Authors: Brad Latham
Stymie shrugged.
“He didn’t say anything to you about that?”
“Nothing.”
Lockwood studied Stymie for a moment, then went back into the shop. He looked at Stymie’s collection again, then picked up
a piece and showed it to him. “Odd. Every other thing here is coated with dust, but this one is clean.”
“Be careful! It’s very valuable! It’s—” Stymie shrieked, jumping to his feet, forgetting his injuries, lust and fear written
all over him.
The Hook finished the fence’s sentence. “It’s what you nearly gave your life for, Stymie,” he said, set it back down on the
filth-coated table, and left the shop.
Lockwood walked to the nearest phone booth, lifted up the Manhattan directory, and searched for Cracks’ name. He finally found
it: Silvio Henderson, 337 West 42nd Street. He dialed the number and got a busy signal. Impatiently, he hung up, then tried
again. Again he got the buzz, and again he tried, and this time Cracks answered.
“Hello?”
“Cracks?”
“Who is this?”
“Bill Lockwood. Transatlantic Underwriters company. I need to talk to you.”
“I’m—I’m busy.”
“I’m a block away. Stay there.” Lockwood hung up.
He loped across 42nd Street, drawing the stares of the curious. Everyone in New York was in a hurry, but no one ran, except
for the occasional cop or hold-up man. Disappointment registered in more than one face when they turned and saw no pursuing
patrolman.
The Hook raced up the stoop of the dilapidated brownstone, jerked open the huge glass-paneled door, and flicked his eyes over
the mailboxes. “S. Henderson. 3B.” He pressed the buzzer, waited, then tried again. When there was no response, he tried the
inner door, found it locked. He pulled out a jackknife and jimmied it open. He took the stairs three at a time. He was close
to something now, and he wouldn’t let it get away.
He burst onto the third floor landing, and saw it was probably too late. The door to 3B was open, and a man was leaving. It
was One-Eye.
The gunman’s one good eye went wide when he saw The Hook. A housewife with a bag of garbage was opening the door of the opposite
apartment, and One-Eye barreled through it, crashing her to the floor, garbage flying in all directions.
Lockwood followed, gun drawn, paused for an instant to lift the startled woman to her feet, then charged toward the open kitchen
window. There was a fire escape outside, and he could see it vibrating, the heavy impact of One-Eye’s feet making it shake.
He looked downward, saw nothing, and put his head out, then pulled back, as an explosion sounded, and a bullet whined by him.
He raised his pistol, jumped through the window and got off two quick shots. One-Eye was already up on the roof, gravel crackling
under his thumping feet. Lockwood raced up the iron stairs, then up the freshly primed ladder that led to the roof.
He thrust himself over the ledge and off in the distance saw Levinskey, already two rooftops away. He couldn’t trust the .38
to carry that far with any accuracy and dropped his hand when he saw the two sun-bathers between him and One-Eye, already
oblivious to the pistol-carrying mobster who’d run heavily past them.
Lockwood sped to the adjoining roof, then grabbed its ledge and dropped ten feet to the next. One-Eye was frantically pulling
at the exit door on the next roof from the last roof.
As he ran, he saw the gangster fire two shots into the door, pull at it, curse, and in frustration, begin running again, to
the last of the roofs in this chain, heading for the final exit.
By this time Lockwood had passed the startled sunbathers, now bolt upright as they watched in fascination. “Take cover!” he
yelled at them, then raised the .38 and squeezed off a shot. It ricocheted off the last door, and One-Eye jumped to the side,
then flung himself behind the tar-covered structure that was his only means of escape.
The Hook crouched behind the ledge of the next-to-last apartment building, steadying the .38 on the worn brown tile that covered
it. “Might as well give up, pal!”
A shot whizzed over Lockwood’s head.
“No way you can get out of this one! Throw out your gun and come out with your hands up!” he cried, trying again.
This time One-Eye leaned out from the other side of the exit shed, and his and Lockwood’s pistols cracked at the same instant,
each bullet flying harmlessly through the heavy summer air.
Lockwood knelt, broke open the pistol, and slid in four new bullets. He tensed his muscles and then flung himself over the
ledge, dropping into a crouch as he hit the roof. One-Eye leapt out, fired at him, one, two shots in rapid succession, then
appeared to stagger as Lockwood returned fire.
