The Death of Lorenzo Jones (4 page)

Killer Dumbrowsky came rushing toward Hook, his huge ugly face contorted with manic laughter. His hands looked as big as bulldozers
as they swept toward Hook’s head, ready to start digging. Hook had gotten his name for a reason, however, and leaping to the
left, he let Killer fly. Just as the big mug’s face went by, Hook smashed a straight right into his nose. Crack, they all
heard it break, and blood streamed down the nostrils that looked like they belonged more on a horse than a person.

“Want more?” Hook asked, his fists raised in the classic boxing pose. Behind those fists was an expert boxer, one who could
weave and duck and throw out jabs that would make his opponent’s head spin. Killer was still shaking his head, trying to clear
it.

Hook heard a noise to his side and turned to see Walter-the-Waiter coming at him with the blackjack. Walter seemed to snarl;
a strange, animal sound issued from his throat. Walter wasn’t nearly as large as Killer Dumbrowsky but was covered with muscles.
At the gym they said he could press 500 pounds.

Walter leaped at Hook, who danced away, leaving the man floundering in space.

Walter flailed madly at Hook with the blackjack, swinging it every which way, but Hook kept dancing backward and off to the
side. He played with Walter for a few seconds before he started punching. His first jab got Walter right in the eyebrow. His
head jerked back like he’d been hit with a hammer. Hook moved in as Walter raised the mean little weapon in his hand, and
caught him square on the jaw.

Walter grunted and raised his hand again.

“Fools never learn, do they?” Hook asked and gave Walter the old one-two.

The first one caught Walter on the side of the head. As his body fell, Hook gave him a sharp uppercut with his right. That
was it for Walter-the-Waiter. He pitched forward, his body stiff as a piece of wood, and fell face down onto the sidewalk.

Half-Pint, who had been standing off to the side smirking, didn’t look so happy now. He started jumping up and down in frantic
fear.

“Get him, you idiots,” he yelled at Killer Dumbrowsky who stood about ten feet away rubbing his head. Dumbrowsky didn’t look
enthusiastic about the task, but he stood up straight and headed back toward Hook, who just waited.

“That’s it, Killer! Get him! Break his neck. Smash his face.” Half-Pint was in a rage now. He wasn’t going to let some lousy
dick like Hook get one over on him. Especially when he didn’t have to do the fighting.

Killer approached cautiously. He waved his fists around in front, trying to catch Hook on the shoulder. But Hook just kept
moving, staying out of Killer’s range only by inches.

Killer looked increasingly frustrated. “I’m gonna get you, worm,” Dumbrowsky yelled.

“Well, you don’t have to look far to find me,” Hook said. He sneered at his attacker.

Killer Dumbrowsky had had enough. He leaped through the air, 340 pounds of angry flesh aimed at Hook’s head.

Hook spun and tried to move out from under the giant’s weight. He had just about gotten away, when Killer reached backward
with his long arm and caught Hook by the hair. He pulled Hook forward and got him in a headlock with his other arm. He had
the bastard now, the creep who had just humiliated him.

“Yeah, break his head. Now, do it now,” Half-Pint screamed, jumping up and down like some broken jack-in-a-box. At last, he’d
gotten Hook.

Killer’s bald head glistened in the bright sun as he tightened his grip around Hook’s head. Just as Killer began to smile,
he screamed. And screamed again, for Hook’s hand had reached down and grabbed the big oaf’s nuts, and he held on.

Dumbrowsky straightened up like a telephone pole and then collapsed. He seemed not to know which way to move, but jerked about
frantically like a fish out of water at the end of a line.

“Aahh, enough,” Hook said, and he let go of the giant’s jewels. “Here, let me take a look at you.”

Hook stood up and looked at Killer Dumbrowsky, who seemed unsure whether to scream, cry, or just fall down. He had both hands
covering his private parts and cowered.

Hook gave Killer a series of sharp quick punches to the face, just to remember him by—one, two, three, four. The hard fast
hands of Hook flew through the afternoon air and found their mark. Dumbrowsky’s big elephant eyes rolled up in their sockets,
and he fell like a tree onto the sidewalk and rolled halfway into the gutter, his nose an inch away from a chewed-up cigar
butt.

