And then, instead of the black, there was white. A huge blur of white that slowly separated itself, breaking into patterns that in turn became white walls, white sheets, the white uniform of a nurse standing near him. “He’s coming to,” he heard a voice say.
There was brown now, too; the rumpled wool suit of Jimbo Brannigan. “I told ya ya weren’t ready for Joe Louis,” Brannigan joked through the concern that showed in his broad Irish face. “What happened, kid?”
“I don’t know, Jimbo.” Every part of him was aching. “I had a meet all set up with Toomey, but before I got there a bunch of lugs in a big black Packard forced me over and beat the living daylights out of me. How am I, anyway?”
“You’ll live. Were they Toomey’s boys?”
“No, I’m sure they weren’t. They were mugs I’ve never seen before, not that I got much of a look at them. They were all over me from the word go, and I never got a really good fix.”
“You couldn’t identify them?”
“Not really. Wait a minute. I could at that.” Suddenly Lockwood noticed a woman off to one side. It was Stephanie.
“What’s she doing here?” he asked Brannigan.
“I was questioning Muffy Dearborn at her hotel when they called me about you. This one here heard you were hurt and insisted on coming along. I told her no, but two minutes after I arrived, here she was.”
Lockwood fell silent, regarding Stephanie, who simply looked back at him, saying nothing, impassive. Simply—there.
“Now what’s this about your saying you could identify one of ’em?” Jimbo asked, and the warmth was mostly out of his voice. He was a cop now, doing his job.
“I knocked the eye out of one of them.”
“What?”
“It was a false eye. Glass. There can’t be too many boyos on the work-’em-over circuit with a brown glass eye.”
Jimbo scratched his head. “Jesus. I’ll say there can’t. That’s a new one on me.” Jimbo turned to a policeman whom Lockwood now noticed for the first time. “You ever hear of a sassyboy with a glass eye?” The patrolman shook his head.
Jimbo lifted his heavy bulk off the chair by the side of the bed. “Well, I’ll see if I can find out anything. They tell me you’re gonna survive. Should be a doctor along here any minute to check you out. If you need anything, let me know, hear?”
The Hook nodded, and Jimbo left, along with the cop. The nurse had already gone, and now there was just the two of them in the room, he and Stephanie.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Don’t talk now, you’re hurt,” she answered.
“No, I’m all right,” he responded, pulling himself up slightly in the bed, feeling the dull pain in various areas of his body as he did so. His hands gingerly explored a few of the aches. He did seem to be all right. “Please tell me. Why are you here?”
“I am here to protect you.”
“Protect me?”
“You must understand,” she said, with a slight French accent. “I once knew a man like you.”
Lockwood looked for his cigarettes, located them, and nodded in their direction. “Could you—” he began.
She pushed a Camel halfway out of its package and offered it to him, then flicked the black and silver Dunhill lighter, and he drew in on the cigarette. It tasted good. “Go on,” he said.
“He was in trouble. Serious trouble. He didn’t know it, but I did. I told him this, but it didn’t seem to matter. He thought that anything that came along, he could, how you say, handle it himself. I knew better, but he… dissuaded me.”
She drew near him now and sank onto the chair by his bed. Her gaze was unwavering, and as he watched, he found himself not believing her.
“And I left him alone. And he was unprotected. And—” This time she lowered her head, and was quiet for a moment. “And I cannot let that happen again,” she said, looking at him once more, the words rushing out.
The Hook took another puff. The cigarette now tasted sour, and he crushed it out. “He died?”
Her lids dropped, and again her head dipped downward, in silent assent.
The scent of her reached him now. He drank it in, filling his lungs with it. He was goddamned if he knew what she wanted from him, but he knew now what he wanted from her. Her dark brown hair was soft and waved, her lashes long and midnight-black, her nose slightly fleshy in the bridge, in that strangely sexy way such noses have. She had raised her head, and he saw the inviting hollow of her cheeks and the fullness of her lips, the perfection of her shoulders and the glory of her breasts.
“Does Muffy know you’re here?” he asked.
“It makes no difference now. I have quit her.”
“You’ve given up your job?” There was amazement in his voice but no disbelief. This time she seemed to be telling the truth.
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“I must care for you. I must redeem myself for the sake of André—the man of whom I was speaking,” she said, entreaty in her voice, but a kind of blind assurance as well. She would be difficult to dissuade.