One-Eye was behind the narrow black hut again, and Lockwood advanced on it slowly, silently. A quick rustle, and One-Eye was
flat on the roof, firing up at him, then ducking back before Lockwood could get off a shot.
Lockwood was in front of the asphalted eight-foot-high shed now. He pulled at its door, and it opened. He closed it, listened
for a moment, his back against the door, waiting for One-Eye to come around at him from either side of the structure. Instead,
he heard what appeared to be a rustling from the back wall. One-Eye was still there!
He flung open the door, jumped back, and got off four quick shots about five feet high, running in a line across the back
wall. A dull thud followed. “I got him!” Lockwood thought, sprang back and ran around to the back.
One-Eye’s empty gun, flung with a force born of desperation, fear, and searing hate, caught him in the temple and he went
down, his pistol flying out to the edge of the roof.
One-Eye lunged for the door, and Lockwood sprang after him, tackling him at the knees. One-Eye slammed against the door as
he went down, then twisted free and kicked at The Hook.
Lockwood pulled away, his back against the door, and One-Eye, scrambling up and finding his escape hatch blocked, ran for
the .38 which glistened in the lowering sun a foot from the roof edge. There was no ledge at the end of this roof, just flat
expanse that ended abruptly, a five-story drop its only border.
Again Lockwood leapt after him and again brought him down, Levinskey’s arm straining out for the pistol and missing it by
six inches. Furious, he whipped a right hand into Lockwood, then jumped up and kicked out. The Hook rolled away, eluding him,
then regained his feet. For a moment he and One-Eye stood facing each other, and for the first time he saw the stain spreading
across One-Eye’s chest.
“Give it up! You’re shot,” he yelled, pointing.
His opponent ignored him, and rushed forward, head down, going for sheer bull strength. Lockwood feinted, ducked, and threw
out a foot. One-Eye stumbled over it, sprawling out on the roof, little bubbles of tar bursting under him, marking his clothes.
Lockwood ran for the .38, whirled, and found Levinskey coming at him again, the front of his shirt a mass of blood and glistening
black patches. He raised the pistol, but One-Eye kept coming, and once more he shifted his body, once, twice, throwing One-Eye
off. The gangster lurched past him to the edge of the roof, stopped himself, and then swayed there, both feet partly on the
roof, partly overhanging it.
“Back! Back! Get back!” Lockwood called, struggling to his feet, arm outthrust, trying to reach his opponent. One-Eye looked
back at him, frantic, living out a nightmare, balancing evenly between life and death. The Hook now saw that the stain extended
to the back of him, too, a dark spot on the back of his jacket spreading even as he watched.
And then he saw nothing. One-Eye had lost his battle for balance, a hair too far off the roof, and even before Lockwood could
reach him, had pitched forward and down.
Lockwood stepped to the edge and looked. One-Eye was spread-eagled in the barren backyard, the life crushed out of him.
He went down the stairs numbly, noticing nothing around him as he descended. Outside he walked down the reddish-brown stone
steps, turned to the left, and once more strode toward Cracks’ apartment house. No point in looking after One-Eye. He was
beyond all help.
He opened the large wood-and-glass door again, and this time trudged upward, feet heavy, all hope drained out of him.
When he reached the apartment, he found what he’d expected. Cracks was lying in the back room of the seedy two-room flat,
a bullet through the back of his head. A gangland assassination, Lockwood decided grimly. Not just a personal vendetta between
Cracks and Levinskey.
His professional instinct taking over, Lockwood looked around the room, searching through the sparsely filled closet and chest
of drawers. There was nothing of any significance, just the score or so of eight-by-ten glossy publicity photos of Muffy Dearborn
that blanketed the crumbling walls of the apartment. Lockwood looked for inscriptions on the photos, but as he’d expected,
there were none. Finally, he sat heavily in the wooden folding chair by the chipped end table and dialed Jimbo Brannigan.
He’d be gone by the time Jimbo arrived. He had other business to take care of.
