Hate is Thicker Than Blood (12 page)

He felt himself being followed. He was on 47th near Fifth and the street was alive with people out enjoying the magic of the
city. Not likely anyone would try anything on him here. He flagged down a cab and vaulted inside. “Straight ahead, and step
on it,” he told the driver, who responded like a pro.

As they approached Broadway, he told the cabbie, “Make a quick right turn, slow down long enough to let me get out, behind
the newsie’s stand, but not long enough for anyone behind us to think you’d stopped.” He then dropped three dollar bills on
the seat next to the hackie.

The man knew his job, and The Hook had just time enough to leap out before the cab swung powerfully into second gear, and
then third, leaving a cloud of black smoke behind as a second cab shot around the corner, and followed close on the heels
of the first. Lockwood, leaning against the wall of the newsstand, couldn’t see who was in the cab, but his guess was it was
Lomenzo’s men.

Two more cab rides later, certain he’d shaken the tail, the detective resumed his quest for Borowy. No one in the usual joints
had seen Borowy for weeks, and it was two in the morning when Lockwood ran into an old friend at a sailor’s hangout on Tenth
Avenue.

“Borowy? I don’t know. He was always hot for the pros, wasn’t he?”

“You mean prostitutes?”

“That’s what I mean. Anyhow, there’s a floating whorehouse located down in the financial district this week, on Water Street.
It’s a tough proposition because you know what the cops are like; they close ‘em down as soon as they get a sniff. But this
one’s only been there a couple days, should still be there. Operates from midnight to four
A.M.
Days, it’s a law office. Tell ‘em Schatz sent you.”

“Have you heard of Borowy visiting them?”

The old friend’s mouth came down hard, and his eyes went blank. “I’m only tellin’ you advice, Billy, that’s all. Anything
else is your decision. Just remember one thing: they’re not too friendly down there to strangers.”

They weren’t. The voice behind the doorslit was harsh, guttural. “What you knockin’ here for? Geddout, before I call the cops.”

“Shatz sent me.”

The door was opened grudgingly. A mug who looked like an ugly version of Tony Galento, stood there, half-blocking the entrance.
“I don’t know you.”

“That’s okay, pal, I don’t know you, either,” Lockwood told him, and brushed on by, his manner confident enough, positive
enough, to make the other man falter.

He was in a small passageway, and saw a mahogany door at the other end. In two strides he reached it, and turned the knob.
As the heavy door opened, he saw that his friend was right. They were still there. Very much in business.

A blond in a sheer nightgown on a leather couch looked up and smiled. “Hello, handsome.”

Two brunettes, clad only in black bras and panties, paused in their conversation and eyed him. A beautiful Chinese girl coming
out of a door stopped and surveyed him. And an older woman walked up.

She was probably in her fifties, but in fine shape for her age, if you liked that age. Her mouth and eyes were hard, and her
smile was unconvincing. “Hmm. New blood. Looks like the right stuff, too.”

He nodded at her. “This everyone?” he asked.

She stared, then laughed. “This everyone!” She turned to the girls. “Is this everyone, he asks.” She swung back to him. “What
do you want, fella, to take on the whole place?” The girls giggled.

“Something like that,” he told her, not giving an inch. “How many others do you have here?”

The madam’s eyes went wary. “You don’t seem like the right kind of dude for this place.”

He knew how to calm, her. “Does this help persuade you?” he asked, flashing a wad of bills.

The twisted smile she gave was genuine now. “There’s four others. But—if you’re interested in them, you’ll have to wait a
while. They’re a little busy.”

Lockwood shrugged. “I’ve got time.” The blond had walked up to him, and was rubbing firmly against his body, her enormous,
blue-veined breasts half-visible through the gauze of her gown.

“How about me, doll?”

She was probably seventeen, but looked thirty. “Maybe later, beautiful,” he told her. She angrily glared at him, then shrugged
and walked away.

“How about a drink?” the madam asked.

“What’ve you got that’s not watered?”

She laughed. “Hey, this is a high-class operation. We get the big butter and egg men here.”

“Right, and their minds aren’t on what they’re slugging down. How about something from the bottle you get
your
belts from?”

She laughed again, a big, raucous laugh. “You’re okay, Mac. You know your way around, all right.”

