They had driven through the Queens Midtown Tunnel, and were now on Queens Boulevard. The Hook punched a button on the Motorola, and music jumped out at them. Count Basie was doing a remote from the Famous Door on 52nd Street.
“Good stuff, that,” Raff commented, “very big in England.”
“You’re not English though, are you?”
“No. Just stayed there for a while after the war. Really had no reason to come back.”
“What finally brought you back?”
Raff smiled a crooked smile. “I had no reason to stay in England.”
“Then I take it you met Muffy here.”
“Ah Muffy. Yes. In the usual way, of course. A party in Southampton, a do in Manhattan, a fete in Newport, and sooner or later we gravitated toward one another. Newton’s theory, you see. Of gravitation, that is.”
“There’re rumors you plan to marry.”
“Ah well.” Raff fell silent a moment. Then he smiled engagingly, turning toward Lockwood, “Are you grilling me again?”
“In a way. I’d like to know more about Muffy.”
“I see. Everyone a suspect, as you say. Well, what can I tell you that will help me thrust my beloved into the pokey?”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“No, it’s all right.” Raff pulled out a pipe and began filling it. “Hope you don’t mind this.” Lockwood shook his head, and Raff continued.
“What is Muffy Dearborn like?” He paused a moment, as if thinking it over. “Rich, of course. Spoiled, of course. But the first you’ve read about, and the second I’m sure you’ve seen.”
When Lockwood said nothing, Raff continued. “Willful. Imperious. Not a deep thinker. When it comes to our Mr. Einstein, her deepest respect is not for his gray matter, but for those soulful eyes of his.”
Raff lit a match, and drew in on the pipe. The glowing tobacco had an aromatic, fruity quality that Lockwood found pleasant. “Cantankerous at times. Very. Full of herself at times. Most of them. Very kind to animals, to children and the wounded, of one sort or another.”
“You fall into that category?”
“Wounded?” Raff gave a short laugh. “Hardly. Oh, a bit of Lost Generation, perhaps, now and then, but just a touch. I think I’m more or less whole now.”
“So it’s her kindness that appeals to you?”
“Hm? Oh I suppose. She really can be awfully fun, you know. Rather dippy at times, in a gloriously amusing way. It’s a side that only intimates glimpse, though. And of course, she’s young and very, very lovely.” Lockwood barely heard him. Raff, as he uttered the last sentence, stared off to the side.
“When Jabber-Jabber was killed, her only reaction was—how do I get publicity now?” Hook said.
“Yes?” Raff’s tone was flat, as if ready to be protective of Muffy.
“Just how hot is she for publicity?”
“Very. But not publicity. Recognition. Muffy thinks of herself as an artist. She wants to be known, yes. But as someone of merit, not just as a name.”
“You sound sure of that.”
“My boy,” Raff said, “it’s easy to be. After all, even before singing a note, she was a name. It’s that way for the very rich, you know.”
Lockwood shrugged. Somehow none of it satisfied him. He glanced in the rearview mirror, and then again. And then a third time. “I think we’re being followed,” he said. They were on the Hempstead Turnpike now, nearing the turnoff for the Montauk Highway.
Raff swung his head back. “How can you tell?” he asked, after a moment.
“I’m not sure I’m right, not yet. But the set of those headlights is distinctive. I think I’ve noticed them a couple of times before as we’ve been driving….” Lockwood saw the sign for the turnoff and swung into the right lane. The car behind followed.
“Have they been following us long?”
“My guess is they picked us up in the city,” Lockwood answered. “The next intersection we come to, I can make a quick stop, and you can jump out and make a run for it.”
“Nothing doing,” Raff demurred. “This is what I’m here for. Even if you have been making insinuations about the gal I love,” he drawled, giving it a yokel intonation. He wasn’t serious about much, it seemed.
“All right. We’ll drive a while and see what happens. If he stays on us, I’ll try something.”
They continued to drive, and the car behind them faded into the black for a while, then reappeared, then faded, then reappeared. “It’s good driving,” Lockwood said, respect in his voice. “It took me a long time to spot him, and even now he makes you wonder a bit.” They had finally reached the country, houses turning up erratically, with long empty stretches in between. Potato fields, probably.
“There’s a curve up ahead I know. I’m going to speed up, cut the headlights, and pull over to the side of the road. Put out your pipe.” He floored the accelerator, roared into the curve, tires barely making contact, then slammed off the lights and wheeled abruptly away from the asphalt, driving straight at the shadow of a tree, then veering off to its side and totally obscuring the Cord in the night shadows. Raff had immediately emptied his pipe when instructed.
The car behind thundered by and suddenly picked up even more speed, as if anxious to catch up to something. “Looks as though you were right,” Raff observed.
Lockwood said nothing. He pulled out onto the road, lights off, then headed back in the direction they’d come.
“We’ll try it another night?” Raff asked.
“No. They might come back looking for us near that curve,” Hook answered. “We’ll drive a while and stop and see what happens.”
Two miles down the highway Lockwood went into a U-turn and again pulled to the side of the road. Nothing showed, and ten minutes later they were once more driving toward the Star roadhouse.
Three miles went by, and again there were the lights of a car behind them. They were like those before; close-set and high. “You’ve got to give him credit. He knows his job,” Lockwood grimaced.
“What now?” Raff asked.
“We try again,” Lockwood said.
The Cord abruptly picked up speed as a curve approached, but this turn was too short, and there was no time to leave the road.
“They seem to be gaining on us,” Raff said coolly.
“The better for us to see them, my dear,” Hook answered, doing a garble on Red Riding Hood as he pulled the hand brake and swerved rightward. “It pays to know just which wolf it is you’re up against.”
As he’d expected, the car behind, caught short by the maneuver, the use of the emergency brake keeping the Cord’s brake lights from flashing, involuntarily shot past them. Enough of a moon shone into the vehicle’s interior to satisfy The Hook. “Slops Weinstein,” he said.
“What?”
“One of Two-Scar Toomey’s bimbos,” Lockwood answered, his mouth set. “Now we know it’s not fun and games.”
The car up ahead had slowed down, moving into the wrong lane, waiting for Lookwood to catch up. “Get down,” Hook said. “We’re going to pass them, and they’ll be slinging lead.” Again he hit the accelerator and again the Cord leapt forward.
They were pulling up to the other car, and Lockwood slid deep into the seat, relying on memory, his hands guiding the wheel, as two slugs whistled over his head.
He was sitting up again, head low, as the bullets now came at them from the rear. He’d passed Toomey’s bunch successfully, but the engine of the pursuing car seemed to be a match for the Cord’s.
