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Authors: Brad Latham

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“Like—anything else,” Lockwood repeated. “Any other sound you might have heard.”

“No.”

“Nothing? The street was completely quiet? Even at three-thirty in the morning, that’s unusual for Manhattan.”

“Well, the usual street noises—you know, a car going by, the sound of a subway train, maybe. Wait a minute—” Black stopped
in his tracks—“there
was
something else.”

“What?”

“Let me think—I can’t tell you yet—it’s just something at the back of my mind—” Black closed his eyes, and seemed to be concentrating.
“I’ve got it!” he cried, his eyes snapping open. “As I reached the club, I heard the sound of footsteps. Running. Running
away.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. There was something very distinctive about them.”

“Distinctive?”

“Right. They had a peculiar rhythm. As if the one who was running kept going off the beat.”

“Off the beat,” The Hook repeated. “Can you clarify that?”

“No, that’s it. Just something funny about the sound. Irregular.”

“Mmm.” Lockwood looked up and down the street. He sensed he’d gotten all he could out of Black. “Okay,” he said, finally.
“Anything else that might be helpful?”

Black shrugged. He seemed to be getting restive. “No. Nothing.”

Lockwood scrutinized him carefully, then gave a shrug of his own. “Okay,” he said, handing Black his card. “If you think of
anything, call me.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Black said, already moving away. “Take care.”

Halfway up the block, Lockwood turned and looked back. Black was walking slowly past a large-windowed shop, his head turned
to the left. Watching, the detective realized Black might not have been standing so long in front of the club where so many
had died so horribly because of the feelings the event had engendered in him. Judging by what he seemed to be doing now, the
good-looking patrolman might simply have been standing in front of the club’s doors, staring at his reflection in their glass
panels.

They were waiting for him when he got back to his hotel. Vinnie’s boys.

“Hiyah, Lockwood,” Sleepy Pischetti said, leaning against the side of the building.

Lockwood felt something jabbing into his side. From the corner of his eye he saw Eddie Coughlin pushing against him. When
he glanced in the other direction, he could see Solly Malik grinning at him. “You boys looking for a fourth for bridge?” Lockwood
asked.

The toothpick Pischetti had been working in his mouth went still, and then slanted downward. “You been listenin’ to too much
Jack Benny,” Pischetti said. “That kind of stuff don’t do you no good.”

“I gather making whoopee with Griese’s girlfriend isn’t doing me too much good either,” Lockwood returned, looking Pischetti
over. The gunman had a hand in one of his coat pockets, and seemed to be fondling something. At least two guns were pointed
in his direction. Not the best of odds, he concluded.

He heard Coughlin laugh. “So that’s why he wants you out of the way!” Coughlin cried, with a giggle. “Jesus. Did you guys
know that?” he asked his two confederates.

Pischetti ignored him. “We could drill you here, Lockwood, but if it’s all the same with you, I’d rather not. We got our escape
routes picked out an’ everythin’, but it’d all involve running. I don’t like to run.” He pointed to a large black Packard
parked half a block away. “Me—my idea of doin’ things right is to use a car.”

Lockwood shrugged. He’d buy all the time he could. “If you can take the New York traffic, so can I.”

They headed downtown, and then over the Bridge to Brooklyn.

“Canarsie?” Lockwood asked. Malik was driving and Pischetti and Coughlin were in the back seat, on either side of him.

“Where else?” Coughlin laughed. “Ground’s soft out there. Nice marshes, also, if you’re too lazy to dig.”

They moved off Rockaway Parkway and onto a side-street, drove three blocks and then stopped. The area was empty of houses,
just a large wooden fence in disrepair looming ahead.

“Okay, out,” Pischetti said, and the four of them left the car.

They pointed him toward the fence, Malik behind him, Pischetti and Coughlin alongside. Lockwood obeyed, curious about where
they were leading him, curious about who might be on the other side of the fence.

They passed through an opening, and Lockwood saw what appeared to be an abandoned lumberyard, another victim of the Depression,
wood weathering badly in slumping piles, a weather-beaten framed wooden building standing at the top of a small rise, its
windowpanes shattered. Off to the side and down was a medium-sized pond, half-choked with debris.

“All right,” Pischetti said, as the three of them halted.

“This is it?” Lockwood asked, surprised. There was no one else there.

“You didn’t think that we were takin’ you to the Stork Club?” Coughlin giggled.