Hook heard a rustling and spun around. Half-Pint, the fool, was running at him with his shiv out. He had the thing extended
way out from his body as if he were scared of it himself. The gleaming blade rushed at Hook like a bolt of electricity. Hook
spun his foot up and caught the side of Half-Pint’s hand. The knife spun out of the tiny fist and flew through the air, end
over end, across the street like a spinning dollar.

Hook grabbed the punk’s hand. He pushed his other hand against Half-Pint’s elbow. Crack! It snapped like an old chicken bone.
Half-Pint screamed and fell to the ground clutching his broken arm. He writhed around like a snake looking for a hole to crawl
in.

“And that’ll teach you assholes. I hope,” Hook said to the three.

Suddenly a citizen came running up.

“I saw you!” he screamed at Lockwood. “Those fists are lethal weapons. Cut it out. You’ll hurt them.”

“What!” Lockwood said. “That’s the idea.”

Damn! When he turned back, the three were scampering down the street.

At least they didn’t bust my lip, Lockwood thought, or rip my suit. Not bad. He swept his fingers through his hair, which
that overstuffed dinosaur, Dumbrowsky had managed to tangle, and made off for the rendezvous with Robin. He could use a drink
with a pretty dame.

Lockwood stopped in a drugstore to phone Mr. Gray. He wanted Gray to insist on a meeting with Wade. He told Gray what he had
done so far and said he was on his way to an important meeting with “a possible informant.” Lockwood didn’t say she was voluptuous
and blond. He took two aspirin with a seltzer at the soda counter and left.

Gray had said he was glad Hook wasn’t fooling with women this time. He would arrange a meeting with Wade, if possible, for
this evening. Hook told Gray he wanted to ask Wade if he had any short friends.

Lockwood wondered, what if Robin wants to spend the night? Not that he was rushing the young lady. Yet they might get along
real fine. He had a sixth sense about women. If he was right, Robin had an eye for him. There was something else he remembered
aside from her perfume, something desperate in those eyes, something yearning to break free and open up to someone. Him maybe.

Jesus, he was twenty minutes late. He got back to the Cord and floored it. In a minute, a police Plymouth pulled him over.
Lt. Jimbo Brannigan was scarcely half-way out of the black and white door when Hook recognized him. Jimbo had a demeanor of
a bulldog sizing up a mailman for a bite. He was big and tall, but everything about his build inside that blue uniform said
bulldog, too.

Lockwood watched him approach in his side mirror. Brannigan, of course, would know by the car that it was his old pal and
irritant, Hook Lockwood. They went back a long way, often at odds, more often working together. The towering bulk of the well-weathered
Irishman filled the mirror. Brannigan leaned on the sill of the open window and put his weight on the running board. The car
tilted slightly. He was that big.

“Hiya, dimple face. You seemed to be speeding, or was it my imagination?” The caustic grin of the cop met Lock-wood’s sheepish
one.

“Really? I must have the speedometer checked. It gets all clogged up with the cinders from these filthy streets.”

Brannigan removed the grin; he was all bulldog again. “I hear that you’re off and running on a new case, me boy. I suppose
you’ll soon be asking me for favors and assistance.”

“I won’t need assistance, thank you. Listen, I’m sorry about going too fast. I’ll slow down. Can I go? I’m in a hurry.”

“Off to meet a dame, aren’t you?”

Jimbo wrote him a ticket.

“Drop around soon and maybe I’ll ‘fix’ it for you, Hook. I want to talk to you. Before I have to identify your body with a
tag around its left toe in the morgue. You drop around. Okay?”

Grumbling, Lockwood took the ticket and pulled away. He had promised to see Jimbo at the first opportunity.

“Thirty-five minutes late!” Robin cooly stated as he slipped into the corner booth beside her at 21. “Are you always late?”

“I’d say that depends on the circumstances.” Lockwood took off his hat and threw it across the booth onto the rack.

“Good aim. What circumstances? Or are you just playing hard to get?”

“Another appointment, with a doctor—a check-up. Took longer than I expected. Then I got a speeding ticket because I was in
such a hurry to meet you, my dear. That’s the truth.” Almost, he thought.

“I don’t believe you.”

Lockwood produced the ticket. She looked it over. “It appears genuine.”

She had soft blond hair, shoulder length, and now that she shed her jacket, Lockwood saw an inviting pair covered by her silk
blouse. He sighed. They leaned forward, and he tore his eyes away to smile back at her. She was young and fresh, and she looked
as if no man had yet put his paws on her.