“You gave up your job for that?”
“Ah. Well, it was other things as well. She is not, how you say, a gentle woman. She is rich, yes, but she has no nobility. Everything is for her, nothing else counts.” She reached out to straighten his blanket, and her perfume drifted his way again. It was a very womanly smell.
“You had a disagreement?”
“Disagreement? No. But when I saw her reaction to Mr. Jacoby, after everything else I had known her to do, it was almost too much. And then, when the call came, and she heard about you, and it was as if you were an insect—then that, plus what I feel I owe to André, and thus to you—I left.” She ended.
Lockwood considered her. “Do you think Muffy took the jewels?”
Her head rocked. He had startled her, in some frightening way, by hitting her with this, out of the blue. “No—uh, I don’t know. It could be—I don’t think so—why should she—but perhaps—I cannot say,” she finished, limply.
“What’s your game, Stephanie?”
“Game?”
“I—ah, never mind. Find me a nurse, and let’s get out of here.”
It would be good to be back in his apartment, Lockwood thought, as the elevator in the Summerfield Hotel on West 47th Street ascended. It might be awkward with Stephanie here, but she could be a key to this case, and she offered certain other… benefits.
The elevator reached the twelfth floor, and the two of them stepped out, and walked a few paces to his door. He inserted the key, turned it, opened the door and followed Stephanie in. Two-Scar Toomey and his ugly-looking buddies were sitting there, awaiting his arrival.
“Whattya say, pal,” Toomey greeted him.
“Pretty juicy-lookin’ company you’re keepin’, Hook,” his right-hand man, Petey Ahearn smiled, showing all the fine good humor of an attacking Doberman.
“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.
“This his?” Brannigan had picked up Toomey’s jacket, shooting the question to Lockwood.
At The Hook’s nod, he dropped the jacket on Toomey. “Okay, Vernon, me bucko, time to get dressed. School’s over, and you can go home. Remember, I’m expecting you to be a star pupil.”
Toomey, pale, shaken, dressed hurriedly, giving a flut-. tering hand signal to his boys to follow him, too ashamed to look at them. The cops made way for them, and by the time they reached the hall and the threat was over, Toomey went back to George Raft. “You surprised me that time, Brannigan! I’ll get you yet! You—and that goddamned Hook!”
Brannigan feinted at them, and they hustled away like frightened barnyard fowl as the detective broke into a deep, wry chuckle.
“Thanks, Jimbo,” Lockwood said.
“Looks like they had you foxed pretty good,” Brannigan said, disinterestedly straightening his perennially rumpled suit a bit.
“Better than that.”
“Ah well, I owe you a few, don’t I?” Brannigan turned toward his men, indicating they could leave. “You’re all right now, I guess?”
“Yes. Fine now.”
“That’s all very well then. Goodbye, Miss,” he said to Stephanie. Then, straightening his tie, so that it was even more askew than before, he left.
“Quite a man,” Lockwood said.
“Yes,” Stephanie agreed. “But not, I think, your equal.”
The Hook said nothing, silently offering her a Camel. She shook her head no, and he took one for himself. He inhaled deeply and felt himself relax for the first time since he’d entered the apartment.
“Can I make you a drink?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Canadian?”
“That—that would be good. A little water, please.”
He went into the kitchen and fixed two drinks. This one would taste particularly sweet, he knew. Good old Brannigan. Okay, there were some who said he was a cop who didn’t play by the rules, but sometimes, perhaps, there were occasions when rules no longer applied.
Stephanie had removed her jacket when he returned. She was wearing a short-sleeved silk blouse, open at the neck. In the fading light of the day, she looked fine, just fine.
He gave her the drink, then sat beside her on the couch and took a pull on his own. “Okay, now what’s it all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you really here?”
“I told you—to protect you,” she protested, earnestly, then smiled a small smile. “I have not done so well though thus far, have I?”
“I don’t buy your story.”
Her eyes widened and misted with sudden tears. “I—I am sorry.”
“Yes?”
“I am sorry you don’t believe me. I have told you the truth. But of course there is nothing that says you must believe me. It hurts, your disbelief, but I must accept it.”
“What do you know about the theft of the jewels?”
“Nothing.” The thunderhead-color of her eyes never cleared. “I am only a maid. Was.” She corrected herself.
