The Death of Lorenzo Jones (9 page)

“Yes… ,” Lockwood said.

She had his shirt open, and her breasts slid down along the hairs of his chest, their nipples tautly erect. Her head moved
lower, her tender lips kissed his chest, then slowly moved lower and lower.

Lockwood pulled his hands up and fondled her breasts as she inched her kisses lower. He felt her tearing at the buttons to
his fly.

He was tremendously aroused and eager. He throbbed with desire as she managed to open the fastenings. He helped her.

Then the space between the seat and the dashboard was too tight. Perhaps she could have reached but Lockwood didn’t want her
to strain. He gasped, “Wait a second, baby,” and pulled the lever alongside his seat. Instantly, the cushion fell backward,
making a good fit against the rear seat of the Cord. The car became a bed.

Her blue eyes showed surprise. But then she closed them again, and as he slid back across the seat, she followed. She stretched
out comfortably, and like a purring kitten, continued to stroke his staff. Her soft fingers ran around its head, and then
after a nearly excruciating tease, kissing and wetting it, she plunged her lips around the staff and let it find its way into
her mouth.

Lockwood sighed.

She worked to bring him off, twisting her lips, nibbling, plunging his member in and out, in and out, until he could hold
back no more. Never had Lockwood experienced it quite so good. Never.

After a few minutes, she buttoned him up. She rebuttoned her dress. She appeared totally composed, and toyed with her hair
in the rear-view mirror as Lockwood slowly recovered.

“That fold-down seat is quite a gimmick. I—I liked that, Bill, very much. Do you think we could… when we get to my house?”

He knew what she meant.

“My pleasure.”

As they drove off the sunset was vermilion, then faded to a dull blue-gray. He pulled the headlights on.

When she had said Larchmont was where she lived, Lockwood had expected a modest tract house like the ones along North Avenue.
But her house was up on Beechwood. a street of the elite, among a lot of other sumptuous digs. Hers was the one with the yellow
porticoes and a gazebo on the expansive front lawn. It must have been on a full acre of wooded lot and was two stories high.

“Kind of a big house for just you,” he said bouncing the Cord onto the smooth macadam drive.

“Yes. Too big. I rent out the top floor to a nice couple. He’s a dentist, she’s a jewelry designer. He has an office in town.
The house is not as expensive as it looks though. I had a bit of luck in the way of buying during the Depression, a real bargain.
But without the rental, it would be hard to carry.”

She opened the front door without using a key, explaining that she never locked it. “You don’t need to in this part of town.”

Inside, it was extravagant and roomy. There was a console radio receiver and a full wood bar with stools.

Lockwood had the impression that an interior decorator had arranged the place. It was modern, and nothing clashed. The radio
was the latest Super-Heterodyne model from Magnavox. He walked over to it and put his hand on the smooth veneer. He turned
it on, low, to a good music station. Amanda went over to the mirror and smoothed her hair.

“Goodness,” she said, shocked, “I look a mess.”

“You look fine.” Lockwood said smiling. He went over to her and caressed her with both hands. “Say, this is a really nice
place you got here.” They kissed.

He left her fiddling with her hair, found a sofa, and sat down, feeling its plushness and putting his loafers up on a hassock.
“Yes, a nice place indeed.”

“Have a drink while I get rid of this outfit and slip into something more comfortable. I hope I have your brand. What do you
drink?”

“Canadian. Have you got Club?”

“Lots. Help yourself. See you in a moment.” She dashed off, unbuttoning herself on the way out.

Lockwood went over to the full bar, took a decanter, opened it, and sniffed. Too sweet. He tried another. She should really
label these or leave them in the bottles.

Ah, Canadian. He sipped it. Delicious. It entered his blood like fire. He filled a glass and sat down.

Amanda came out a few minutes later, looking refreshed, in a low-cut gown, with a slit in the skirt that reached her upper
thigh. Every time she took a step, her leg was revealed.

“Like it? It’s French,” she said.

“Turn around,” Lockwood commanded.

She smiled and turned slowly, making sure she shifted her hips in that special way women have. She wore high pumps which accentuated
her calf and thigh, creamy and inviting. Lockwood felt his manhood stir once more. But he wanted the pleasure of seeing her
walk the way she just had.