“Okay,” Lockwood said. “First chance I get, we pull off the road, and scramble out of the car.” He reached down toward his belt. “Here,” he said, pulling out the .38, “you hold onto this.”
“What about you?”
“You’re company. You get served first.”
“But that’s not right. It’s your gun.”
“Dammit, Spencer, button up. I’m not going to leave you defenseless.”
The Packard was almost on them when Lockwood whipped the Cord to the right, speeding through the gravel at the roadside, down an embankment and into a field, the car bouncing and groaning as it sped over the uneven ground. Lockwood saw a grove of trees and headed toward it, then braked. “Out!” he called, and threw himself after Raff, through the open car door on the passenger’s side. Already the auto behind, which had followed them all the way, had stopped, twenty yards distant, its headlights glaring. “Run for that bunch of trees,” Hook urged. “I don’t want them shooting at the car. We’ll still need it tonight, after this is over.”
“You don’t ever quit, do you?” Raff marveled, as they ran. “You’re bound and determined to get where you’re going, aren’t you?”
“Shut up and keep your head down,” Lockwood urged, as a bullet whined by.
Another few seconds, and they’d gained the trees.
“Stay here and keep them entertained with an occasional shot,” Lockwood said. “I’m going to try to circle around.”
“It looked like four of them to me,” Raff told him. “That seems like an awfully tall order for you.”
“That’s the fun of this business,” Lockwood said, but there was nothing about his expression that suggested fun.
“All right. Good luck,” Raff whispered. “I’ll do what I can from here.” The Toomey car’s lights were still on, trained in their direction. “Mind if I put their engine out?”
“Go right ahead,” Hook replied, and then faded into the black.
As he moved out, he heard Raff’s pistol crack once, twice. There was the satisfying sound of bullet penetrating metal. Very smart. He’d left the lights alone and quietly destroyed the engine. If Toomey’s men tried to get away, they’d be in for a surprise.
A tommy gun opened up, blasting in Raff’s direction. Lockwood paused. He hadn’t expected this. All he could hope was that somehow Raff could elude the deadly spray.
He was in an open field now, and hugged the ground, working his body like a snake, quickly, because there was no time to lose. The moonlight was an enemy though, and he had to be cautious. It was Verdun again, he grimaced. Not the kind of thing he’d ever hoped to relive.
Lockwood moved forward a few more feet, and his hand touched something. It was a tree branch, about four feet long. His fingers closed over it, and he continued on. In lieu of anything else, the branch could serve as a weapon.
Twenty feet later, he froze. Footsteps were coming his way, and now he saw the outline of a man, crouched low, bulky. A few more steps and it was revealed to be Stuff Maggiatore, evidently assigned to the same plan of encirclement that Lockwood was following. His grip tightened on the branch. A quick strike at Maggiatore’s gut should put him out of action, knock the wind out of him.
Maggiatore was close now, sharply etched against the dark as the moon broke through a cloud. With the moon behind Lockwood, there’d be no way the gunman could see him. He braced himself.
Maggiatore was almost on him, coming in a direct line. Lockwood went into a crouch and shoved the branch straight at Maggiatore’s midsection.
He had misjudged the sharpness of the end of the branch, and the softness of the bulky man’s belly. The branch stopped for a moment and then, as the outer flesh parted, continued in, one inch, two inches, until almost a foot of it was embedded. The Hook loosened his grasp, and Maggiatore, eyes wide, fell backward in a sitting position, his mouth in a small circle, like that of a hooked fish slapping about on a dock. Little bubbles of saliva began to form there, and he continued to sit, astonishment written on his face, oblivious to his assailant, who was now pulling the .32 out of his hand.
Two shots sounded, evidently from Raff, and the tommy gun chattered again. Lockwood took a final look at Maggiatore, whose eyes were beginning to glaze, a thin trickle of blood oozing over his thick lower lip. No need to finish him off, probably. He seemed too deeply in shock to queer anything by screaming out. The Hook hit the ground again and moved in the direction of the tommy gun.
He reached about where he thought the gun would be and stopped. Everything was still. “Another shot, Raff,” he thought. “Shoot again, so he fires back at you.”
A few more seconds, and Raff obliged. A few feet away, a man rose and answered the lone bullet with a fusillade. The Hook made him out to be Slops Weinstein. He waited for silence, then commanded, “Throw down the gun, Slops.”
“Shit!” Slops wheeled, disconcerted, his gun leveled. The Hook had to pump one into him. Slops clutched his chest with one hand, the other still gripping the tommy gun, as he staggered backward, then tripped and fell. His legs twitched violently, as if he were trying to make them work, but all the circuits were broken. “Slops!” came a voice. Lockwood didn’t recognize it.
“Petey, I think they got Slops,” shouted the voice. Probably Elmer, Lockwood decided.
Now he heard Ahearn’s voice. “Slops! Slops!” Both men were off to Lockwood’s right, Elmer probably twenty yards away, and Ahearn another ten yards beyond. “Slops! Slops!” Ahearn shouted again.
“I think maybe we better get out of here,” came the closer voice. “We can’t see anything anyway.”
“Shut up, dummy! There’s still the three of us against the two of them. And Slops probably got one of them anyway.”
Another shot came out of the grove of trees. Toomey’s men didn’t return the fire. Then Ahearn was heard again. “Jesus! Where’s Stuff? He should have been down there by now.”
“Maybe they got him, too.”
“Stuff!” Ahearn called. “Stuff!”
Off in the distance came the sound of crickets. “I told you,” screamed the other gunman.
“I said shut up! Stuff! Stuff!” One minute went by, then two. “Okay,” Ahearn shot out, “let’s get out of here.”
Lockwood heard them running, and he rose and ran after them. They had a good head start, and he could hear the doors thunk shut while he was still thirty feet away.
The motor whirred, then stopped. Again it whirred, and this time small pinging sounds were heard. Curses filled the air. “Out of the way! I’ll do it!” Ahearn yelled. Lockwood saw the car door open, and Elmer stood there for a moment, as Ahearn slid behind the driver’s seat.
“Freeze!” Hook shouted, and Elmer looked incredulously in his direction, then leapt toward the rear of the car before Lockwood could get off a shot. Ahearn, from the sounds, was still desperately fooling with the ignition.
“Don’t move, Ahearn! You’re covered!” Lockwood shouted, as he crouched behind a small rise in the ground. A bullet whizzed near him. Ahearn gave it one last try, and Lockwood fired into the windshield, but Ahearn had already ducked. Seconds later, he joined Elmer behind the car, their two pistols zeroing in on The Hook, flashing out in the night.
