The Death of Lorenzo Jones (16 page)

“Who sent you?” Lockwood demanded.

“Screw you!” was the quick reply.

“Tell me or—” Lockwood pointed the gun at the big goon’s scrotum.

“Okay, okay! Don’t shoot! It’s only what I heard Half-Pint let slip. He said that we was paid by a millionaire. We could expect
a bonus if we snatched you. This millionaire wanted us to deliver you.”

“No names?” Still aiming at Iron Man’s tenderest parts, Lockwood cocked the hammer.

“No names. Honest, Lockwood, on my mother’s grave. Dumbrowsky’s the one who knows where to deliver you.”

“All right, lummox. Now go tell Half-Pint what happened to your friends. I’m letting you go because I hear you’re nice to
alley cats and give them milk.”

“Huh?” Iron Man didn’t believe it.

Lockwood pocketed the gun. “You dumb bastard, get out of here before I change my mind.”

Iron Man ran.

“Bill!” Crying, Amanda ran out from the house where she had been hiding. “Oh, thank God you’re alive. You’ve been shot!” she
gasped.

“It’s nothing, a scratch compared to what those two got.”

He looked across the lawn at the two dead gangsters. They looked almost peaceful in death, like statues. Lockwood half expected
little fountains to gush from their opened mouths.

“You’re all right, Amanda. You’re all right. I didn’t know for sure if—” He pulled her to him tightly.

“If you could trust me?” Amanda asked, and she kissed each ear.

“Something like that. But you saved my goddamned life just now.”

At that moment a deep wave of love for her swept through him. Jesus, it felt good just to be alive.

Lockwood went back to his hotel and bandaged his wounds. The bullet had just cut a tiny ridge in his upper shoulder, barely
touching the muscles beneath. He washed it out with alcohol and wrapped some gauze over the throbbing area, then taped it
at both ends. There, that should hold, he thought. No need to spend five bucks to have some quack who could hardly see fuss
with it. He could never understand why people willingly gave their money to the biggest thieves of all, doctors.

He poured a Canadian and soda and lay down.

Iron Man would go tell Half-Pint what had happened. The boys in blue would knock on Amanda’s door, and she would say that
the two thugs had just started shooting at each other. With their criminal records, that would be that. Then Brannigan would
hear about it and put two and two together. Jimbo was a smart cop.

Until then though, Lockwood would have the mobility he needed.

But how was he going to get Wade? Wade was smart. There must be something—say a receipt—that he had taken from Doc’s office
after torturing him. The thermos? Wade probably had taken that, too. He must have gone out to the crash site before anyone
else and grabbed it.

Provided Lockwood’s whole poison-and-thermos notion held up. He had no proof. But everybody involved—Wade, Robin, Stinky,
Amanda, all those flying nuts at the airport—knew he was looking for a thermos. Then, pow—thugs. He was getting close to something
or someone, and it all kept pointing to Wade.

Unless—unless—someone else had gotten out there before Wade. Maybe someone else had the thermos.

Lockwood decided he would have to get into Wade’s apartment over on Fifth Avenue. Maybe the millionaire had kept something
around that could put him into the chair.

Hook got his hat and called Wade’s number. He let it ring twenty times and got no answer. Good, he wasn’t in.

He walked across town to Wade’s digs as it grew dark. He grabbed a tough Irish kid who was playing in the street with some
of his pals.

“Hey, want to make two bucks?” Lockwood asked.

“Who I gotta kill?” the pug-nosed kid half-jokingly replied.

“Just go kick that doorman in the leg.” Lockwood pointed across the street to the elderly, sour-looking doorman decked out
in a fancy uniform, gold braid, and a large visored cap bigger than a general’s.

“Sure,” the kid said happily as he snatched the two bucks from Lockwood’s outstretched hand.

Without losing a beat, the kid walked across the street, right up to the doorman, and kicked him hard in the shins.

“You little bastard,” the doorman yelled and took off in hot pursuit of the running boy. They disappeared around the corner.

Lockwood strolled in and walked to the elevator.

“Hi.” He smiled at the old black elevator operator like he had known him for years.

“Mr. Wade’s, please,” Lockwood said as he stepped into the fancy oak-lined elevator.

“Yes, sir,” the old black man replied, hardly looking at Lockwood.

