The Death of Lorenzo Jones (2 page)

Lockwood didn’t like it. He didn’t like it when Mr. Gray changed moods so fast, from hysteria on the telephone to this deceptive
calm.

“A second ago you said it was definitely murder.” Hook’s gray eyes tried to bore through to the brain of the chief of claims
to see what was ticking there. The shield of Mr. Gray’s implacable stare returned the look, his face as expressionless as
a wax figure. Gray raised the gold-rimmed pince-nez that he wore on a black cord looped about his neck to get a better bead
on his employee.

“Whatever, Bill. You know, you haven’t been quite up to par lately, and we at Transatlantic have been considering a reduction
in your sala—”

Lockwood didn’t like threats. “Now look here—”

“But, come through on this little case, and we’ll let bygones be bygones. I attribute your lack of success “lately, Bill—and
I say this with your best interests in mind—to your overzealous pursuit of the female gender.”

“I get results with my methods.” Lockwood was about to blast out that his personal life was none of Gray’s business, when
Gray sweetened the pot.

“If you can possibly avoid debauching yourself on this case, Bill, and avoid trailing the name of Transatlantic through the
mud, and if you can accomplish this case without—ahem—resorting to your usual violent solutions, then the company is prepared
to double your regular Christmas bonus, to $200. Despite these hard times.”

Lockwood took out his black and silver Dunhill lighter and extracted a Camel from the pack in his suit pocket. He lit up and
took a deep drag. He saw now that he was about to be handed a case that not only would be difficult but would probably be
hazardous. Damn Gray. Still, a couple of C-notes would go a long way toward overhauling his gun-metal gray 1937 Cord downstairs
in the garage, all twelve cylinders of her. He blew the smoke out, toward Gray.

“Well, let’s hear the case. That’s a most generous offer by the company.”

Gray lifted a sheet of paper off his desk blotter and sighted down his spectacles.

“The insured’s name is Lorenzo Jones. He’s some sort of baseball player… .” Gray’s mouth looked like he had just sucked a
lemon. “Heaven’s knows why a baseball player is so valuable, just for throwing-a few balls at a bat—”

“Not
at
the bat,” Hook interjected. “The trick if you’re the
batter
is to
hit
the ball, and if you’re the pitcher to
miss
the
bat.”

Gray, the left side of his mouth twitching in irritation, continued. “Well. Anyway, this Mr. Jones was so valuable, or at
least his services were, that a part-owner of the team, Cyrus Wade, insured his life for $25,000. Have you ever heard of a
team called the Giants?”

“I think so,” Lockwood said sarcastically. “They play up at the Polo Grounds, don’t they?”

“Yes, Lockwood, they do, I believe.”

The chief of claims opened a drawer on his left and pulled out a file folder, very thick. The kind of fine print that Lockwood
hated to read, but often had to.

“Well, here are the papers,” Gray said. “They’ll make good reading. Clear this up quickly, so the company can avoid the loss
of—”

“Paying on a claim? Of course, Mr. Gray. Why should the company ever pay on a claim?”

“Sometimes, Lockwood, I’m not sure you have the attitude a person in your position needs.”

Gray looked down at his desk and shuffled papers.

Swell, Lockwood, thought, I’m dismissed. He took the thick file from the edge of the desk, nodded, and walked back to his
own office. Voices in his head yelled things at Mr. Gray. He walked into his office, threw the file on the floor, and put
his feet up on the desk.

He called in his secretary, Molly. “Do me a favor, honey. Read me that pile of stuff there.” He pointed to a thick sheaf of
papers.

As she read the documents Lockwood threw darts at a picture of Mr. Gray, a photograph he had taken from the company newspaper
for just this purpose. He hit the center of the target three times, right between the eyes.

“Not serious? Not serious, am I?” he muttered as Molly droned on, reading the small print on Lorenzo Jones’ policy.

The beneficiary was one Cyrus Wade. The gist of it was, as Lockwood saw it, that Transatlantic Underwriters had managed to
insure a baseball pitcher who had a penchant for the dangerous hobby of flying a biplane he had rebuilt himself. Transatlantic
had received additional payments to include air accidents, and now, he, Hook Lockwood, was supposed to get the company out
of the hole. Prove Jones’ death was suicide, or murder committed by the beneficiary, and Transatlantic wouldn’t have to pay.

