Hate is Thicker Than Blood (13 page)

Lockwood studied the assessment of the ballistics department. “I’m not scratching my head,” he told Brannigan. “The slug from
Borowy’s gun matches the slugs in Mrs. Nuzzo.”

“You’re gettin’ sloppy in your old age, Hook my boy. Read on.”

Lockwood did so. “Goddamn,” he growled, and then, catching himself, stopped his hand halfway up to his head.

Brannigan leaned back in his chair and roared. “What’d I tell ya!”

Lockwood read it all over again. “It doesn’t make sense, Jimbo.”

Brannigan’s laughter picked up steam. “Okay!
Now
scratch the head, Billy!”

Lockwood wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, although he had to admit the impulse was there. “Two slugs. One of them .45 calibre,
but the .32. Jesus. Borowy’s never packed two guns.”

“That’s right.” Brannigan grinned. “And if he did, it’s not likely he’d use two different kinds. Mugs like him don’t do too
well in the flexibility department. If a .45 does the job for him, when it comes to adding another gat, it wouldn’t be anything
but a second .45.”

“Nuzzo said there was only one gunman,” Lockwood mused.

“You think Nuzzo put the other slug into her?”

“Could be. I’m convinced he hired Borowy.”

“Well, there you are. Catch Nuzzo in a cathouse, get him to throw a few at you, and the next morning you can dig his slugs
out of the wall, too. Then just come on over. We’re open twenty-four hours a day.”

Lockwood crushed out his cigarette. “That looks like the next step. But somehow this whole thing’s just not smelling right.”

“I know what you mean,” Brannigan grunted, sympathatically. “But hell, you’re at least one step further along than you were.
We can put out word to bring Borowy in now. If we snag ‘im, could be he’ll clear up the mystery of the .32. If we don’t come
up with him—well, hell, when the time comes, and he pops up in your vicinity, just don’t forget to duck.”

Leaving Brannigan, Lockwood realized he was bone-weary. He’d had little sleep the night before, rising at seven-thirty to
insure getting to the law office when it opened, then prying the .45 slugs out of the wall while four gaping barristers watched
him. The saps had never suspected the office was being used at night. Kate and her pals straightened up everything hours before
anyone came in. One or two of the junior partners had looked more than a little intrigued when he’d finally told them what
was up.

He decided to grab a nap before the long trip to Brooklyn and Nuzzo’s house. It was imperative he keep at top form. Too many
Indians out there after his scalp.

He reached the Summerfield Hotel on West 47th Street, picked up his mail in the lobby, and took the elevator to his floor.
He walked to his apartment, unlocked the door, and entered. He was halfway into the living room before he realized just how
tired he was. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t have been caught napping, wouldn’t be doing what he was doing now. Staring into the
muzzle of Frankie Nuzzo’s gun.

“Hello, Frankie.”

“Lockwood.” The barrel of the pistol was wavering slightly.

“Isn’t this the part where you tell me to say my prayers?” The Hook asked, watching Nuzzo closely, waiting for an opening.

“Sit down,” Nuzzo said. He didn’t look good.

Lockwood complied. “There’s not much sense in this, you know,” he said. “There’s an all-points out on Borowy. If you think
he won’t squeal when they bring him in…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nuzzo answered, and The Hook heard a tremor in his voice. What the hell was going
on with Nuzzo?

“Promise me you won’t try anything, Lockwood,” Nuzzo resumed, and as his gun began to shake even more, he put a second hand
on it, in an attempt to keep it steady. A vain attempt, as the automatic continued to do an erratic little dance. “Not until
I’ve finished talking to you.”

Maybe Nuzzo was a hophead, coming down off a high. What the hell else could it be? The detective shrugged his acceptance of
Nuzzo’s terms, and the gangster continued.

“I need your help.” His eyes were big now, and for the first time Lockwood realized what was up. Frankie’s eyes weren’t dilated
by drugs. It was fear that was turning the trick.

“
My
help?”

Nuzzo laughed a nervous little laugh. “Yeah. I don’t know where else to go.”

Lockwood for the second time that day restrained the urge to scratch his head. First the mystery about the .32 slug and now
Nuzzo was asking
him
for help. This had seemed like a simple little case going in. Not easy, Mr. Gray, but simple. What the hell was going on?
“You’re knocking me a little off-balance, Frankie,” he told him.

Nuzzo lowered the gun. “I—I—need protection.”