The wavy blond hair fit better in the booth at 21 than keeping track of workmen in a blustery baseball stadium. Her long fingers—Lockwood
bet she played piano—were cupped about a Black Russian on the rocks. She seemed to be slightly high, for her smile looked
a bit crooked.

Lockwood looked into electric green eyes. He felt aroused. Her soft creamy complexion, those perfectly formed questioning
lips, that subtle chin—he wanted to run his hands over her.

“I see you managed to change your outfit,” he said. “Green looks swell on you.”

“Well, in that case, you’re forgiven for being late.” She handed him back Jimbo’s ticket. “What’s a Cord?”

“I’ll show you, but first, I need a drink.” He called Joe, but as usual Sam, his assistant, hopped to it and came over, a
towel on his arm. Like all the waiters here, Sam wore a black tie and tuxedo jacket. Gentlemen didn’t get in without a jacket
and tie. That was why he had asked Robin to meet him here rather than O’Malleys. Classier.

“Canadian and soda,” Lockwood ordered. “And another of whatever the lady’s drinking.

“Now,” he continued, “what do you think of taking a spin in my Cord? Maybe a steak place I know out on the Island, and then
dancing?”

“Aren’t you moving a bit fast, Mr. Lockwood?”

“Bill.”

“Bill, then.” She paused, looking deep into his steel gray eyes, and her gaze lingered there. “Maybe I
will
go for a spin with you. Cheers.”

She worked for Wade as a publicist and a secretary, a job that often gave her the day off, since Mr. Wade didn’t seem to want
publicity or make many appointments. The pay was lousy. She was from a small town and lived with her aunt on 57th Street.
Lockwood filled her in on his angle.

“A private eye?” Lockwood sighed. “Not exactly. Actually, an insurance investigator.”

“Maybe you’ll show me your gun sometime. I’m sure you have a big one.”

Either she is a complete innocent or I’m being teased, he thought. He ordered-another set of drinks.

Robin had a soft voice to go with her soft lips. She didn’t slurp her drinks, and she was intelligent. She was also holding
something back. Whenever Lockwood brought the subject around to Wade, the conversation turned to gardening, the shops along
Fifth Avenue, or—interestingly enough—Indian jewelry. Robin had a small collection of turquoise, so she said, and several
rings made by the Zuni Indians from a trip to Arizona two years earlier.

Indeed, she wore a large stone, mottled green on blue in a silver hand-hammered ring, on her left index finger. Not your usual
ring. Most women preferred the small delicate creations of New York.

It was an opportunity to hold her hand as he examined the ring. Her hand felt nice. Warm and not tentative. He held it for
a good little while, and they smiled at each other over the table.

She agreed to go for dinner.

They were just stepping on the first stair, arm in arm, when Joe came running up.

“Hook, it’s Mr. Gray on the phone, and he’s mad. He wants to talk to you.” He glanced significantly at Robin. “Should I tell
him you’re not here?”

Lockwood decided he had to take the call. “Wait here a minute baby.”

Joe put the phone on the bar. Lockwood picked it up and said, “Lockwood here.”

“Where the hell have you been, Lockwood?” Gray was steaming. “I had to call seven bars before I tracked you down. Listen,
I’ve managed to arrange an interview with this Wade at the Athletic Club, that uptown men’s club. Be there in an hour. It’s
a good thing that you didn’t say you weren’t there, Lockwood. I would have cancelled your bonus if you had missed this appointment.”

Lockwood cursed his job, the insurance industry in general, and telephones in particular, and went back to Robin, who was
waiting at the staircase. Sometimes his job was wonderful, like when he met Robin. Other times it called for deeds of heroism,
like leaving a swell dame just before—

“I don’t know how to tell you this, baby. I don’t even know how to tell myself. We have to postpone our dinner.”

“Why?”

“My job. Important meeting. Just came up, and it can’t wait. But I sure wish it could. Can I drop you any place?”

“Yes, my place, ten blocks east. Okay?”

“Only if I can pick you up at nine for dinner and dancing. Here, I’ll carry you up the stairs, just to show you how sorry
I am.” He made a move to lift her.

“No thanks, though you look strong enough. But you’re in luck tonight. I was supposed to meet my aunt, but she’s going to
her bridge club.”

She liked the car. He dropped her off, got a tiny peck on the lips, then spun a U-turn.

Yes, sometimes he really hated his job. But there was always another chance.