There were more problems. Molly found a second policy in the back of the folder. Beneficiary of this one was Lorenzo Jones’
widow, Cynthia Jones. She was to receive $10,000 upon his demise. Add that to the $25,000 Transatlantic would have to pay
Cyrus Wade and you got $35,000. Lockwood whistled to himself. Big bucks. He’d better get on it.

Lockwood didn’t follow the Giants the way he did the Yanks and the Dodgers. What a town! Three top teams. First, he would
go out to the Polo Grounds and snoop around. Maybe he could wrangle season tickets out of this deal. Yeah, maybe this case
would be a piece of cake.

Still, he didn’t like the taste of this cake. Jones, according to the company reports and news clips, was killed when his
biplane crashed in Queens. Not much left of the body or the aircraft. That wouldn’t help.

Also, this Wade fellow was no punk. He was quite a wealthy man, which meant he would be hard to put the screws on.

There was only a brief description of Cynthia Jones in the file. “Apparently a drunk,” nothing more. But Lockwood had his
own sources. He wanted to know more about who he was dealing with.

His secretary, pert as a sparrow, nineteen, and five-two, put down the folders. Her freckles stared at him. She smiled her
Irish best. Hook saw she packed a dynamite little body in that little green dress. He remembered Lois Archer, and wondered
what Molly would look like in Lois’ Artists Ball costume. He wondered what she would think of the idea.

True, she was too young for Lockwood’s taste, which was why Gray had approved her to replace old Prune Face when the old buzzard
had retired. But Lockwood had found another use for the cute little redhead.

“How about one of those wonderful back rubs, dear?”

Molly had a crush on Hook in her shy way. She looked at him with admiration and hero worship rather than smoldering sensuality.
She even came in to work early most days to lay out his paperwork and dust a bit. Nice girl, but Hook went for women not girls.

Still, she was a hell of a back massager.

When she was done, he got his snap-brim hat, adjusted it in the mirror, pecked Molly on the cheek, and set out for the Polo
Grounds.

He took along his .38 Detective Special for company. Its slight bulge at his waist in its spring holster felt reassuring.

Jesus, you never knew.

Lockwood got his prize possession, his ‘37 Cord, equipped with police-band radio as well as a push-button Motorola, out of
the Radio City Garage. He tipped Hank after they had chitchatted about the fights, and then he roared down the ramp onto the
blustery September streets. The Polo Grounds shouldn’t be the first stop—it could wait. He needed background.

First a stop at the
Daily Mirror
office of Doug Sheer. Sheer was Lockwood’s ear to the tom-toms of Manhattan. He would know more about this Jones, his widow,
and Cyrus Wade than anyone. If not, he would be able to find out quickly what Hook was up against. Sheer had been in the Fighting
69th with Hook during the Great War. “Nosey” Sheer, as he was nicknamed, had a mountain of a nose in a plain of a face otherwise
featureless except for a quick smile and gentle blue eyes. Nosey was around forty and wore the same rumpled, old-fashioned,
single-breasted brown suit every time the insurance investigator saw him. His hair was going gray and was always tousled.
Sheer did quite well at the
Mirror
, with a byline article in almost every issue. He had a special smell for crime stories.

Lockwood made his way up past the hundred or so slamming typewriters in the newsroom to the city desk, nodded to O’Brady,
and opened the door to Sheer’s cubicle. Sheer was typing away on a big battered Royal, but stopped and looked up when he saw
his old friend.

He came around the desk, greeted Hook warmly, shook his hand with both of his own, and offered Lockwood a slug of hooch from
a Coca-Cola bottle. Lockwood declined. He knew from past experience that Sheer drank something akin to turpentine.

“Got a spud?” Sheer asked. Lockwood took out his Dunhill and lit the Camel he stuck between Nosey’s lips. Good old Nosey,
always out of cigarettes and always hot on a scoop.

Nosey got Lockwood all the back clippings on the Giants” season and gave Lockwood the dope on Jones. Jones was the only thing
that would have kept the Giants out of the bottom of the standings next year. He had come on late in the season from a bush
league team called the “Texarcana Ranglers.” Wade had discovered him.

“He’s—he was—quite a pitcher. I’ll see if I can get more clippings from Sports. If you want.”

“Not necessary,” said Hook. “These are enough.”

Sitting there on a torn-up leather chair he looked at them. One had a picture of Lorenzo Jones warming up. Nice young fellow,
tall, slim, twenty-two years old. Another was about his aviation skills. A quote, prophetic: “Pitching is a lot like flying.
You either get it in the box, or you don’t.”