“I expected Griese,” Lockwood answered.

“You think he’s gonna waste his time with a mug like you?” Pischetti asked. “Okay, walk ahead a coupla steps, with your back
to us.”

Lockwood didn’t move. “It’s not just the fooling around then,” he said.

“What?”

“If it was the fooling around, you boys would rough me up, and Griese would be there to watch and enjoy, and maybe get in
on the fun himself. But your wanting me put away, that suggests another motive.”

“What the hell you talkin’ about?” Coughlin asked.

Lockwood continued, eyes sizing up everything around him as he spoke. “The Palms night club. You guys torched it. Killed all
those people inside.”

The three hoods looked at each other.

“Don’t waste time talkin’ to him,” Malik said. “He ain’t worth the trouble.”

“The cops know it’s arson,” Lockwood said. “They’ll get you, eventually.”

“You’re sayin’ Griese burned down The Palms?” Coughlin asked, genuine surprise in his voice.

“Can it,” Pischetti said. “We take him out now.”

It was time to stop fishing, Lockwood decided. Pischetti and Malik were too edgy. Another second, and their fingers could
be squeezing.

His left arm shot out and grabbed at Coughlin, stuffing up a fistful of jacket, pulling it toward, and then past him, the
astonished Coughlin inside, hurtling into Pischetti, Lockwood’s body right behind Coughlin’s, so that for an instant the three
of them were one mass, too close together for Malik to chance getting off a shot.

He already had Coughlin’s gun hand in both of his own hands, and aimed toward Malik, pulling back on Coughlin’s trigger finger.
The gun went off, and Malik jumped.

Lockwood couldn’t see the rest because now he was struggling with Coughlin and Pischetti, who was trying to get around his
pal, trying to reach around and plug Lockwood with his .32.

Lockwood used the old schoolkid trick, ramming the fronts of his knees into the backs of Eddie’s, buckling them, then pushing
the off-balance Eddie hard into Pischetti.

As the two staggered backward, Lockwood reached down for the rusting crowbar he’d spotted as he’d harangued them. In a flash
it was in his hands and rising up, slamming hard against the underside of Coughlin’s jaw just as the mobster whipped around,
intent on wiping out The Hook.

If he’d had time to watch, Lockwood might have been sickened as the iron bar crunched into Coughlin, splitting flesh and splintering
bone, but he was already on Pischetti, swinging the pitted weapon against Pischetti’s gun hand, knocking the weapon five feet
into the air.

Pischetti wasted no time, ducking to the ground, and coming up with a steel bar of his own. Out of the corner of his eye,
Lockwood saw Malik sprawled out on the ground, gasping for breath, a bright red liquid trickling out between the buttons of
his vest. One against one, now.

The heavy rod of steel was coming down at him, and he held the crowbar out in defense, arms outstretched, hearing the sharp
clang! as the two weapons met, feeling the shattering vibrations crash through his hands. Damn. Another couple of those and
he wouldn’t be able to keep his grip.

He swung the bar back, and feinted with it, twice, Pischetti moving his weapon defensively, then, seizing an opening, swinging
again.

This time the two bars met in midair, smashing together, and once more the shock tore through Lock-wood’s hands, and through
Pischetti’s as well, the detective saw with satisfaction, as the stricken thug dropped the steel, and dove for his pistol.

Lockwood leapt atop him, grabbing for the hand that had the pistol, viselike fists slamming the hand into the ground, again,
and again, aiming it for the sharp rocks that littered the area, trying to weaken Pischetti’s grip.

At last the weapon dropped, and Lockwood leapt off Pischetti, spinning him over. His fist was halfway toward the gunman’s
face when he got the knee in his groin.

He went down and back, doubled up in pain, as Pischetti again turned and fumbled for the gun. His hand found a brick, and
as Pischetti spun, he threw it, hard and true.

The brick broke Pischetti’s nose. He could hear the sound, a kind of a splat, and then saw the results; what had been Romanesque
suddenly dissolved into a flattened, mishapen lump. You had to give Pischetti credit, though, Lockwood mused, as he fought
off his assailant. The son-of-a-bitch was tough. Eyes blackening, nose streaming blood, Pischetti was already on him, screaming
his hate, punching, and pulling, clawing, kicking, doing everything he could to annihilate the man who had so suddenly shattered
his entire being with pain—raw, searing pain.