While she poured him a gin, a tall thin man in his fifties emerged from a door in the back wall, looking sheepish and anxious
to leave. A few seconds later the girl he’d been with came into the room and plunked herself down on the couch next to the
blond. She was black and pretty, except for terribly thin legs. Rickets. But the thin man hadn’t cared. Not till he was through,
anyway.

“You’re one of the patient ones, aren’t ya?” the madam told Lockwood, intrigued, happy for a little diversion.

“Very.” He sipped at the gin. Good stuff. Imported from England. Probably the only bottle in the place that wasn’t half H
₂
O.

“Two dollars,” she told him, palm out.

He stared at her. “That’s practically the price of a bottle.”

“Not here it ain’t.”

He forked over the two bills as another satisfied client came out from the back, trying to look unconcerned and dignified,
his slightly awkward shambling giving him away. He had the appearance of a broker, well-dressed, about sixty. The girl behind
him was nondescript, average-looking, about twenty, with mouse-colored hair. She had on a heavy robe, and seemed to be shivering,
despite the heat in the room.

Two new customers came in, then a third, and finally another man emerged from the back with an expansive smile on his face.
“She’s the greatest, Kate!” he waved to the madam. “You know how to pick ’em!”

Kate gave him a friendly hug, and showed him to the door, as all the girls waved goodbye. Obviously one of the more favored
customers. In a moment his date came into the room, and left almost immediately with one of the new arrivals. She was a redhead
and sharp. Everything on her was where it should be, and exactly the right amount of it. Either she was new to the business,
or enjoyed it, because she seemed to glow with good health and exuberance.

Kate came up to The Hook. “How about it, big fella? About time for you to make a pick.”

He shrugged. “There’s still one left to see.”

She looked at him curiously. “You’re awfully choosy, aren’t you? No sense waiting, anyway. Madge’ll be tied up all night.”

“Sooner or later she’s got to come out. I can wait.”

She’d seen all types, so nothing much surprised her anymore. “Suit yourself,” she told him, “but it’s going to cost you five,
no matter what. Diddle or don’t diddle, it’s a fiver just for being here.”

Lockwood wasn’t listening to her. The door had opened, and a half-clad man was standing there. “Kate,” he started to say,
“where the hell’s the liquor you—” and then he saw The Hook.

“I’ve been looking for you, Borowy. I’ve got a score to settle with you.” The women looked up, afraid. Kate started to reach
for something, and Lockwood grabbed her, twisting her arm behind her back. “Don’t,” he said.

One of the girls began to scream, and the others picked it up. Borowy had already spun on his heel, exiting through the doorway
and slamming the door behind him.

Lockwood flung the madam away from him and sprinted toward the door. As he reached it, he heard the front door open, and Galento’s
uglier version stood there, blackjack at the ready.

The .38 was in the detective’s hand, and he pointed it at the lookout. “It’s not worth it,” he called. “You’re better off
getting out of here—all of you!”

They took him at his word, the girls grabbing for whatever clothes they could find, with Kate urging them along. Someone started
pounding on the back door, and Lockwood pulled it open. Two of the girls and their johns poured out, wide-eyed, the johns
scared out of their minds, running toward the front door for all they were worth. Lockwood peered down the corridor as they
rushed past him. No one there. Either Borowy was already out of the building or he was waiting for him behind one of the doors
that lined the passage. Eight doors and an exit door beyond.

He had to get to the end of the hall first. If Borowy had exited that way, he’d be out of sight before Lockwood checked all
of the other possibilities. He took a deep breath and ran down the hall, praying he’d pass the wrong doorway, if there
was
a wrong doorway, before Borowy could get a shot off.

He made it down to the end, threw open the exit door, and heard a bullet whistle over his left shoulder. Borowy was behind
him.

He dropped to the floor, rolling out onto the concrete landing by the exit stairs, and fired blindly down the hall, trying
to throw Borowy off.

Immediately, he peered around the doorway, and jumped back, as he saw Borowy aiming the .45 at him, the bullets ripping past
him a split second later.

Once again he chanced a look down the hall, and this time, he saw Borowy’s heels, as the gunman sped through the door at the
end of the passage.

Lockwood leapt to his feet, pursuing his quarry, when suddenly something hurtled at him, knocking him against the wall. It
was Madge, stark naked and growling like an animal.