“And you’re coming to me?”

“I don’t know where else to go. I know you’re straight. The cops—well, some of them are, some of them aren’t. And sometimes
it’s hard to tell which is which. You, I know where you are.”

“Don’t count on it, Frankie. Anyway, what’s your problem?”

“My brother-in-law.”

“Fish?”

“Yeah, Albert. He thinks I had my wife killed because I was jealous of her. He thinks Maria was cheatin’ on me.”

“Was she?”

Nuzzo blinked, one, two, three times. “If she was, I’d a killed her.”

“She was, Frankie.”

The gun came up, wavered, and came down again. “If she was, I didn’t know nothin’ about it, I swear.”

“Okay, we’ll leave it alone for the time being. Fish is out to get you, I take it?”

“Me, and everyone connected with me. He’s put away all my boys. He made Tommy Gee drink from a bottle of lye. I saw it. Larry
Rourke and Gobby Metuit he put in a grinder. Metuit was still alive.”

“Those were all your men?”

Rage swept Frankie’s face, and then he subsided, crumpling. “All that was left after you got through with ‘em. Now there’s
no one left. Just me.”

“Why would Fish do all this to you?” Lockwood was skeptical. “I’ve heard Maria and he didn’t get on so well.”

“No. They didn’t like each other, that’s true. But that don’t mean nothing. Not when it comes to blood.”

Lockwood nodded. The code of family. Squabble all you want with your blood relations; hate them, kill them even. But if threatened
by an outsider, unite against him. And Frankie, though a relation by marraige, wasn’t blood. Halfway in, maybe, but also halfway
out. And if Fish thought he’d killed Maria, then he was fair game.

“What do you want from me?” he asked. He started to reach for a Camel, and Frankie’s pistol came up. “I just want a smoke.”
He reached into his pocket, threw one to Frankie, and took one for himself. “There’s a lighter there on the table next to
you,” he said. He waited till Frankie lit up, then said it again. “What do you want from me?”

“Protection.” A muscle in Frankie’s left cheek began to twitch. “I threw everything I had atchu, Lockwood. Good men, everyone
one of ‘em. An’ you took care of ‘em all. You c’n handle yourself like no one I know. That’s why I need you. This Fish—” he
started to tremble, “he’s a crazy man. Sure, he talks nice, acts real cool like nothin’s goin’ on, an’ all the while he’s
lookin’ like that an’ talkin’ like that…” Nuzzo was sobbing now. “All that time he can be doin’ thin’s to you, you wouldn’t
think of things like that in your worst nightmares!”

“You said you saw him make Tommy Gee drink lye.”

“That’s right.”

“That means Lomenzo—Fish—must have had you in hand, too.”

“He did. I escaped.”

“I don’t buy it, Frankie.”

Nuzzo looked stunned. “What?”

“Fish is too bright to let you get away. And you’re too dumb to figure out how to get away from him.”

“I’m tellin’ you, I did.”

“Sorry, Frankie, nothing doing.”

Nuzzo went white. “You’ve got to!”

“No.”

“Look!” Nuzzo held out the gun. “I’ll even give you my rod.” He slid it across the carpet to Lockwood.

The detective leaned over and picked up the pistol. Not a .32. Dammit. “This is your only gun?” he asked.

Nuzzo looked at him, but ignored the question. “I beg ya,” he pleaded.

“I don’t believe you, Frankie. You’ve got to be setting me up for something.”

Suddenly, Frankie Nuzzo was on his knees on the floor, crying, his hands clasped, as if in prayer. Only it wasn’t God he was
supplicating. “Please, Lockwood. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“No. You’re lying. No.”

Nuzzo had crumpled into a heap, a quivering, terrified blob, when the voice came, causing both men to whirl in surprise toward
the bedroom door. “He’s not lying.”

For the second time in twenty minutes, Lockwood found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol. It was black and shiny
and disconcerting. Very disconcerting. Because at the other end of that pistol was a woman.
The
woman.

“Gina!”

“He’s not lying,” she said again. “Help him. Please.”

Lockwood looked at Frankie. The mobster was as surprised as he.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“He told me he was coming here for protection,” Gina said. “I know he didn’t kill Maria. I’m sure he didn’t. But—but I had
to be certain he wouldn’t kill you. I got here before he did. I asked the maid to let me in. She knew me—from last time.”

Her final words seemed to pass Frankie by. “You was here all this time?”