He aimed toward one of the flashes, and there was the soft thud of body hitting plowed field as Elmer toppled backward, a bullet in his throat. “Throw down your gun and you won’t be harmed,” Lockwood yelled, but three quick blasts answered him.
Ahearn was known to be good with a gun, and Lockwood decided to try a new tactic. Quickly he moved around to the side of the automobile, about twenty-five feet from it, keeping low. There was no sound from the car now, and he hoped Ahearn was still behind it. He gave him one last chance. “Throw down your gun, Ahearn. We’ve got—” he couldn’t finish the sentence, as once more Ahearn answered him with lead.
He ducked, and then raised his head, straightened out his arm, and took careful aim. The silhouette of the big car was murky in the moonlight, and he hoped he was seeing right. He squeezed the trigger once, twice.
A giant explosion filled the air. His aim had been true, and one of the bullets had hit the vehicle’s gas tank, rupturing it, and igniting the volatile fuel.
Lockwood rushed forward, standing out in the moonlight, chancing that he’d succeeded.
A few steps nearer, and in the light of the vehicle’s flames he saw he had. Ahearn was ten feet away from the car, his clothes in shreds, face and body blackened, half his side blown away. He was still alive, and when he saw The Hook, his hand and arm twitched convulsively, as if searching for the automatic that had been blasted out of his hand. Lockwood bent down to do what he could, taking a huge clump of sod and stuffing it into the gaping wound. Anything to stop the bleeding, he knew.
But it was too late. Ahearn’s face was already skull-like as death rushed into him, gnawing and ravaging. No time for the idiocy of making his last moments comfortable, Lockwood decided. “What about the Dearborn jewels? Who took them, and why?”
Ahearn stared up at him, a pure innocence in his face now, looking as he must have looked at four, before the streets got to him. He strained to say something, but it turned into a gurgle. He tried again, and it was too much. His body pushed outward, then collapsed, his head flopping to one side, eyes staring into nothingness.
Lockwood straightened up and sighed. Just a few minutes more, Petey. If only you’d lived a few minutes more. A bullet whistled over his head and he whirled, the .32 ready. “Drop it!” he yelled.
He was facing Raff.
Raff had the .38 pointed at him, smoke still drifting from its barrel. His face was drained.
“I said drop it.”
The .38 lowered, and Raff slumped a little. “My God! I didn’t know it was you!” he said, barely breathing the words. “I could have killed you.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“In the light—you looked gross, misshapen,” Raff explained. “It didn’t look like you.”
“May I have my gun? Handle toward me,” The Hook said, body taut, eyes closely monitoring every one of Raff’s movements.
“Of course. My God,” Raff said again, “I don’t blame you if you don’t quite trust me. I didn’t hit you, did I?”
“No.” Lockwood took the gun.
“You got them all?” Raff asked.
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to remember, I was a flier,” Raff said, recovered enough to try a mild attempt at humor. “I’m not much at ground warfare.”
“Mistakes happen,” Lockwood said.
“What do we do with these?” Raff asked, staring at the two bodies.
“Leave them. They’ll keep. There’s still more work to do.”
“You’re leaving me here, too?”
Lockwood considered him. He’d done all he’d asked him, drawn the Toomey gang’s fire so that he could take them from behind. Just now, he possibly could have gotten off a second shot when Lockwood had yelled, but he hadn’t. It wasn’t an easy decision, but….
“No, you come along. Besides, I really shouldn’t leave you here to face the cops. It wasn’t your fight.”
They drove in silence the rest of the way, Lockwood feeling the weariness now. It had been a long, hard day, with who knew what yet to come. He lit up a Camel and puffed on it twice, then crushed it out. A neon star was beckoning to them, perched on a tower atop the roadhouse they were seeking.
The Hook slowed, and eased into the graveled parking lot. It was 4 A.M., but the lot was almost full. Billingsley had been right about the place being a lure for the young rich. A number of convertibles, most of them new and expensive, could be seen.
They got out of the Cord, and Lockwood looked down at his clothes. Brooks Brothers stitched together a good, sturdy suit, but it would be unreasonable to expect anything to stand up to what he’d just put it through. A button was gone on the jacket, and a pocket was ripped. There was mud all over the jacket and pants, and there was a hole in the knee of the trousers. Lockwood brushed his hands over his clothes, doing the best he could do with them. “I’m not exactly presentable,” he told Raff. “Better you go in ahead of me, so that I’m obscured a bit.” Raff nodded, more than eager to return to Lock-wood’s good graces.
The man at the door was wearing a tuxedo; otherwise he’d have given a good imitation of a guy playing tackle for Notre Dame. He was a big one, and from the look of his face, he’d been hired as a bouncer as well as maitre d’, his nose broken, one ear cauliflowered. “Good evening, gentlemen. Bar or a table?” he asked.
“Table,” Lockwood said, figuring it’d hide most of the sartorial damage. A thought struck him. “Have you been here before?” he asked Raff.
“Hardly. Crowd a little too young for me,” Raff replied, and they both surveyed the men and women in their late teens who filled most of the tables in the place, exuberantly noisy. Money seemed to shine from them.
Once seated, each ordered a Canadian and soda from the waiter, who physically was a match for the man at the door. “This would be more Muffy’s cup of tea,” Raff explained, pulling out his pipe. “If she preferred men her own age, that is.”
Raff filled the pipe, then drew in on it repeatedly, till he was satisfied it was lit. “Odd, but she does seem to prefer men my age. Or Jock Bundle’s.” His eyes went a little hard. “Has she been making any noises to you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Lockwood said. He was staring at the pianist, whose back was to them.
“Come off it, Hook. You’re not that thick,” Raff said. “The last time I saw Muffy, she was asking a lot of questions about you.”
“Jealous, eh? Well, let me ease your mind. The last time I saw Muffy,” Lockwood smiled, “she was threatening to crown me with a hairbrush.”
Raff laughed. “Yes, she told me that.” He sounded relieved.
Lockwood caught a glimpse of a small slice of the pianist’s face, and now he was sure. “That’s Cracks Henderson.”
“So it is,” Raff said. “What the devil is he doing here?”
Lockwood wondered as well, as Cracks continued to play, barely heard over the hubbub of the room. He called a waiter over. “Tell Mr. Henderson we’d like to see him when he’s done,” Lockwood told him.
