Authors: Brad Latham
“Button it, Ahearn,” Hook commanded, the ice of his eyes making Petey shift uneasily, his smile of bravado looking forced.
“You don’t speak to my boys like that, Lockwood,” Two-Scar snarled, the dead-white tissues over his left eye and across his
right cheek standing out in the light of the lamp by the chair in which he sat, relaxed and insolent.
“Stow it, Toomey. We’ve got things to talk about.”
Toomey’s right hand twitched near the bulge in his jacket. “You’re living dangerously, Hook.”
“That’s what they pay me for, Toomey. I’m sorry I missed our little meeting.”
“No one stands up Toomey,” the racketeer mumbled. “And no one gets away with messing with any of my boys. I know what you
did to Angelo and Richie.”
“If you want to keep your boys safe, Two-Scar, you’d better put a leash on them.” Toomey’s mouth went ugly when Lockwood hit
him with the nickname, but he ignored him. “Richie Calidone got what was coming to him. His partner, too.”
“You’re gonna pay for it, Hook.”
“Stop talking like some grease-painted mobster off the Monogram lot, Two-Scar. Look, the two of us have business to do, and
we might as well get down to it.” Lockwood kept the talk going, trying to figure out what the hell to do with Stephanie if
the fireworks went off. He had to protect her and at the same time shoot it out with the five of them. At the moment, he didn’t
much like his chances.
“What business? What kind of business would I do with a nothing like you?” Two-Scar sat back in his chair for a moment and
grabbed a cigar from his breast pocket. He bit off the tip of it, then struck a wooden match by flicking it with his fingernail,
and drew in slowly on Cuba’s second-best product, after its women.
“The Dearborn jewels.” The Hook looked them all over; Two-Scar in the easy chair, Petey Ahearn and Stuff Maggiatore on the
couch, Slops Weinstein sitting on the windowsill, a thug whose name Lockwood didn’t know lounging against the wall behind
Toomey. General Pershing couldn’t have devised much better offensive positions.
“The what?” Two-Scar grinned now, enjoying his cigar and the sense of power this situation gave him.
“You know what I’m talking about. You, or at least one of your boys, hiked the jewels, and somehow Jabber-Jabber Jacoby found
out about it, so you wiped him.”
“You been readin’ too many funny books, Hook,” Toomey said. “I’m a legitimate businessman; what would I be doin’, messin’
with anyone’s personal property?” A few guttural chuckles issued from Toomey’s men. They liked his little joke.
“I’m not a cop, Toomey, you know that. I’m not out to arrest anyone.” Lockwood reached into his shirt for a Camel, then into
his jacket pocket for his lighter. Toomey and his men tensed, but didn’t commit themselves. Lockwood had to give it to them.
They were pros at what they did and had the confidence to allow him to keep them on the
qui vive
. He lighted the Camel and continued.
“I’m in the insurance business. The insurance business doesn’t like to lose money.” He turned toward Stephanie. “How about
letting her out of here? She’s got nothing to do with any of this.”
“Stow it, Hook. Keep talkin’. Might as well use your mouth while it still works.” Toomey’s voice was genial, but there was
death in his eyes.
“Okay. So occasionally we work deals that maybe a cop might not be too happy about. There are times when we know we’ve got
to take a financial fall, so we try to soften the blow.”
Lockwood drew in on the Camel, his mind still working, trying to figure out how best to defend Stephanie and himself when
the inevitable showdown came.
“So we find the guy, who, say, stole a truckload of furs, and we offer him some money—enough money to make it worthwhile—but
less than we’d have to pay out in benefits —and we get the furs back and return them to our beneficiary, and everybody’s happy.
Sure, we’re out something, but not as much as it would be otherwise.”
“I’m lookin’ at your woman, Hook. Very nice. I might want to keep her around a while,” Toomey grinned, his mouth a sneer.
Stephanie involuntarily drew nearer The Hook. “You’re losing track, Toomey,” Lockwood said. “We’re talking business. Money.
You like the sound of that, don’t you? Money.”
“So what’s the deal?” Toomey asked, flatly.
“The jewels are insured for $50,000. There’s no way you could fence them for more than—oh say, $10,000.”
“What’re you, some kind of college professor, you know everything?” Toomey asked, sarcastic.
“I’ve been around. Okay, maybe you get lucky, somebody offers you $20,000, but that’s not likely.”
“So what’s your deal?”