Lockwood fought back, desperately. Pischetti was like a madman, raining blows on him, cursing, spurting blood with every movement.
He felt himself lose balance, and go down, and tried to roll, Pischetti on top of him, still screaming, thumbs outstretched,
going for the eyes.

And the rolling continued. Lockwood, disoriented, wasn’t sure at first, but then he was. They were tumbling down a hill, skidding,
clothes tearing, rocks digging into their flesh as they continued on, down, down, down.

All at once Lockwood felt the sudden cold of water as they tumbled into a pond. Under the surface now, Pischetti was still
on him, his hands about his throat, tightening, tightening…

He dropped his hands in a last desperate attempt, going into his pocket, pulling out an object, then tearing at it with his
free hand, and then, as he could feel the black closing in around his brain, jabbing out, hard. And then deep.

He felt the grip relax, felt the black recede, and desperately fought himself free, struggled his way up toward the surface,
lungs burning, straining, near bursting. And then breaking through, sucking in the sweet cool air, falling below again, then
coming up for good, swimming one, two strokes, to the edge of the pond with his right hand, his left holding on to the inert
bundle that was Sleepy Pischetti.

When he hauled the dead man out, Lockwood’s jack-knife was still jammed halfway up his gut.

Chapter Six

Len Claypool had an apartment on West Forty-sixth, all the way west. With a job like this, it paid to stay in shape, Lockwood
decided, as he trudged up the final flight of stairs of the mouldering tenement, hoping that this time Claypool was in. Finding
out meant a five-story hike, what with no phone and no buzzer downstairs.

There was no bell at the door either, so he knocked, and then stood for a while, the pungent aromas of the building flooding
unbidden into his nostrils. Why did the poor seem to place so heavy a reliance on nutmeg, he wondered.

After a suitable pause, he knocked again, harder. This time he heard a stirring, and a few seconds later, footsteps. “Yes?”
a voice asked.

“Len Claypool?”

“Who is it?”

“My name’s Bill Lockwood. I’m from the Transatlantic Underwriters Insurance Company.”

“I don’t need any.”

“I’m not selling insurance. I’m investigating the fire at The Palms night club.”

There was silence, and then slowly, the door drew back. Lockwood found himself staring at a fifteen-year-old.

“I’m looking for Len Claypool,” he said.

“I’m Len Claypool” the kid answered.

“Senior, not junior.”

Anger flared in Claypool’s eyes. “How old do you think I am?”

Lockwood stared at him. Hard. The question indicated otherwise, but, “I’d say fifteen, maybe sixteen.”

Claypool made an angry hissing noise. “Thirty-two. Can you believe that? I’m thirty-two goddamn years old.”

Lockwood looked at him. Anything was possible, he’d learned a long time ago. Still, it was hard to swallow. “Okay,” he said,
slowly, “so then you’re the Len Claypool I’ve come to see.”

“What about?”

“Look, it’s a hot day, and I’ve had a long, hard climb. This’ll require a little time. Could I come in?”

Claypool peered at him, considered, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He drew the door open, and Lockwood entered.

The place was in bad shape. Only one electric light socket seemed to be working. Either that, or Claypool couldn’t afford
bulbs for the other three fixtures that jutted out from the walls or hung from the ceiling. The floors were bare, even of
paint or varnish, just well-worn wood, gray with New York dust and grit. The walls were sagging and cracked, painted a once-shiny,
utilitarian enamel brown.

“How long did you work at The Palms?” he asked. Hard to believe tips had been so poor that this was all Claypool could afford.

Claypool ignored him while staring into a clouded mirror that was dangling from a frayed string on the wall. “Thirty-two years
old. And I still look like I did back in grammar school. It’s my curse.”

He came up to Lockwood and pushed his face near the detective’s. “Look at this. Thirty-two and not a line, right? Thirty-two
and barely a hint of whisker, right? Eyes as bright and fresh-looking as a twelve-year-old, right? Christ, I can’t even find
a goddamn gray hair or even a stinking bald spot!”

“Some people would be happy about that,” Lockwood offered.

“Happy! Yeah, like Midas was happy! It’s a goddamn curse, I tell you!” They were in the kitchen, and Claypool sank down onto
a beat-up wooden chair by the table. “And in my business, of all things!”

BOOK: Corpses in the Cellar
12.67Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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