“Yes. If you’d tried to shoot—Mr. Lockwood here—then I’d have had to shoot you.”

“Christ.”

“I knew you wouldn’t, Frankie! I just couldn’t—” she put down the pistol, and looked very, very young, very out of place in
all this. “I just couldn’t take chances.”

“
Is
he telling the truth, Gina?” Lockwood asked her. “Did he really escape from your brother?” Her hair was black and luxuriant
and her eyes glowed with life. He found himself wishing Frankie had never bothered to turn up.

“Yes, he did,” she said, fresh-faced and radiant. “I heard Albert talking about it with one of his—I was going to say ‘workers’.
I guess ‘henchmen’ is a better word, isn’t it?” She looked betrayed now, and infinitely sad.

“I’m afraid so,” Bill Lockwood agreed. “All right, if you tell me Frankie’s not lying, Gina, that he’s really looking for
help, then I guess I’ll go along with him.” He turned toward the man Gina seemed to believe in so fer-. vently. “What exactly
do you want from me?”

“I want you to stash me someplace—hide me somewhere no one’s goin’ to find me, until you solve the case. That’s all.”

“What if I find you’re the guy?”

“You won’t.”

The Hook looked at Nuzzo for a long time, feeling distaste for the gunman every second he regarded him. He still believed
he’d done it. But if he could get him out of the way, stash him someplace where he wouldn’t have to worry about him, then
he’d have a freer hand. Why was Gina so sure? “Where’d you get the gun?” he asked her.

“My parents gave me one when I went away to college. To protect myself. I didn’t take it, of course, but today, when Frankie—”

“May I have a look at it?”

Her eyebrows arched in innocent surprise when she handed it to him.

He relaxed. It was a .22 calibre job. “Not much firepower here,” he smiled at her. “Not much range. Works best if you’re doing
a foxtrot with your victim.”

“I didn’t know.” She shrugged, looking small and helpless.

“I’m glad,” he said, handing the gun back to her. He looked over at Nuzzo, who seemed to be returning to his senses. Too bad.
The closer he came to being the real Frankie Nuzzo, the more repulsive he got. “Okay, Frankie,” he told him, “come on. I’ll
see what I can do.” He turned to Gina. “I think, under the circumstances, you’d better stay here.”

Her reaction was a combination of pleasure and embarrassment; but quietly, she gave a small nod, and then the two men left.

“We’re going to take a little spin into the country,” The Hook told Nuzzo as they got into the Cord.

“You’re the doctor.”

He drove across 50th to the Viaduct, and then on up the Bronx River Parkway, heading upstate. It was a warm summer day, but
he kept the top up. No sense in advertising themselves anymore than they already were.

Out of the city, he flicked on the radio, and one of the afternoon soap operas came on. Sounded like “Ma Perkins.” Might as
well give Nuzzo a taste of homespun American virtures, he decided, and they continued to drive.

From the beginning, he’d doubled back, circled, twisted, and turned from one road to the other, in a pattern as eccentric
as something you’d have found back in one of the old slapstick comedies, two decades ago when the Keystone Kops were tearing
up America’s funny bone. Nuzzo had occasionally looked up in surprise, and once, when they’d made a hairpin reverse turn on
a straightaway, he murmured, “You’re the boss,” but that was it.

Despite it all, Lockwood saw, a car was on his tail. Not Borowy. He was a loner. This car was packed with mugs. Lomenzo, almost
certainly, or at least his boys. They’d been discreet so far, waiting till traffic thinned out. But now there was no one else
on the road, and the massive car, a Packard, began roaring after them.

Lockwood gunned the engine. “Better get down, Frankie. Here come some buddies of yours.”

Nuzzo took one frightened look behind him, and immediately sank to the floor, crowding as much of himself as he could under
the dashboard. “I ain’t got no gun,” he whimpered.

“Now you know what some of your victims felt like, Frankie,” Lockwood answered, grimly. Any minute they’d be slinging lead
at the two of them.

If that bunch behind had just waited five more miles. That was the whole purpose of this trip, in case he and Frankie were
followed. There was a spot that … a bullet screamed past them. Damn. There was a curve coming up. Maybe he could gain a little
distance on it. He eased up a bit, then threw his foot all the way down on the gas as they entered the curve. Another bullet
flew overhead, but his eyes were glued on the road. The slightest mistake and they’d be flying off into the trees that lined
the way. He was leaving no margin for error.