“I’ll give you twenty, or rather the company will. Put up the diamonds, and I’ll give you twenty. All it’ll take is twenty-four
hours, tops.”
“Give it to me now,” Toomey answered, chuckling, and his boys laughed appreciatively. “I’m not good at waiting. Give it to
me now.”
“Twenty-five. That’s my final offer.”
Toomey turned toward his gang. “Twenty-five. He says that’s his final offer. What he don’t know is it’s his final everything.”
The eyes of all of them were on Lockwood now, their laughs mocking, their bodies tensed.
“Don’t be an idiot, Toomey. There’s no way you can torpedo me without winding up in the big barber chair—the one where they
shave the top of your head and forget about the rest of it.”
Toomey rose, and his men followed suit. “You killed two of my guys, Hook. Nobody gets away with that. You also stood me up.
I don’t take too kindly to that, either. I put time aside for you, and you chose not to honor it.” Lockwood started to speak,
but Toomey cut him off. “I don’t care what your reasons were. Petey and Slops, keep a gun on the moll. That way, we won’t
have to worry about Hook here getting too big for his britches.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Stephanie implored Lockwood. “I’m not important. Do what you must.” Was she reassuring him, or egging
him on? It was a mixed message she seemed to be sending out, for sure. Was she here to protect him, or did she have a darker
motive in mind?
“I’m not going to let you get hurt, if I can help it,” Hook told her. “What do you want, Toomey?”
“What do I want? He wants to know what I want,” Toomey chuckled to his all-too-willing audience.
“I’ll tell you what I want,” he continued, turning back to Lockwood. “I want you to be worked over, real good. And then I
want you to deep six it, get wood-boxed after a little instant lead-poisoning. You follow my drift?”
Stuff and the anonymous hood were moving toward Lockwood now.
“Pin his arms,” Two-Scar told them. “I want to get in the first few punches myself.” He was carefully removing his jacket,
folding it, and placing it solicitously on the chair he’d vacated. “And don’t get funny with Stuff or Elmer. One false move
out of you, and the pretty lady gets her tits shot off.”
Lockwood felt Stephanie shudder, but there was nothing he could do, not with those two pistols aimed unwaveringly at her body.
Stuff and Elmer stepped up and moved him back against the wall. The stench from Stuff’s armpits was almost overpowering. A
hell of a way to die, Lockwood thought, and glanced toward Stephanie. She was looking at him, genuine concern and fear for
him in her face. Maybe she was better than she seemed.
Toomey had meticulously rolled up his sleeves and carefully placed his cigar in an ashtray. He strode lightly across the floor.
There was something of the cat about him, albeit a cat with less brain than it needed, a cat with two mistakes livid across
its face.
Toomey was in front of him now, a practiced George Raft smile on his face, oily and false. “I like to hit people, did you
know that, Hook? I really like to hit them. It feels good. I don’t know anything much better, except maybe putting the boots
to a babe like this one,” he said, indicating Stephanie. “Yeah, I like to hit people, all right, but there’s some I like to
hit more than others. Right now you’re at the top of the list.”
The grip of Stuff and Elmer tightened, and a frown crossed Toomey’s face. “How many times I have to tell you to wash?” he
snarled at Stuff. A nice domestic touch, Hook decided, as he braced himself.
Stuff, to his credit, blushed, and Toomey redirected his attention to Lockwood. “Yeah, you’re at the top of the list, and
soon you’re not going to be on no list at all, so I might as well get mine in while I can.” Toomey gently patted The Hook
on the chin, and Petey Ahearn snickered.
“Yeah, I’m going to take care of your face for you, give you a facial, a first-class facial, that’ll really do the job. You
won’t recognize yourself when it’s all over.” Ahearn exploded with that one, and Two-Scar smiled appreciatively. “But first,”
he said, “maybe just a little love tap in the belly….”
It hurt. The punch came in at his stomach and his spine snapped back against the wall behind him. A second punch, and a third,
all to the same spot. He had to do something, and he started to struggle.
Toomey’s voice stopped him short. “If he doesn’t quit now, plug her!”
“All right, Hook. That was just to warm me up. Here we go,” Toomey said, then stared to his left, eyes wide open.
“Hiyah, dimple-face.” It was the voice of Jimbo Brannigan, his bulk obscured from Lockwood’s view by Stuff’s avoirdupois,
although Lockwood did experience the satisfaction of seeing Maggiatore’s mouth drop a yard or so. “Yeah, you, Toomey. Whatsamatter,
rat got your tongue?”