Henderson was on his last tune now, driving through “Embraceable You,” having started it as a ballad and then, halfway through, altering it into a jump tune. His long blond hair was falling lankly over his forehead, a stub of a cigarette hanging from his lips. He went into a run, altering every chord along the way, hit the last few notes, looked a little dazed as he accepted the scattered applause, listened to the waiter who bent over him, and then glanced in the direction of Lockwood and Raff. He shrugged, picked up the drink on his piano, and ambled over.
He blinked a couple of times as he neared them, then focused on Spencer. “Hello, Raff,” he said.
“Hello, Cracks. What the blazes are you doing all the way out here?”
Cracks shrugged again. “It’s a job.”
The Hook motioned to him. “Have a seat.”
Cracks peered at him. “Do I know you?”
“Bill Lockwood. We met at Muffy’s opening night. After the fight.”
Cracks eased himself down into the chair next to Raff. “Oh. Well, okay,” he said, blankly.
“Weren’t you playing for Muffy tonight?” Lockwood asked.
“Sure.”
“Then how’d you get out here?”
“Drove. Do it every night.”
“That seems a pretty tough schedule.”
“Whatever Jock wants, I do.”
“Jock?” Lockwood asked in surprise. Next to him, Raff straightened up a little and leaned in.
“Jock Bunche.”
“What’ve you got to do with Bunche?”
“Are you kidding? He’s the guy who discovered me. He’s the one who put me together with Muffy, after he convinced her to be a pro singer. And when he opened this place, he made sure I’d be the pianist.”
“Jock Bunche owns this club?”
“Sure. Well, not in his name, natch. Some other cats front it for him.”
The Hook sat back and stared at Cracks. Jock Bunche, the owner of the Star. And Widwer Levinskey, One-Eye, involved in some way with the club. So the two of them were tied together, apparently.
Lockwood began to take another pull at the Canadian, then stopped. Something told him he’d need 100 percent of his faculties while he was here. Instead, he pulled out a Camel, lighted up, and inhaled deeply, all the while regarding Cracks.
“You know a man known as Levinskey?”
Cracks jerked his head to one side. “Name means nothing to me.”
“He has one eye,” Hook said. “Big man, with one good eye, one glass one.”
“Only gate I know like that is Johnny Apples,” Cracks offered.
“Johnny Apples?”
“He’s a front man here for Jock. Should be around somewhere.”
“This Johnny Apples,” Lockwood said, “does he have a tie with Two-Scar Toomey? Vernon Toomey?”
“You got me. I never heard anything like that. Got a butt?” he asked. “I’m out.”
Lockwood gave him one and lit it for him. “Okay. What have you heard about Johnny Apples and Muffy Dearborn’s jewels?”
Cracks’ pupils dilated, and his hand appeared to shake a little. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Johnny Apples and Jock Bunche and Muffy’s jewels,” Lockwood said. Was it finally all beginning to tie together?
“I don’t know anything about any of that.”
“Johnny Apples or Jock Bunche, or both of them, stole the jewels.”
“No.”
“Come on, Cracks.”
“No. I’m sure they didn’t. Anyway, if they did, I don’t know nothing about it.” Little beads of sweat were beginning to form on his brow.
“Cracks, I’m not a cop. I’m an insurance investigator.”
“Oh yeah, now I place you!” Cracks grinned foolishly. He appeared to be happy to get off onto another topic, one other than the jewels. “You’re way outta your territory, aren’t you? Have a good ride?”
Lockwood steered him back. “Whatever you know won’t get you into trouble with me. I don’t arrest people. All I want is the jewels. I’ll even pay to get them back.”
Cracks’ smile faded, and his pale blue eyes stared unblinkingly at Lockwood.
“Well?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“I think you do.”
Cracks turned to Raff. “You’re a nice cat, you’ve always been decent with me. How about getting him to lay off?”
“He’s got a job to do,” Raff said.
Cracks turned sullen. “I don’t know anything, and that’s that.”
“It could mean money for you,” Lockwood told him. “Reward money, or something like it.”
“I don’t dig people who call me a liar, Lockwood,” Cracks snarled, angry now, or at least giving a good imitation of it. “I treat people like gentlemen and expect to be treated the same way.” He pushed his chair back, and rose.
“Cracks,” Lockwood began.
“Stuff it!” Cracks cried, and backed away, as if afraid to take his eyes from them. He reached the crowd by the bar, still watching them, and then quickly exited through a doorway.
“Jock Bunche? You think Jock Bunche stole Muffy’s jewels?” Raff asked, after Cracks disappeared.
“He’s got something to do with them. I’m sure of that now,” Lockwood answered, grimly. “I was hoping I could get Cracks to spill.”
Raff looked up, then smiled and relaxed into his chair. “Forget Cracks. You seem to have another possibility.”
The Hook glanced at Raff, then toward the direction in which his companion was looking. One-Eye was about ten feet away, facing them. Behind him were the maitre d’ and their waiter. None of the three looked friendly.
The Hook raised his glass in acknowledgment. “Greetings, Widwer,” he said.
The three of them stepped closer, till they were standing over him and Raff. “Why are you here?” One-Eye asked.
“Looking for you,” Lockwood replied, his hand ready to go for the .38 if necessary..
“I think maybe you better come with us.”
“I like it here,” Lockwood insisted. He glanced over at Raff. Raff smiled.
“I’m ready for anything,” he told Lockwood.
“We can talk better out in the back,” One-Eye urged.
“No thanks,” Hook demurred, and then he felt the cold steel against the small of his neck. Another waiter, probably. You really got service in this joint.
“Come on,” One-Eye told them. Lockwood and Raff rose and followed.
They walked toward the bar, then through the door Cracks had entered. It brought them into a dingy hallway floored with old wooden boards, the passage at its end opening into a large, sparsely furnished room. Cracks was seated there at a table, looking nervous.
Once inside, One-Eye spoke. “Cracks tells me you were asking about the Dearborn jewels. I thought I already told you to forget about them.”
The Hook regarded him coldly. “What’s your involvement, Levinskey?”
One-Eye flushed. “Shut up, you!” he snarled. “Search them,” he told the two men with him. The other waiter had evidently returned to his station, where, presumably, the tips would be better.
They got Lockwood’s .38 and the .32 he’d handed to Raff before they entered the club. One-Eye stood and considered them.
“I got no beef with you,” he told Raff. “But your boyfriend, that’s a different story.”
“We go together,” Raff told him. “Whatever happens to him, happens to me. We’re like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Or,” he added cheerfully, “like a right eye and a left eye.”
Levinskey ignored him. “You keep these two here for a while,” he said to the waiter, indicating Cracks and Raff. “Dave and Tommy and Charlie got a little business with this one. Okay,” he motioned to Lockwood, “let’s go.”