“Now could you go over to the bookcase and come this way again?”

She obliged. The low-cut material undulated around her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a brassiere. Sometimes a nipple was visible
for an instant then disappeared. She sure was some looker.

“Stop!” he said. “It’s wonderful. It will be a shame to take it off, but I’m going to.”

She smiled. Women were sometimes more pleased when you complimented their clothes than when you complimented their bodies.

She laughed, coming over and placing her hand on the buttons of his fly. “Ah, I see you’re ready again.” He was surprised
at the gesture but aroused. Robin would never do something like that. But this woman was a real go-getter, once you got her
started. That he had found out in the Cord.

She sat down across his lap, her arm around his neck. She kissed his neck, then his lips. She was hot for another go. He got
more passionate as her hand unabashedly reached down and pressed against his bulge. He responded by sliding his hand along
the inside of her legs until it felt warm and wet. No panties.

“Not here, darling. I’m afraid we’ll break the couch. Let’s go into the bedroom.”

He carried her in. The bed was heartshaped. It looked like a picture he had seen of Rita Hayworth’s bedroom in
Life
magazine. The quilt was green velour.

He caressed her breasts, reaching inside the loosely fitting garment. She groaned as his fingers tickled and alternately squeezed,
ever so gently, her taut nipples. He had never known a woman whose breasts were so sensitive to touch. Every time he stroked
them, her whole body shuddered.

Lockwood had more in mind than her breasts. As she lifted her body, he pushed her garment up until it was gathered around
her neck.

She was then as bare as the Venus de Milo. And just as lovely. His hands continued to explore her curves.

She moaned, “Take me, take me, Bill! Now, do it now!”

He wanted to but held off; he had never seen her naked before and wanted a good look. His pants were open again under her
eager fingers, and she was pulling his shorts down, frantic with passion.

“Please—now, Bill.”

Her nails dug into his back,
"Please.”
So she was a tiger, no longer a rational being but an animal.

She grabbed his member, huge and swollen, with both cold hands, hungrily pulling it into her. She groaned. “Oh, Bill!”

She widened her legs, and her hips rose to meet his penetration, which was sudden and forceful. He bucked it in as far as
it would go, all the way to her deepest recesses, and then he began working it in and out, slowly at first, as she moaned
and bit his shoulder in passion. She moved, too, undulating her surging body upward, in a circular motion—always straining
to recapture him every time he felt like he would leave her.

He placed his hands under her buttocks, to give her extra impetus every time her hips rose. She whimpered, convulsed, and
her motions became more frantic and animal-like. She cried out again, as if she were being murdered. Her quivering intensified.
Sweat ran off their bodies, and still she came forward with frantic motions.

She gasped between groans now, and the gasps synchronized with Hook’s heavy breathing and matched his rhythm, heading for
a paroxysm of ultimate catharsis. He allowed himself full freedom now, no longer trying in any way to withhold from her the
ultimate result of her urgings to his body. As the two of them nearly rose off the bed, arched like a bow on the now warm
and damp sheets, he exploded, sending himself shooting violently into her. In one giant simultaneous orgasm, Amanda cried
out one last time, her entire body tensed like steel, and then they both collapsed.

A soft and tender hug followed in a few seconds, and the words, “Oh, Bill! Never, never have I had it so good. I—I thought
I would go crazy, you were holding off so much, but then, I—I never had a feeling like that, never.”

Lockwood pulled his head up from her embrace. “Stick around, kid, lots more like that. You have the loveliest body, and you
are an animal in bed! You wouldn’t happen to have a Band-Aid for my shoulder, would you?”

She looked at the two bite marks on his left shoulder, which had turned red. “Oh no! Did I do that? I—I’m so sorry, I—”

“You were great, Amanda. Don’t be sorry.”

She kissed his wound, muttering apologies.

They stayed in the huge bed a while.

She asked for a cigarette. Lockwood lit it, then his own. There was a huge glass ashtray, a la Hollywood, on her side table.
He sat up against the expansive headboard and smoked. “Amanda, that burn we saw in the grass over by the Old Gold sign. Are
you sure that’s where Lorenzo Jones’ biplane crashed?”