He closed the big gate and pulled the stick that made the elevator rise slowly. It took forever.

“Ten, sir.” The operator opened the gate and let Lockwood out. Then he slowly descended out of sight.

The lock on Wade’s door looked like a snap. In joints like this they didn’t expect you to get past the lobby. In a minute
Lockwood was inside.

The place was dark, but the moon streamed in from over the Park and spotlighted different sections of the living room. Lockwood
saw a man’s coat draped over a chair. And something else, next to it: a lady’s dress.

Coming from the next room, through the closed door, Lockwood heard huffing, puffing, and groans. He smirked.

“Can’t you do it anymore?” asked a female voice. “For crying out loud, not limp again? When my husband was alive you could
always—”

“Shut up,” Wade’s high-pitched voice answered.

Were Cynthia Jones and Cyrus Wade in bed together? How cosy.

Lockwood eased his .38 out of the spring holster. Slowly, he opened the door. He stepped over the bedroom’s threshold. His
shoes made a creaking sound.

“Who—who’s there?” Wade’s voice nervously asked.

Lockwood snapped on the light switch by the door. “Surprise!”

“Lockwood!” Wade’s eyes almost popped from his snake-like head. He reached to pull the blanket over himself.

Cynthia Jones didn’t seem to give a damn that she was naked. She still didn’t look so bad, but not great either.

“Sorry to spoil your party,” Lockwood mockingly apologized.

“How did you get in here?”

“Save the outrage, snake, for your trial. For murder, mass murder. Now, this is a gun, see? Show me a poison prescription
you had Robin Mobley fill for you. And the thermos—where’s that?”

Wade smiled, “If I killed Jones, I’d be pretty dumb not to dump the evidence, wouldn’t I?”

Cynthia sat up. “Cyrus, this man threatened me at my house. Disarm him and call the police.”

“My dear, he has the drop on us.”

“All right now, get your clothes on,” Lockwood said. “We’re going to look around here together.”

Lockwood heard a loud bonk. That’s a funny sound, he thought. Kind of like a fish jumping back in the water of a calm lake.

Then the air got soupy around him, and then smoky. The room spun around, and the couple on the bed sank. The ceiling became
the wall.

Then it got dark, as dark as in a mile-deep well.

When he came to, Lockwood’s brain was pounding like a bass drum. Damn, someone must have hit him on the head and nearly cracked
his skull. Someone must have snuck up while the happy couple kept him occupied.

He tried to move his hand, but discovered that he was handcuffed behind his back. Handcuffs not rope, a good sign. Cops use
handcuffs, killers use ropes.

At least he wasn’t in the trunk of a car, being driven to some swamp. He was sitting on the sofa in Wade’s living room.

He heard someone say, “He’s coming around now. His head’s hard as hell.”

It was the voice of Detective John Early. The red-haired Scot bastard was one of the Bobbsey twins who was always after Lockwood.
The other cop, who came slowly into focus, was Bob Knapp.

Knapp had a whiskey glass in his hand. He put it to Lock-wood’s lips. The whiskey tasted good, and as Lockwood sipped, his
head cleared a bit as it burned its way down.

Knapp took the drink away. “He’ll be okay now. These private dicks live on liquor.”

Knapp and Early lifted him up by both arms.

“All right, Lockwood, down to the station now.” Early laughed loudly. “Looks like your snooping days are over.”

Wade was at the station.

“I was alone, sleeping, when this maniac—” he pointed at Lockwood, who stood groggily, hardly able to stand—"broke in and
pulled a gun on me. Lockwood’s teamed up with that murderess, my secretary. I managed to overpower him, and after a struggle,
finally got the better of him.”

Woozily, Lockwood wondered. Who did hit me?

It was all cut and dried. The cops booked him, took mug shots and fingerprints, and threw him in the holding pen.

By the time Lockwood’s head stopped swimming and he realized what was going on, he was behind bars—thick, steel bars that
wouldn’t move no matter how hard he rattled them.

“I want a lawyer! Call Gray! Get me a phone.”

The turnkey sneered at him, “When we get around to it, creep!”

Lockwood kept up his yelling for hours, mixing his demands with obscenities.

“You goddamn cops got the wrong man. Wade did it. Every last stinking bloody bit of it. You creeps! You pricks!”

“What was that, Mr. Lockwood?” The turnkey came to his cell and stood just outside the greasy bars.