The Hook hesitated, then saw the three men in the hallway. One of them was pointing a shotgun in his direction. He nodded a brief goodbye to Raff and walked toward the three. “Dave and Tommy and Charlie, I presume,” he said as he neared them.
One of them grunted and waved him to another door, which was open to the outside. He stepped through, and they followed him. “Into the car,” said another, and held the back door open for him. It was a big Cadillac, shiny under the light of the lamp that jutted out over the club’s back door. He got in and two of them joined him, he in the middle of the back seat, the other two on each side of him. The third man moved into the driver’s seat, and in a moment they pulled away, the gravel of the drive crackling as the wheels spit it out.
The two in the back began speaking, apparently resuming a conversation that had been interrupted earlier. “Louis is a dumb nigger,” one of them said. “He got lucky against Schmeling.”
“Lucky? The way he tore Schmeling up like that? Schmeling’s the lucky one, being alive today.”
It was the driver’s turn. “Dave’s right. Look what he did to Harry Thomas and Nathan Mann, for God’s sake.”
“Bums. They were bums,” the first man sneered. “I coulda taken them in half the time it took Louis. Less. They wouldn’t a gone past the first round with a good white man.”
“You’re a fighter?” Lockwood asked.
“Shut up. Stay out of this,” the first man said. “Louis has no guts. All dinges are yellow.”
Dave flung his head upward in exasperation. “Yellow? He gets the piss beat out of him by Schmeling, and then comes back and wipes the floor with him in one round! That’s yellow?”
“Luck,” growled the first man, burrowing a little into himself. “Could be it was a fix, too.”
“I tell ya what,” Dave said. “Let’s put on the gloves, and I’ll be Louis, and you show me just how terrible he is, what you’d do to him.”
“If I was in your weight class, you can bet your ass I would,” the first man shouted, and for the first time Lockwood saw the scar tissue above his brows.
“So you’re both boxers,” he said.
“I told you, shut up,” the first man ordered. “You’re dead.”
“You can’t give the dead orders,” The Hook shrugged. “I’m a boxer too, you know.”
“Stow it, I tell ya.”
“I’m also half Negro.”
The first man stared at him in astonishment, then dismissed him. “Ah, g’wan!”
“I’m dead serious. My mother was white, my father colored.” That combination might get him.
“Hey,” the first man snickered to Dave. “He says his mother fucked for niggers.”
“That’s right,” Hook said equably. “And it made me a better man than you.”
“You gonna take that, Charlie?” Dave grinned.
“It’s true.” The Hook’s eyes were like a cobra’s as he spoke to Charlie.
Charlie stirred uneasily. “Bullshit.”
“Come on, Charlie. I can take you. You’ve got twenty pounds on me, easy, but I can take you. Because I’m half black.”
“Shut up.”
Dave chuckled in the dark. “See? I’m right about Louis.”
Charlie swung wildly, his fist rocketing into Lock-wood’s chest. “Shut up your mouth!”
The Hook wheeled toward Charlie, but Dave held him back. “You’re yellow,” Lockwood taunted, eyes blazing at Charlie.
Tommy, the driver, turned toward them. “Prove he’s wrong, Charlie. We’re gonna decompose him one way or another. Why not start with our fists? Or is this guy right about you?”
“He’s lying. He’s no nigger.”
“So what? He’s acting uppity, like one.”
“Okay! Okay!” Charlie exploded. He grabbed Lockwood by the jacket, pulling him close, the rage flooding his face with color. “I’m gonna teach you somethin’ you’re never gonna forget, Nigger.”
“You’re on,” Lockwood responded, coldly. “And after I’m done with him,” he told the other two, “I’ll take on the rest of you, one at a time.”
Tommy jerked his head around, his lips a sneer. Dave stirred a bit next to him. Hard to tell, Lockwood decided, whether it was uneasiness, or anticipation.
Another few miles and they pulled up at a small dock. Off in the distance, Lockwood could hear the roar of the ocean and catch an occasional glimmer of light as a wave crested, then fell. They must be at an inlet of some sort, he concluded.
“Okay, out!” Charlie snarled, holding the door open.
Lockwood stepped out and ducked, as Charlie sent a blow thundering at him.
He danced back a few steps. “Wait a minute, Charlie. You’re saying Louis can’t fight. I say he can. And we can do it fighting fair. Let’s work it just like a boxing match. Tommy or Dave here can keep track of the rounds.”
“Up yours.”
“What’s the matter? Can’t you fight like a white man?” Hook egged him on, hoping this last would do it.
“I can outfight you any way you want, nigger-lover,” Charlie shouted. “I don’t think you’re a nigger, but I know you’re a nigger-lover.”
“You’ve got a watch, Tommy,” Lockwood said, “You can be time-keeper. And remember, Charlie, half of me is just like Louis. The better half.”
“Move on down to the dock,” Dave suggested. “It’ll be kind of like a ring.”
“Idiot!” Charlie snapped. “One jump and he’s in the water, and we’ve lost him.”
Lockwood sighed. The idea had occurred to him, too. What he really wanted now was a bed with clean, crisp sheets. Preferably with Stephanie alongside him, her warm, nude body close against his, gentling him. Come to think of it, possibly thinking about murdering him. Maybe I’m better off, Lockwood concluded, drily.
“Over this way, by the shed,” Tommy grunted, and they followed him.
“Remember, same rules Louis fights under. Clean punches, nothing below the belt, no kidney punches, no kicking, no gouging, no biting… no scratching,” Lockwood told Charlie, hoping to get under his skin a bit.
“What’ya think I am, some kinda pansy?” Charlie spat. “I knock your teeth down your throat with one punch.”
“Better make it the first one, Charlie,” Hook suggested. “You may not get a chance for another.”
Charlie growled, and shrugged it off, but Lockwood thought he saw a trace of uneasiness creep into his expression. Using the right psychology could be half the battle. The two of them removed their jackets and shirts.
“Okay, when I say go,” Tommy told them, and then counted off the seconds. “One… two… three… go!”
Lockwood expected Charlie to charge in, but he didn’t. Instead, he moved cautiously around his opponent, pawing at him. A tentative left or right would come in, and The Hook would brush it aside with ease. The Hook saw that Charlie, though outweighing him by twenty pounds or more, was maybe four inches shorter, and his arms didn’t have nearly the reach that Lockwood’s had. He spun out a left jab, and caught Charlie on the cheek.
“Ha! Got you, Charlie,” cried one of his pals.
Charlie said nothing, continuing to circle. He was apparently studying Lockwood, looking for openings, little defects in his defense. In all likelihood, Charlie was no amateur. The Hook shot another jab, but this time Charlie had his guard up before the punch landed.