“Sure as hell.” She puffed ineffectually at her Camel.

“Well, if pilots don’t like to turn that way because of the sign, could there have been anything—mechanical, say—wrong with
the plane that would make it turn in the wrong direction? Stinky seems sure Jones was killed. Murdered.”

“Lots of things can go wrong in the air,” she said, “but they would have been checked out on the ground. The control wires
are always checked. Unless… .”

“Unless what?”

“Well, if a piece of metal or a screwdriver was jammed into the rudder after the check list was gone over—just before takeoff—Jones
wouldn’t have been able to control the rudder. But even then, he would have headed straight, been unable to turn to the left.”

“I see…” Hook said, “so it wasn’t that?”

“Bill, you don’t
believe
Stinky, do you? The FAA has been all over the field. They spent two days checking it out. Sometimes people just—die—in airplanes.”

“Could Jones have been working for someone other than the Giants—carrying something by air between points? Did you ever see
him with a pouch, or loading up the plane? What was this package Lorenzo was to pick up? Do you think it could have been drugs,
narcotics?”

“No way it would have been something like that. Lorenzo was picking up a few hundred pounds of advertising flyers for the
Giants. They’re printed up in Rensselaer. There’s a big plant up there that does all the posters. He did that every few months.
Not that he had to; they could have been shipped by truck. He just liked to fly, and it was an excuse to take a trip.”

“Then I was out in left field on that one?”

Amanda agreed with a nod. “Yes. Anything that would have been immoral, like drugs, was definitely not in Lorenzo’s character.
He was your happy, all-American boy. He was a recreational pilot, except for the Rensselaer trips. I sometimes deliver packages
for a company, or fly some guy around who wants to look at the city from high up. But Jones didn’t.”

Hook wondered if he could get Transatlantic out of paying on the flimsy excuse that when Jones was killed, he was actually
on an assignment for the team. Not likely, but he would have Molly check it out for him. As far as he knew, the policies Wade
and Cynthia Jones carried on Jones’ life didn’t exclude business flying. But he might as well mention it to Gray.

Lockwood asked her, “What kind of plane did Lorenzo fly?” He was hoping it was some model condemned by experts as unreliable.
That way, maybe Transatlantic could pass the buck to the manufacturer and make them pay for Lorenzo’s death. Another long
shot.

“The same as mine, a Berliner/Joyce P-16, about five years old. It responds well to the controls. It’s a good biplane. His
P-16 had a supercharger and a Conquerer engine. Mine doesn’t—yet. Both his and mine were declared obsolete by the Army Air
Corps just a year ago, when the P-19 came in. You can still see where they unbolted the machine guns on mine. They fired right
through the propellers.”

Lockwood asked her, “How do you like your plane?”

“It doesn’t squash, burble, or spin—Sorry, you wouldn’t know those terms. It’s a good stable plane, period.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” said Lockwood, crushing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “I don’t think it was the plane,
Amanda. I think it was the pilot. And since Lorenzo was a great pilot, I think he dived that plane deliberately. Or something
happened to him. He was either drunk, which witnesses say he wasn’t, or he was suicide-bent. And he had no reason to commit
suicide unless—can you keep a secret?”

“Sure, I love secrets.”

“Okay, maybe you can throw some light on this business. I think Jones’ arm was no good after an accident he had. He was useless
to the team, and the team doctor was ‘gotten to’ and falsified this fact. I don’t know if Doc Carruthers told Jones that he
was through as a pitcher. If the Doc
did
tell him, Jones
could
have killed himself.”

“He wouldn’t do himself in, not in a plane,” Amanda stated emphatically.

“Why not?”

“You don’t know how we pilot-owners
feel
about our aircraft. We wouldn’t deliberately wreck a plane. We just couldn’t.”

“I didn’t think of that. Then the other possibility—the logical one—is that Doc told Wade that Jones’ arm was gone. And that
Wade killed Jones. The motive would be money. It usually is.”

“Why are you telling me? Isn’t it illegal to accuse people without proof?”

“I’m only theorizing, Amanda. Thinking out loud. One private citizen talking to another, off the record.” He smiled and asked,
“So what do you think of my idea that Wade did it?”