“What was that last word, Mr. Lockwood?”

“I said, ‘You cops think you’re pretty slick.’ “

“I don’t think that was it. I’m gonna have to clean you up a little. We don’t like no dirty-mouthed prisoners.”

The beefy turnkey unrolled a firehose that hung against the wall.

He aimed the nozzle into Lockwood’s cell and turned the valve with his other hand. The water shot into the filthy cell. It
splashed off the walls and drenched Lockwood no matter which way he turned. The guard lowered the nozzle and hit his target
directly.

The water slammed into Lockwood like a giant’s fist. It lifted him off his feet. He hit the back wall and slid down to his
knees. The powerful jet followed him.

“Clean yet, murderer?” The jailer aimed the high-pressure jet right at Hook’s head.

Water covered Lockwood’s face. He tried to breathe, but only liquid came shooting into his mouth and nose. He was drowning.
He was a mile under the ocean and trying to swim to the top. He stroked the air frantically as if he could swim out of range
of his tormentor’s weapon. Just when he could take no more, it stopped.

“We don’t like murderers here. Especially guys that kill our favorite baseball players.”

Lockwood was quiet and wet. The idiots had it all wrong, but he couldn’t do a thing. They weren’t going to listen to him.

Soaked to the skin, he sat on the wet bed in his dripping worsted suit. Water, water everywhere but—where the hell was Gray
when you needed him?

He stayed that way all night, huddled and shivering in the one corner of the crummy little cell. In the morning he was sneezing
and coughing, and his suit still felt wet and cold. He kept shivering. Jesus, he’d never go swimming again. Not for the rest
of his life. Which didn’t look like it was going to be too long, the way things were going.

The cops finally came for him and brusquely hauled him out of the cell. They handcuffed his hands behind him. He felt like
a goddamn criminal.

They brought him in front of a judge. The guy didn’t look too bad. Kindly face, gray hair. Maybe someone’s not an idiot around
here, Lockwood thought, but his hopes weren’t too high.

The assistant D.A., a slimy wimp in a bankers suit and oiled-down hair named Bill O’Hara, went over the details of Lockwood’s
alleged romp.

“Your honor, this madman has killed someone every week for the past month. Three in New York, two in Larchmont. He is also
suspected in the disappearance of a woman who is a fugitive from justice on another murder charge. Last night he was caught
breaking and entering the home of Mr. Cyrus Wade and threatening the man with a gun. I recommend he be kept in the city jails
without bail until the state can establish its full case against him.”

“Who are you?” the judge asked, looking down at Lockwood from his bench. “What’s your job?”

Lockwood tried to talk, but his jaws seemed frozen shut. The D.A. stepped forward to answer for him.

“Your honor, he’s supposed to be an insurance investigator.”

The judge looked out at the group of law officers and other people who were awaiting a hearing.

“Does anyone here know this man?”

Early stepped forward. “Your honor, this is William Lockwood, a mean customer from Times Square. He drinks and bar brawls
a lot. He consorts with hardened criminals and reporters who interfere in the prosecution of those criminals. He is a blot
on the community, your honor.”

That bastard! Lockwood, though handcuffed, shot a kick at Early as he passed by and got him in the thigh. Cops and bailiffs
happily leaped forward to help Early. They manhandled the investigator back onto the prisoner’s bench.

The judge looked down sternly from his perch of justice. “I see he’s indeed homicidal. I remand him to the penitentiary on
Centre Street until the beginning of trial. No bail.”

He slammed the gavel down like a guillotine.

“Get me Gray!” Lockwood screamed. He had finally found his voice.

Jimbo Brannigan walked in.

“Ah, you have gone and done it now, haven’t you? Maybe syphillis has gone to your brain from all those women. Tsk-tsk. You
look awful.”

Lockwood was glad to see him.

“Your honorous majesty,” asked Jimbo. “May I be so rude as to approach the bench?”

There was a mumbling conference between Jimbo and the judge. They smiled and nodded a lot. The judge kept peering down at
Lockwood as if trying to size him up through his judicial powers of observation.

The judge nodded. Jimbo asked him something else. The judge nodded again. Jimbo smiled.

The judge slammed his little hammer again several times. He liked doing that.

“Change in disposition. Prisoner is remanded to Bellevue for observation. Dismissed.”