“Now I know how you work,” Charlie breathed, eyes ugly. “Now I start to make mince pie out of you.”
Charlie began moving in closer, and Lockwood let him for a moment, then threw out another jab, which Charlie again brushed aside, but without the same results because a left to his midsection followed immediately. He doubled up, then fell into a clinch with The Hook. He ground a foot onto one of The Hook’s, and worked his head under The Hook’s chin, preparing to slam up against it, but Lockwood wrestled free, and moved back a few steps. “We need a referee,” he told Dave, but Dave just looked on impassively, working a toothpick in his mouth.
Charlie was in at him again. He was built a little like Galento, and fought like him, but with more finesse. Lockwood reached him with two quick jabs, Charlie reacting with more surprise than pain.
“Okay, that’s it for you,” Charlie murmured, and bore in. He threw a right hand that had his whole shoulder behind it, and it caught Lockwood on the arm, momentarily paralyzing it. No question, Charlie could hit.
The Hook danced off to the side, getting out a straight right that Charlie took on the side of the face. A globule of blood appeared almost immediately on his cheekbone. Poor Charlie. Looks as if he’s a bleeder, Lockwood decided, when “Time” came from Tommy, and the round was over.
The Hook sank back against the wall of the shed, and Charlie rested himself on the running board of the Cadillac.
“He gets the round, Charlie,” Dave said.
“Are you nuts?” Charlie screamed, using up precious breath. “I was all over him!”
“One… two… three… go!” Tommy called, a few seconds later, and Charlie was up and rushing. The Hook worked his body like a fullback, and Charlie shot past him, then was caught flush in the nose with a right as he spun around. He staggered back against the wall, shook his head, then came back in.
Lockwood held him off for a few moments, studying his craggy face. Lots of scar tissue above the eyes, it looked like. He picked at it with a quick right, then moved back. Charlie showed no reaction, just continued to close in. He threw a bolo punch, catching Lockwood under the ribs, but his right cross missed. The Hook straightened up, feinted a left, then a right, then a left, then barreled in two quick jabs at the ridge above Charlie’s eyes. A little trickle of blood began to form.
A crashing right caught Lockwood in the middle and he went down, stumbling over a rock as he lurched backward. Charlie sprang after him, but he scrambled out of the way, ducking punches, finally regaining his feet. Charlie thought he scented victory now and became careless, coming straight in. One, two, three, four jabs got him about the brows, and The Hook danced back, and surveyed his handiwork. Crimson was beginning to flow in a steady stream now, and Charlie was brushing awkwardly at his eyes.
“Time!”
Lockwood sank down where he stood, while Charlie stumbled back to the car and grabbed his shirt, trying to stanch the gush of blood.
“He gets that one, too, Charlie,” Dave told him.
“I’ll take care of you later,” Charlie growled, his breath coming fast and loud.
“One… two… three… go!”
Again Charlie came straight at him, trying to get it over with. He hurled a right that Lockwood could only partially deflect, and it caught him in the side, the pain immediate. In fury, he sent out an uppercut, and it caught Charlie on the bottom of the nose, rising up and splaying it, the blood spurting out.
“You better give it up, Charlie,” Dave shouted, as he saw the torrent, but Charlie came back in, full of blind rage now. The ridges over his eyes were starting to flow freely again.
The Hook danced away, circling to the right, Charlie shuffling after him, trying to get in the one big punch that would finish it all. Again Lockwood let loose with a series of jabs, and now Charlie’s face was awash in blood.
“That’s it, Charlie,” Tommy called.
“Shut up! He’s nothing! I can finish him!” Charlie yelled, one hand trying to clear away the blood, the other pawing the air.
Finally, one eye was clear, and he aimed a haymaker at The Hook, the sheer force of it breaking through the taller man’s defenses, hurtling into his chest, knocking the wind out of him.
Lockwood stood gasping, and Charlie swung out again, but this time his vision was obscured by the unimpeded bleeding, and he merely grazed his opponent, fist brushing right shoulder.
He’d left himself wide open, and The Hook had his breath back now. A right went into Charlie’s breadbasket, then a left, then a right uppercut to his chin, then a left hook, and Charlie went down like a sack of potatoes, limp and lumpy, hitting the ground cold, and then lying there flat out, not even twitching.
Lockwood sighed and sank to the ground. “Your turn, Dave,” he said.
Dave stared at him, and then moved toward Charlie. “He’s breathing, but that’s about it,” he told Tommy, who was hanging back, looking uneasy.
“Charlie could fight,” Lockwood said, the sweat pouring off him. “You I can beat easy.”
Dave just stared again.
“Come on. You yellow, too?”
“You’re crazy,” Dave told him.
“Maybe. But I’ve got guts. Have you?” It was a desperate ploy, but it was the only way out that Lockwood could see. Unsettle them, question their masculinity, take them on, and then maybe… maybe fight his way out of this.
“He’s crazy,” Dave told Tommy.
“Sure. But what the hell, why not take him up on it? You’ve been saying you could use a little workout.”
Dave looked doubtfully back at Lockwood. “You’re gonna die anyway. Wouldn’t you like to go out a little more comfortable-like?”
“You are yellow,” The Hook sneered at him. “You’re bigger than I am, heavier than I am, but you’re afraid of me.”
Dave studied him briefly, then slowly began removing his upper garments.
He dropped them into the car, and walked back. Charlie was still out. “I’ll hold the gun for a minute,” he told Tommy. “You move Charlie out of the way.”
Tommy shrugged, and handed the shotgun to Dave, then bent down and grabbed Charlie by the shoulders. He heaved, and slowly the inert Charlie moved over the terrain, his head bumping against a couple of rocks as he was dragged for ten feet or so.
“Okay, gimme the rifle,” Tommy told Dave. He cradled the weapon in his arm and began calling off the seconds.
“One… two… three… go!”
The Hook looked at Dave and decided the thug was probably right. He must be crazy. Dave was all muscle, and big. Like Charlie, he had all the moves of a pro, Lockwood could see that. The Hook glanced longingly at the dock, and the water beyond. If only he could run those few yards, plunge into the bay. He was a strong swimmer; not likely they’d find him. His gaze moved back to Tommy and the shotgun he was holding so casually. No way he could beat that. Probably he was crazy, doing what he was doing, but if he tried anything else, the likelihood was that he’d be dead.
Dave danced in, then back, and The Hook noticed he was just a bit awkward in his movements. It takes more than muscle, Dave, he said to himself. You’ve got to be able to move.