“You’re too bright for that. Too beautiful. Why were you Muffy Dearborn’s maid?”
Stephanie smiled at him ruefully, the merest hint of a line forming in her flawless facial skin. “The Depression. Many of us were—are—too bright, too beautiful for many things. But we have had to do them.”
Lockwood shrugged. She won on that one.
“What about the people surrounding Muffy? Could any of them have had anything to do with it?”
“I don’t understand.” Stephanie’s face clouded. “I thought it was already decided that that Toomey man had done it.”
“Could be. Probably so. But my guess is he had inside help. Why else put a bullet through poor Jabber-Jabber’s skull?”
“I see.” Her eyes dropped, and she folded her hands in her lap. “I wish I could help somehow. But I know nothing.”
Her perfume was doing the same job on him that it had in the hospital. “You’re really very beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you,” she answered, a kind of physical silence hanging over her.
“Do you plan to stay here?”
She looked at him, inquiringly.
“In this apartment with me?”
“I have told you I would,” she said simply.
“You’re asking a lot of me.”
“I can pay my way.”
“I don’t mean that,” he laughed, surprised. Then, “You’re a woman—a very attractive woman. And I’m—” he shrugged, “human.”
Her face was serious. “I understand. After all, in my country we feel differently about these things.”
“More sophisticated, you mean?”
“However you wish to put it.”
“Come here.” He extended an arm toward her.
She looked at him for a moment, seemed to hang back, and then slowly moved to him, allowing him to hold her.
They sat like that for a while, relaxing against each other. Then, “I think you may be out to kill me,” Lockwood said flatly.
She stiffened, but his arm brought her back to him. “How can you say this?”
“Because that’s what I think. What I feel. But not,” he took a deep whiff of her perfume, “what I smell.”
“You frighten me,” she said.
“Me? Why?”
“I—I don’t know. Because—because, I think, there is something relentless about you. Indomitable.”
“At the moment I feel very domitable.” He ran his hand over her arm. It was warm and smooth, and she shivered as he did it.
He turned her toward him and looked down at her lips. They were slightly parted, lush and full, and rich with promise. “You’re frightened by me, and I in turn wonder just when you’ll do me in. We’re quite a pair.”
Her lids half-closed as she looked up at him. The storm clouds that were her eyes were darker than ever, and he could feel her breath deepen as he bent down to kiss her.
Her lips were all they had seemed, as he placed his own lightly on them, and then more firmly. He felt her body tense, and then relax, as she gave herself up. He pulled his head back and stared down at her, and her mouth was half-open, glistening teeth showing, as if every last bit of her were hungry for more.
He obliged her desire, kissing her again, feeling as if he had been drawn into a whirlpool, sinking more and more deeply into the vortex of her passion. His strong hands began to caress her back, working up and down, each stroke bringing an accompanying sigh from her.
His hand was under her blouse now, running up along the spine, reveling in the velvet of her skin, stroking, massaging, pressing her closer to him. He could feel the beating of her heart, rapid and urgent.
He pushed her gently away from him and deftly undid the clasp of her brassiere. In her passion she seemed almost not to see him, lost in her sensuality. Slowly he unbuttoned the front of her blouse, until it fell open, exposing her breasts, nipples erect in their excitation.
He removed her blouse and drew her back to him, running his hands over her as they kissed, their tongues working feverishly together.
“I want you,” she breathed, barely able to get out the words.
“I want you,” he answered, and stood, and lifted her, and walked into the bedroom with her, her body tremulous against him.
He put her down. She was standing now, facing him, and he began removing his shirt. She was already pushing up his undershirt, eagerly stripping him, before he had the shirt half off, and when both had been dropped to the floor, she drew him against her, her swelling breasts tight against his chest, her open mouth frantically moving against his.
His hands dropped to her waist, and he unfastened the button at the top of her skirt, then pulled down the zipper. The skirt hung for a moment, then descended, and he saw she was wearing no slip. She was standing there now, quivering, naked but for black silk panties.
Her hands snaked to his belt and tugged, and the belt opened. Now she was unbuttoning his fly, small hands straining at the roughness of the cloth, the tightness of each hole around each button. As if accidentally, one hand dropped for a moment, lightly brushing the bulge that was pushing toward her. He gripped her tightly again, and she responded, while unfastening the final button.
