you. You’re a handsome woman.”

She looked at him and flushed, then tried to shrug it off. “People like me, we’re not meant to win. Anyway, that’s neither
here nor there. How can I help you?”

“I was at the funeral today.”

She looked at him, saying nothing.

“Maria Nuzzo’s funeral.”

“I see.”

“I heard you talking to a friend.”

She started, then collected herself. “Oh?”

“I’m investigating Maria Nuzzo’s murder for my company. I’d like to hear more about what you know.”

He saw the fright flash into her eyes. “I don’t know anything.”

“I heard you. Remember? At the funeral. When you talked to your friend.”

She looked at him for a long time. Finally, she said, “You’re not one of them, are you? You don’t look like one of them.”

“One of Nuzzo’s men? Or Lomenzo’s? No.” She nodded as he said it, relief in her face. “I’m legitimate,” he told her.

“I guess this teaches me to keep my big mouth shut.” She smiled a warm smile, framed by full, generous lips.

“On the contrary. What you said today could lead to the arrest of Maria Nuzzo’s killer.”

She studied him. “I’m thirsty. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a Pepsi? You look warm.”

She was right. “Okay, thanks.”

“Just a minute.” She turned toward the kitchen.

“That’s all right. I’ll come with you.”

“Suit yourself.”

The kitchen was small, too. He could hear the drip, drip of the ice as it melted into the pan at the bottom of the box. It
was easily ninety degrees tonight, a little more inside the house.

She chipped a couple of slivers off the ice, put them into two jelly glasses, opened a bottle of soda, and poured it equally
into two glasses. Her eyes were big when she looked at him. “Skoal.”

“Skoal.”

They stood in the kitchen, eyes on one another as they drank.

She put her glass down first. “It’s been a year,” she said.

“A year?”

“A year since Harry—died. And it wasn’t that good to begin with.

She moved toward him, and her arms opened, and then closed around him. “People like me, we’re losers,” she said. “But not
all the time. Not always. Sometimes we know when to take.”

Her lips neared his. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. After,” she told him.

Her eyes were soft as he left her. It had been good. He got into the car and flicked the ignition. Maria Nuzzo’s lover lived
less than a mile away.

When he got there, a woman answered the door.

“I’m looking for your husband,” he told her. “Red Agitino.”

“Who is it?” a male voice shouted.

Agitino’s wife looked back over her shoulder. “A man. Says he wants to see you.”

“All right. Keep him there.”

The two stood and waited, silent, worry in the wife’s eyes as she stared at The Hook. Finally, Agitino padded up. “Yeah?”
he asked.

“You’re Red Agitino?”

“That’s right. Who’re you?”

“My name’s Lockwood. I’m with the police.” Again he flashed the wallet. His shield looked much like the ones used by the New
York police department.

“What do you want with me?”

“It’s private. Can just the two of us talk?”

His wife’s eyes filled with care, but Agitino seemed unruffled. “If you like. I can come out there.”

“Be careful, Red,” she cried, hand out as if to stop him.

“It’s okay, Reenie,” he told her. “This guy’s all right. I can see that.” He opened the screen door, and waved his arm toward
the street. “After you.”

They reached the sidewalk, and Agitino turned to the right and walked a few paces. “Okay,” he said, as easy as anyone could
be under the circumstances, “what’s it all about?”

“Maria Nuzzo.”

Agitino broke his stride, then recovered and continued to walk. “Yes?”

“You know who she is.”

“I read about her in the
Daily News
. Shot dead, wasn’t she?”

“You know she was.”

“Hey, wait a minute—” Agitino spun toward The Hook.

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Red,” Lockwood told him. “I just assume you’ve read every word you could find on her death.”

Agitino’s face went blank. “I don’t get you.”

“I know you were her lover.”

Agitino seemed stung, then swiveled his face to the right, out of Lockwood’s vision. “You’re crazy.”

“Maria talked.”

Agitino wheeled back and looked him over. “Let me see that police card again.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Red.”

“The card.”

Lockwood brought it out, and this time Agitino grabbed it to study. You’re a liar!” he said angrily. “You’re no cop. You’re
with an insurance company!”

“Yes. An investigator for them.”

“You lied to me.”

“I find I get a quicker response if people think I’m with the police. In the end, the results are the same.”

“You’re a phony, and your story is phony.”

“You’re telling me you weren’t Maria Nuzzo’s lover.”

“I’m telling you I didn’t even
know
Maria Nuzzo.”

“I’m trying to find her killer, Red. That’s all I want.”

Agitino glared at him, and said nothing.

“I have reason to believe her husband killed her. Frankie Nuzzo. And one of the reasons he did it was because he found out
she was cheating on him. With you.”

“I’m going home.” Agitino turned, and started walking back to the house.

“Nuzzo is a gangster, Red—a killer! He should be off the streets. You know that. You’ve got to know all about him.”

“Buzz off.”

“He belongs in the chair, Red. If you don’t help me, Maria’s blood will be on your hands as well.”

Agitino’s face went crimson with anger, and he lashed out with a short right that caught The Hook by surprise, and threw him
back a few feet. “Leave me alone!” Agitino cried. “I’m going home, and I don’t want to see you again. I’ve got a shotgun in
the house, and if you ever try to bother me anymore, I’ll blast your head off and tell the cops you were a prowler!” With
that he turned and walked back to the house.

The Hook stood there a moment, then wearily headed back to his car. It had been a long day.

Hook Lockwood allowed himself a good long sleep. He’d be damned if he’d make Mr. Gray happy, and at this point, what with
the hours he’d been working, and the company he’d been keeping—Nuzzo’s boys and the like—Transatlantic was getting him cheap.
Much too cheap.

It was nearly eleven when he strode to the breakfast table room service had wheeled in, the morning’s papers lying alongside
the silver tray. He was about to read the
Herald Tribune
when he saw the headline and photo on the front page of the
Daily Mirror
.

“BROOKLYN WIDOW TORTURED, KILLED”

He turned to the story on the inside pages.

“Early this morning, Brooklyn police found the mutilated body of Teresa Stoneman, 2122 Alderney Road. Her tongue had been
cut out and her throat slashed.”

He read the rest, but there were no other important details. The police suspected it was the work of a maniac. The Hook knew
better. They’d cut out her tongue. A warning to informers.

He forgot about the hotcakes and coffee awaiting him, and tore through the pages of the Brooklyn directory. Agitino. What
the hell was his square first name? Dammit, it made no difference. There was no Agitino in the book, not at the right address.

He threw the book down, checked the .38 and grabbed his hat and coat. An easy one, Gray had said. Easy.

He made the forty-minute drive in slightly more than twenty. Obviously someone had followed him to Teresa’s place, and if
they’d tracked him there, they’d have continued along to Agitino’s. He hoped he’d be in time. He already had Teresa’s blood
on his hands. He didn’t want more.

He reached the house, pulled up, jumped out of the car, and ran up to the door.

Before he had a chance to ring the bell, the door opened, and his heart sank. He found himself face to face with Fish Lomenzo.

“Come in,” Lomenzo said, staring at him with the dead eyes peculiar to the professional killer.

Lockwood saw the big .45 pointed at his gut, and shrugged. He had to get into the house, and although he could think of far
better ways … he pulled open the door and stepped inside.