Lockwood sent out a left jab to the head, then a right, and Dave slipped them both. In return he uncorked a roundhouse right that sent up a breeze as it whizzed past Lockwood.
The Hook stung in a quick right while Dave tried to regain his balance, catching him on the side of the jaw and rocking him. He slammed a left into Dave’s exposed bicep, feinted with a right, then threw a left hook that ripped into the bigger man’s gut. A right, then a left and another right were picked off, as Dave got his guard up.
The Hook danced back, surveying his man. Damned if he didn’t look fully recovered.
Dave came at him, both hands up, protecting his face. Lockwood aimed for the stomach, but a left lashed out at him, catching him on the forehead, rocking him back.
“Nice shot!” Tommy called out.
Dave tried it again, hands high, and this time The Hook feinted to the stomach, then drove a punch straight through Dave’s defense, but doing no damage, as it landed on his upper chest. Another one like that, a little higher, Lockwood thought.
“Time.”
Lockwood slumped to the ground as before, right where he’d been standing, but Dave jogged back to the car and then perched himself, apparently unconcerned, against the fender. He seems to be in terrific condition, Lockwood thought sadly. No way I can wear this one down.
A noise was heard, and they all looked in the same direction. It was Charlie, finally beginning to stir.
“One… two… three… go!”
Dave danced eagerly in, muscles rippling in the moonlight.
The Hook jigged forward, then back, then circled to his right, Dave echoing his steps, now keeping a little more distance between the two of them. He’d finally realized he had the reach over Lockwood and was using it to his advantage. He threw a few jabs, making little contact, but setting up his rhythm.
He feinted with a left, then a right, then crashed out a straight right. The Hook ducked, moved inside, and rammed a left to the belly. It was a rough punch, but Dave took it well, skipping back a few steps, hands going, while he regained his breath.
Lockwood was tempted to goad him, to say something to get him going, maybe throw him off, but he realized it would be foolhardy. At this point he had to save his wind.
For a moment, his knees sagged, and he felt bone-weary.
He shook himself, trying to fight off the feeling. Can’t give in. Not now. He plowed toward Dave, then stopped abruptly, his movement disconcerting his foe and causing a right to whistle by harmlessly. Again he aimed for the throat, and again he missed it by just a bit, his knuckles now sore as once again they’d hit clavicle. He moved back a few steps and then edged to the right.
The Hook never saw the punch. He’d blinked for a moment, the weariness hitting him again, and in that instant the fist exploded in, flush on the jaw. He hung there for an instant, then toppled.
“Three.”
“Four.”
Lockwood wondered where he was, his hands tentatively searching out the ground.
“Five.”
His eyes began to clear, and he saw two feet pointed toward him, a yard apart, planted firmly on the sand.
“Six.”
Dave. Now he remembered. He was fighting Dave.
“Seven.”
He had to get up. He couldn’t remember why, but he had to get up.
“Eight.”
He was on one knee, cobwebs still clouding his brain. Up. All the way. He had to get up all the way.
“Nine.”
He was up, wobbling unsteadily. Dave was coming at him, right fist cocked.
“Time.”
Dave dropped his hands, glared at Tommy and then The Hook, then swung around and sauntered nonchalantly back to the car. “I’ll get him next round,” he told Tommy.
“You won both of ’em so far,” Tommy told him.
Something to drink. Lockwood’s mouth felt like the Sahara, although his body was awash in his own fluids. “How about some water?” he gasped to Tommy.
Tommy just chuckled. “Why waste it on you?” he asked. He looked down at his watch. “Almost time now. One… two… three. Go!”
Lockwood was on his feet, desperately summoning up… not just strength but alertness. He had to be at his best to have any chance at all and that meant mind as well as body. He opened his eyes wide, trying to expel the weariness. Again Dave had his hands up high, advancing steadily on him.
The Hook breathed deep, once, twice. He feinted with a left, then a right, then two lefts in a row. Dave just kept on coming.
He did a little dance, then stopped, his legs not responding the way they should. Again he feinted, once, twice, his feet planted firmly against the ground. Dave smiled, and threw a few exploratory punches, one of them barely missing Lockwood’s forehead.
One last try. The Hook aimed two in a row to the top of Dave’s head, hoping to throw in a third to the Adam’s apple when the guard moved up just a bit.
But it didn’t work. His timing was off now, and Dave merely backed off from the punches, then advanced on him all over again. A few feet away he heard the sound of vomiting. Must be Charlie.
Dave tore off one punch, then two, aiming for the head, but Lockwood was able to slip them, and in return got in a solid smash to Dave’s solar plexus.
Dave, looking more than a little pained, backed off, and Lockwood, encouraged, bore in on him. He reached him with a right to the ribs, and now Dave began to break into a sweat as he struggled to regain the momentum of the fight.
“You cocky bastard! I’ve had enough of you,” he shouted, and rushed.
It was his undoing. This time his hands were up just a little too high, and The Hook skipped the feints, jolting a left straight into his opponent’s throat, stopping him dead.
Dave’s eyes bulged as he fought for breath, and Lockwood ripped one, then two, into the mark, further paralyzing his breathing apparatus. Dave’s legs began to turn to rubber, and The Hook belted a left flush onto his nose, Dave dropping his hands in shock.
Lockwood took careful aim. An uppercut sailed out, all of his weight behind it, its target Dave’s invitingly large chin.
The blow made a three-point landing, hitting exactly where it should, and Dave straightened up, then dropped, like a giant redwood felled by a timberman’s axe.
Tears of weariness welled up in Lockwood’s eyes, and, rocking with exhaustion, he turned toward Tommy. Tommy had the shotgun trained on him.
“What’s wrong? Afraid you can’t take me either?” Lockwood whispered, too gone to give it full voice.
Charlie stirred. “Kill ‘im! Kill the bastard!”
Tommy aimed the shotgun.
“Not the gun, stupid! Beat the crap out of ‘im! Look at him! He’s half-dead now! Gowan! Gimme the rifle and kill ‘im!”
Tommy considered a moment, looking at the drooping Hook, whose face was haggard in the false dawn, perspiration coating him, trousers ragged and stained. “All right,” he said, and stripped down to his pants and shoes.
“Here’s the watch,” he told Charlie.
“Forget the watch! Just nail him!”
Tommy wasn’t quite the opponent the other two were. He was big, but Lockwood could see he was an amateur. Nonetheless, at this point, he was probably more than enough for Lockwood to handle. Again, The Hook thought longingly about the comfort of the bed in his hotel room. Just to lie down, even for a second or two….