“You leave him alone,” she cried out, hanging onto him, attempting to bite him. He tried to push her off but she clung to
him like a madwoman, her lithe body employing every ounce of its surprising strength.

Finally, he picked her up and heaved her away from him, sending her sliding down the hall, her bare skin helping her skid
halfway along the highly-polished floor. Free of her, Lockwood started to resume his pursuit of Borowy, but the gunman had
already left the building, and there could be a whole gang waiting for the detective on the street outside; Borowy, Galento,
maybe even Kate and a few of the women. Weapons wouldn’t be new to some of those girls.

He sighed, then turned. He’d have to take the exit door. Madge was crouched there on the floor, eyeing him, looking like a
slimmed-down Rubens. He pointed the .38 at her. “Get into one of the rooms, and close the door behind you.”

Satisfied that he couldn’t hurt her man now, she complied, spitting in his direction as she did so.

As Lockwood left, slamming the heavy exit door behind him, he smiled to himself. Unless his luck proved bad, he’d had himself
a thoroughly satisfactory night.

“Where the hell’d you get these, me bucko, and just whose are they?” Lt. Jimbo Brannigan asked Lockwood the next morning at
the headquarters of the Midtown Precinct. He shifted his great bulk in the battered swivel chair and held two small objects
to the light.

“I pulled them out of the hall of a cathouse,” Lockwood offered.

“A cathouse, eh? Not in
my
precinct, by God!” Very little got by Brannigan in his domain, and when it did, he went on the warpath.

“No, nothing to worry about, Jimbo,” his friend assured him. “It was downtown, on Water Street.”

“Ah. Kramer’s beat. I’m not surprised. My guess is, Kramer’s running it.” The big Irishman roared, enjoying the conjecture.

“I don’t know. Not important.” Lockwood pointed to the objects in Brannigan’s hand. “What do you think they are?”

“.45 slugs, would be my guess,” Brannigan grunted.

“Yes, but whose?” Lockwood asked.

Brannigan shot him a look, then turned to a nearby aide. “Mellory, get these two slugs to ballistics. See if they match up
with either of the bullets they found in Frankie Nuzzzo’s wife.” He looked at his friend again. “That right, pal?”

Bill Lockwood smiled. He’d expected the answer. “Still keeping your ear to the ground, eh Jimbo?”

“Got to know what my friends are doin’,” Jimbo said offhandedly, and a little too modestly. Friends, enemies, and most of
those in between, if they were in any way touched by crime—he kept tabs on all of them.

The big detective pulled a crumpled pack of Wings out of his pocket. “Want one?” Lockwood eyed the third-rate butts, and shook
his head no.

“If you’re going to buy garbage like that, you might as well get yourself a can of Bugler and roll your own.”

Brannigan shrugged. “My kids like the airplane pictures that come with it. Besides, if you smoke as much as I do, nothing’s
got any taste to it anyway. Thanks,” he said, as Lockwood lighted the battered cigarette, and then one of his own. “The word
is, you think Borowy’s the guy who stashed Frankie Nuzzo in a closet, and then pumped a coupla holes into the missus.”

“You’re a wonder, Jimbo.” The Hook smiled. “How about telling me what I’m going to do next.”

Brannigan tipped back in his chair and grinned. “If I don’t miss my guess, as soon as the report comes back from ballistics,
you’re gonna be doing a lot of head-scratching.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Wait and see. In the meantime, let’s have lunch.”

The report was waiting on Brannigan’s desk when they returned.

“What’s happening on Fish Lomenzo?” Lockwood asked, as Brannigan picked up the papers.

“The usual stuff. Picked up, interrogated, let go for lack of evidence. He’s got a dozen witnesses who’ll attest he was someplace
else playing tiddley-winks instead of torturing Agitino, and ordering the execution of the three of you. Sure, there’s you
and the widow to testify otherwise; but if we try to bring her back, she’s dead somewhere along the line. So that leaves just
you, if
you
make it to court by then.” Brannigan’s eyes narrowed as he read the report. “Okay, it may make it to court yet,
if
the judge and prosecuting attorney haven’t been paid off. But I wouldn’t count on it. Just like,” he handed the papers over
to Lockwood, “I wouldn’t count on being too thrilled with this. Life being what it is, you can’t really count on anything.”