It was a muggy and hot summer night in Brooklyn, and Vernon Toomey was taking it easy. He was in his favorite chair, a bottle
of Trommer’s beer in one hand, the
Mirror
in the other, as he read about his favorite team, the Brooklyn Dodgers. Van Lingle Mungo, the big pitcher with the blazing
fast ball, had lost a tough one again, and Toomey raged. Bums. They were nothing but bums.
Aside from the light of the lamp next to his chair, the room was dark, and so the figure moving into the room escaped his
notice. It stood there a moment, then spoke.
“Sit just where you are, Toomey, or you’re dead.”
The
Mirror
dropped to the floor, rustling as it fell, the beer following it, emptying over the expensive rug, rolling next to the two
empties already there. Toomey’s hand slid toward the holster alongside his rib cage, but the cold voice stopped him. “Don’t.”
“Who are you?” Toomey asked. Jesus, how had he got past Warren downstairs?
“Bill Lockwood. The Hook.”
Toomey spat. A two-bit insurance dick.
“Settle down, Two-Scar, or you’ll join Petey and the rest of them.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Ahearn. Stuff. Slops. Elmer. Surely by now you know what happened to them.”
“You.
You’re
the one?”
“Who else do you think it was, Two-Scar? I was the one you sent them after, wasn’t I?”
Two-Scar said nothing. The heat and the three beers had gotten to him, and he was feeling a little befuddled. Where the hell
was Warren?
“No need to keep looking around, Toomey. I gave your chum downstairs a small sleeping powder.”
“That’s impossible! Nobody gets past Warren!”
“That’s where your thinking is all wrong, friend. Just because a guy seems like one of the best to you doesn’t mean anything.
You don’t have the brains to make those kinds of judgments. Warren was easy. Just like all the rest of your boys.”
Toomey’s head was beginning to ache. It had been such a good little business. A top bunch of guys working for him. Now he
was going to have to start all over again. If he got the chance.
“What do you want, Lockwood?” he asked, anxious to give him whatever he needed, to get him out of here.
“I want to know about Muffy Dearborn.”
Toomey’s face went tight. He was a two-time loser, and to talk about that caper could land him in the cooler for good. “You
got the wrong guy.”
“I’ve got a silencer on this, Toomey,” Lockwood told him. “I can stand here and plug you in the shoulder. And if you don’t
answer then, I can shoot you in the knees. The knee thing’s particularly painful, Toomey. It never really heals.”
“Look; I told you, I don’t know nothing.”
Lockwood put a bullet through the lampshade. Toomey flinched, but he said nothing.
“What about Stephanie Meilleux?”
“What?”
“The girl in my apartment.”
“What about her?”
“Why did you have her killed?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Lockwood sent a bullet into the chair, an inch above Toomey’s shoulder, the stuffing flying as it hit. Toomey flinched, then
cried out, “I swear it! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“You or one of your men strangled her.”
“You’re crazy! Strangled her? How could we have done that? You and Brannigan were there all the time!”
“Come on, Toomey. You, or one of your men came back later and killed her.”
“Not true. I swear it. On my mother!”
“Someone else was involved with you in the Dearborn thing, weren’t they?”
“Look, Lockwood, even if I had done it I wouldn’t tell you. If I get convicted one more time, that’s it for me. I’m in prison
for good. And I’m not the type who can take that sort of thing. I need my freedom. Stick me inside any place for any length
of time, and I begin to go crazy. Everything inside me just kind of boils up and jumps around, and I got to get out.”
“I’ve told you, Toomey. I’m not a cop. I’m not out to arrest you.”
“I can’t take that chance.”
“You’re not going to tell me anything?”
“Nothing. Go ahead, kill me. I’ll give you the same answer dead.”
Two-Scar stared into the gloom, waiting for The Hook’s next move. He meant what he said, and if Lockwood tried to take him
out, he’d go for his gun and take his chances.
Finally, Lockwood spoke again, his words slow and studied. “You run gambling joints, Two-Scar.”
“Says who?”
“You must keep records of payoffs, of people who owe you.”
“News to me.”
The Hook was undeterred. “I figure they’re probably here in the house somewhere. I’m going to look for them.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“I’m telling you all this so you don’t try to get funny and play guns with me, Toomey. I’m not going to kill you, just search
this place till I find what I’m looking for.”
Toomey shrugged.
“Now do what I tell you, Vernon, and do it slowly. Get on your knees.”