“Get your hands up, buddy,” Tommy said, and Lockwood realized he’d just been standing there, wide open. He stumbled back a few steps, getting his hands up in some semblance of defense. It was all he could do to hold them up there, both of them drained by fatigue and the blows they’d received.
Tommy tapped out a few punches, all of them falling far short of the target. He really had no technique. Lockwood tried to make quick work of it, forcing his body to respond while it could. He feinted once, then hit toward the midsection, but the blow landed without force.
“This sucker can’t hit,” Tommy laughed, emboldened. He moved in a little closer, and his next two punches were not quite as far off the mark.
The Hook shuffled to the right, then back to the left, searching out his enemy. Tommy was wide open in both directions. The problem was, how to take advantage of it, with two arms that felt like lead weights.
“Get ’im! Get ’im!” Charlie urged again. Dave was sitting near Charlie now, hand carefully stroking his windpipe.
Tommy swung out, and this time he accomplished what he’d set out to do, reaching The Hook and tumbling him backward. He backed off and let Lockwood get up.
“Wha’d joo do that for? Kill ‘im!” Charlie screamed. “Kill ‘im or I’ll blast the both of yez!”
“Stow it, Charlie,” Tommy snapped. “One more word from you, and I’ll—” he turned back toward Lockwood. “Okay, pallie, I’ve stalled around enough.”
The Hook again realized he was just standing there, swaying, arms down. His heart was pounding, his eyes half closed no matter how he fought to keep them open. Tommy was coming at him, and there was only one thing left to do.
He put it all into one punch, driving straight in, and it took the younger man off guard, his eyes astonished as he saw the fist coming at him, too stunned to do anything, just watching, watching as it closed in, all in a split second.
Tommy went back, back, back, legs moving automatically, then failing him as he struck heels against a log, and fell, unconscious, on the sand near the dock.
The Hook found the shed, and leaned against it, too tired to think of what to do next.
“Stupid son of a bitch, Tommy.” It was Charlie. “A schoolboy could’ve took him!” The sun was coming up now, and Lockwood could see the fresh clots of blood covering much of Charlie’s face. Bleeder indeed.
The shotgun swung in The Hook’s direction. “Mister, I don’t know who the hell you are, but I don’t know anyone who ever deserved to die more.”
Time for instinctive self-preservation to come into play, Lockwood told himself with grim amusement, knowing his exhaustion had long passed that point. Instead, he just stood there and waited, watching the muzzle of the shotgun.
“You don’t get no last words, nothin’. I’m taking you out right here.”
“Charlie, you can’t do it like that… the cops… ,” Dave said in a strangled voice.
“Shaddup. I wanna watch him die. I wanna see the blood pour outta all the holes I’m gonna make in him. I wanna show him he can bleed, too!” He raised the rifle to his shoulder and took aim.
Lockwood heard the blast and stood there, waiting for it to be over. Instead, he saw Charlie’s eyes widen, and his body push forward, one step, two steps, then start to sag, astonishment written all over the face as blood began to flow out of the part of his chest that was no longer solid, but instead a dark, gaping hole.
The rest of them, Lockwood, Dave, and Tommy, were looking back beyond Charlie now, ignoring him as he crumpled to the ground. They watched, immobile, as a dark form moved toward them, into the light.
It was Raff. Nonchalant as ever, a rifle held lightly in one hand as he ambled forward.
Dave went for the gun at his waist, but stopped halfway there. The rifle was already in position, aimed dead at him.
“H’lo, Hook,” Raff smiled, as if he were there for a game of croquet. Lockwood just looked back at him gratefully, and slowly, his back against the shed, sagged to the ground.
“You all right?” Raff called, Tommy and Dave still between him and Lockwood.
The Hook nodded almost imperceptibly, even that motion nearly too much for him.
Raff nodded in return and then directed his attention to the remaining two gunmen. “Stand up,” he told them, “and face away from me.”
Reluctantly, very reluctantly, they obeyed.
Raff searched them, removed two pistols and a knife, then backed toward Lockwood, keeping his eyes on the two.
“Can you keep this trained on the gentleman at the right?” he asked him, offering one of the automatics, his eyes never leaving Tommy and Dave.
“Yes.” The Hook raised his knees, then perched the gun there to steady it, both hands holding the weapon.
“Okay.” Raff straightened up, grabbed some rope that was hanging from the shed, then led Tommy away to a tree where he trussed him up, quickly and efficiently. Satisfied Tommy was secure, he did the same to Dave. With not much interest, he walked over to where Charlie had fallen, nudged him a bit with his foot, and said to Lockwood, “This one seems okay the way he is.”
The Hook nodded and rose. “Let’s go,” he said. Sitting for those few minutes had done him good, and already his body was beginning to recover. “How did you get here?” he asked.
Raff led him to the Cord. “It took a bit of persuasion, but luckily the fellow they’d left guarding me was easily persuaded. First, I persuaded him with my knee, then with a handy two-by-four. Then, after he decided it was time to wake up, I persuaded him by holding a Colt to his throat, on the theory it might help manipulate his vocal chords. Happily, my theory was correct, and he told me where I might find you.” He looked at Lockwood and smiled. “Those were three lovely fights.”
“What?”
“Those were three lovely fights.”
“You saw them? My fights?”
“Well, most of them. Missed a bit of the first. All that traffic on the way here, you know.”
“You son of a bitch. All that time, you were there! And you just sat there and watched!”
Raff laughed. “I’m mad for sports. Especially boxing.”
Lockwood just stared at him, and then laughed himself. Raff put an arm around him, and they strode to the car, laughing together, hard, then harder, then helplessly. “Goddamn,” Lockwood finally said. “You’re a good man, Raff. Nuts, and despite it all, still a suspect, but a good man.”
Raff drove them back to the city. Stephanie was waiting in Lockwood’s apartment at the hotel and was full of concern and questions. But Lockwood said little, letting her bathe him and stroke him, reveling, finally, in the softness of the bed, Stephanie next to him, clucking over him. His bruised hands began to work at her clothes, clumsily, finally getting them off so that he could press her body against his. It soothed him for a while, and then he felt other stirrings, and they made love, slowly and quietly, grinding together until finally she, and then he, exploded. A few seconds later, he was asleep.
It was three in the afternoon when he awakened. The phone had rung, but when he answered, the line clicked off. “I’m going to see Muffy,” he told Stephanie, “and I’m seeing her alone.”
He showered, then dressed, then called Muffy. “I’m coming over,” he told her, and she offered no resistance. Stephanie, too, was compliant, sitting in an easy chair by the door, kissing his hand silently as he left.