Brannigan was in view now, near the five of them, a few cops wedged behind him in the small entrance hall. He studied Stephanie,
then turned toward Lockwood. “Friend or foe?”
“Friend… I think,” said Hook.
“Oh. All right. So it’s just Toomey here and his playmates I gotta be concerned about. You’re okay, right, Hook?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then these gracious gentlemen who are doing their best to support you can drop their arms, can’t they?” Jimbo’s murderous
gaze fell on Stuff and Elmer. They dropped their hands.
Jimbo looked around, found himself a promising-looking chair, lumbered over, and eased into it. He regarded Toomey.
“The patrolman on this beat saw you in the neighborhood, bright eyes. He knew you didn’t belong here, so he called me. See
what good stuff your taxes are buying you? And I says to myself, what the hell is Toomey doing around here? Too early for
a nightclub opening, and anything else in this area he lets his boys take care of.” He paused and grabbed a Chesterfield out
of a crumpled pack. He struck a wooden match against his shoe and inhaled.
“And then I remembered my pal here,” a nod of his head indicated Lockwood. “I remembered you and him have some unfinished
business. Figured that maybe you were paying him a little unscheduled visit. So I hopped in my car—just think, Toomey, your
taxes helped pay for that, too—I do assume you’re keeping up on your taxes, it pays to these days for guys like you—and I
took a little spin over here.” He rubbed his big hands together. “And I was right.”
Stephanie had melted against Lockwood now, sagging into his body with relief. He put an arm around her. He’d seen Jimbo when
he was like this before, and he found himself feeling a little sorry for Toomey.
Brannigan picked up a magazine and rifled through it. “You know, dimple-face, I get paid to do a job,” he said, addressing
Toomey, “and it’s a very simple job. But once in a while a guy comes along and makes it hard. I’m a lazy guy, Toomey. I really
don’t like to have to work.”
Lockwood looked at Toomey. Toomey had no idea of what was coming, but everyone knew the detective’s reputation, and there
was no question he was beginning to feel the menace of Brannigan. A little tear of sweat began to form on the gangster’s upper
lip.
Brannigan put down the magazine. “I don’t have to work much if the guy stays out of my precinct, you see, so sometimes when
he doesn’t, I have to convince him he’d be better off in far more comfortable pastures.” He looked at Petey Ahearn and Slops
Weinstein. In their trance, they still had their guns leveled at the space where Stephanie had been. “I think you’d best put
down those water pistols, gents.” Ahearn and Slops, startled, looked first at Brannigan, next at Toomey, then abashedly lowered
their automatics.
Brannigan turned his attention back to Toomey, rising as he did so. A trail of ashes descended as he lifted his rumpled form.
“So I’m going to try to convince you not to invade my territory. Not even at night, not even for those nightclub openings
you love so dearly.
Used
to love so dearly.”
The room was dead silent, all eyes on Brannigan.
He strode over to Toomey and slowly pawed at Two-Scar’s collar, fingers casually locking onto it. Toomey tried to look fearless,
but he couldn’t bring it off, his eyes wavering uncertainly as the courage in him sank.
“C’mon.”
Brannigan had Toomey by the scruff of the neck and was walking away from the rest of them, toward the window. Toomey’s legs
were rubber.
They reached the window, Brannigan doing all the walking, pushing Toomey ahead of him. “Some people learn easy,” he said to
Toomey. “Some learn hard. I get the feeling it takes a little doing to teach you anything.”
The window was open, and Brannigan placed one arm to the side of it, bracing himself. “Sometimes a slow learner, once he absorbs
something, he just never forgets it. That’s what I’m hoping will happen for you.” Toomey was inert in his hand, apparently
stricken dumb.
“So remember, my fine-feathered acquaintance, I’m doing this for your sake.” And with that, in one quick movement, Brannigan
impelled Toomey out the window, one hand dangling him above the pavement, twelve stories below. Toomey now found his voice,
but all that came out of it was screams.
Toomey’s men had gone white. True, there were cops in the room, but even if they hadn’t been there, it was unlikely Ahearn
and Weinstein and the rest would have moved. Brannigan had that quality about him; a quietly murderous fury that virtually
everything in nature quailed before.
A quick yank and Toomey was back in the room. He sprawled on the floor, gripping at the rug as if to assure himself he was
no longer out there, teetering on the brink of eternity.