Now she slid her body down against him, sinking from neck to shoulder to chest to stomach, down until she had a cheek against his shorts, her head twisting back and forth, pushing her face against him, then slowly uncovering the rest of him.
She was kissing him now, mouth hungry against his inflamed organ, kissing it, licking it, then forcing her lips over it and down, down, down, then up and then back down again.
He lifted her, and the bit of black silk that had clung to her was removed, urgently, as, in the same motion, he swept her to the bed. He lay her down on it and drank the whole of her in, every part of her tense with anticipation, yet pliant, ready to be done to in any way he saw fit. His eye traced the line of her thighs, along her legs, down to the delicacy of her feet, then back up again, to the inviting curve that was her belly, up the young promise of her skin to her breasts, feverish-looking around the areolae, the nipples trembling. His gaze swept up to the grace of her neck, to her face, and he saw a great wanting there. Her arms reached up to him, imploring, and he sank down onto the bed and pulled her to him.
His hands explored her now, every part of her, and it was all his, an unstated gift from her, as she sighed, and moaned, and rubbed against him.
His hand went down to the crease between her legs, and she stiffened with excitement, then opened up to him, and his fingers drowned in the wetness of her, plunging in and then up toward her clitoris, stroking up and down, in and out, until her whole body vibrated against his, her nails digging into his back, teeth hard against his shoulder.
“Put it in me,” she moaned, “put it in me,” and she grabbed for him with both hands, hungrily pulling him toward her and inside.
Now she ground against him, fluid working out of her, trickling down along her inner thighs, as he thrust back and forth, filling her. He placed his hands under her buttocks, pulling her closer to him, and she moaned, as he felt the end of her, grazing it with each thrust. “More, more,” she begged, and he gave her more.
The sweat was running down him, and their bodies slid back and forth, glistening in the muted light of the room. Now they seemed to be in a giant ocean, slipping against each other, sliding against each other, rocking in an eternity of hot, throbbing wetness.
She began to quiver, slowly at first, then more, and more, and her body grew more desperate, thrusting harder and harder against him, faster and faster, every bit of her shaking, the flow between her legs near-gushing around his plunging tool.
She was gasping now, and he allowed himself full freedom, no longer trying to stop his own coursing fluids, as the whole of the two of them meshed in one giant orgasm, he exploding, she breaking up into individually shattering areas, as if each part of her body was having its own individual climax.
They cried out and strained together for one last moment, then collapsed, he on top of her for a moment, his tensed arms keeping most of the weight off her. Then he rolled over on his back and drew her toward him. “If you do plan to kill me,” he told her, “please do it that way.”
She had coffee ready for him when he awoke the next morning, and she stood there by the side of the bed, regarding him silently as he drank. There seemed to be a quiet sadness about her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, putting down the cup.
“Nothing,” she said. “I feel so—Nothing,” she finally said, closing the door on the subject.
“Last night it seemed as if it had been a long time for you,” he told her, arising. “A very long time.”
“Yes,” she said. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right,” he agreed. “Do you still plan to stay here, to—protect me?”
“Here, yes, or wherever you are. You will not be leaving this place today, I hope? You will stay here with me, and we can again—hold one another?”
“That’s tempting,” he smiled gently, “more tempting than you can imagine. But I’ve a job to do.”
“Where are you going? Who will you see?”
“A prince of a fellow. A fine, handsome man by the name of Stymie.”
“Stymie?”
“Not too princely a name, eh? Of course, this is a prince who’s been turned into a frog—or closer yet, a toad,” Lockwood decided, unpleasant memories of Stymie crowding into his mind.
“Who is this—prince? What does he do?” she asked, uncertainly.
“He’s a fence,” Hook said, shortly. “You know what a fence is?”
“I’m not sure…” she answered.
“A crook with no guts, that’s what a fence is. Other people do the work for him—steal jewels, paintings, furs, whatever, and then they go to Stymie. And he gives them some money for what they’ve stolen. As little money as he possibly can.”
“And then—?”
Lockwood was puzzled for a moment. “Oh,” he said, “and then—and then he resells it for as huge a profit as he can make. All fences are loathesome creeps,” he added, as he walked to the shower, “but no one is as coated with slime as Stymie the Fence. And under that coating of slime—more slime!” and he turned on the shower, as if anxious to wash off even the idea of that trafficker in stolen goods.