While Lockwood read, Nosey raced around, tearing open file cabinets, muttering and cursing, until he said, “Ah, here it is,
society page.”

He handed Lockwood a clipping on Wade. “Class A, Number-One Rat. Evicted lots of Chinamen so he could demolish their buildings
and erect a factory. This Wade guy is plush with filthy lucre.”

There was a picture of a wrecking ball going against a building downtown and sad-looking Chinese carrying bags of belongings
along Mott Street in the snow. So that’s the kind of guy Wade is, Lockwood thought, a heel.

There was a small marriage announcement for Jones and Cynthia Meadows of Boston. The size of these announcements indicated
the approximate worth of the families involved. From the size of the clipping in front of him, Lockwood knew this wedding
hadn’t been worth much. The bride was given away by her brother. That was interesting. It didn’t say her parents were dead.
A broken home? Jones must have spent some time in Boston. That probably didn’t mean much, if anything. In fact, Lockwood didn’t
know whether he had learned anything useful at all here.

This was all Nosey had now, but he’d keep checking.

Burning up Harlem River Drive in his Cord, Lockwood headed for the Polo Grounds, home of the Giants and a stone’s throw away
from the Yankees across the Harlem River.

His buzzer got him past the guard, and he made his way by the hot-dog stand and through the ramps to the field entrance. Everywhere
he saw signs of construction. A week after the season and they were redoing the whole place. They sure keep the grass well,
he thought as he caught sight of the field.

He made his way onto it by hopping the railing. Before he could get his bearings, a short, stocky man approached across the
sun-splashed grass.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

The man wore the look of someone with authority. He was dressed in the pile-lined blue collarless jacket baseball players
wear when they aren’t on the field and white cleats. That would make him a referee or a coach.

Lockwood had been watching a bunch of workmen ripping out old box seats and replacing them. Standing by the first-base line
with the wind whipping at his hat, he pushed it down on his head, and said, “My name’s Lockwood, who are you?”

“Hanly Medelsohn, the coach. Who the hell are you?”

Lockwood flashed his buzzer.

“Oh.” That calmed him down.

Hook couldn’t help it, could he, that his badge looked a lot like a detective’s gold octagon? Medelsohn wasn’t the first guy
to take him for one of New York’s Finest.

As they walked to the dugout, Medelsohn explained that Jones had been a minor-league pitcher brought in on a contract by Wade.
Wade himself was a businessman who had bought a chunk of the Giants this year.

“Wade was upset that we didn’t clinch the pennant and that the Cubs took it instead. In ‘36 and ‘37 we lost the Series to
the Yanks. Who can beat them? But at least we got the pennant.”

“How was Jones as a pitcher?” asked Lockwood.

Medelsohn sighed. “We started him on relief. He was good, great as a matter of fact. But we got him too late in the season.
What an arm—of course, he hurt it, but not severely, in our last game. Lucky, it wasn’t a bad injury. We looked forward to
him pitching next season.”

“Hurt his arm?” They were approaching the dugout entrance which was darkened by the giant shadows cast by the bleachers.

“Yeah, he threw a fast ball in the ninth and got a bad pain. We thought he was finished. Brought him back with ice compresses.
Doc Carruthers took a look. At first, he thought it was real bad, that Lorenzo couldn’t pitch next season, but they X-rayed
him and found out he was okay.”

The coach pointed to a few steps to the left and led the way.

“I’ve heard of pitchers throwing out their arms but—”

“You know what it is for a pitcher to tear his cartilage? Can’t be fixed, not perfectly. Usually they’re washed up then.”

The two men went into the office. Lockwood asked to see a copy of the contract Lorenzo had with the Giants.

Medelsohn said, “I’m showing you this only because you’re a cop. It’s confidential. Real confidential.”

“What do you think of Wade?” Hook asked as the coach unlocked a file drawer.

Medelsohn had hardly ever seen him. Mystery man. But he had an odd contract with the Giants for Lorenzo. Hook read it. It
was
peculiar.

Wade, in essence, was paid by the Giants for Lorenzo’s services. Lorenzo had been paid out of this by Wade, minus a 50 percent
fee to Wade. The small print explained that the advantage to Lorenzo was that he was guaranteed payment for five seasons,
whether he pitched or not.