The Death of Lorenzo Jones Read Online Free Page B

He would run
     up the expense account on Robin and maybe get the company off the hook by finding someone who would swear that Lorenzo Jones
     had been bent on suicide when he took off that day. Simple. Now things were looking down, not up. And he didn’t even know
     who was on first. But whoever planted that bomb was Major League. All the way.
    When he finished disconnecting the bomb, he didn’t know what to do with it. He dropped it in the trunk, got in the Cord, turned
     on the Motorola to a Glen Miller tune, and started driving slowly.
    A flood of possible enemies came to mind. Trouble was, most were in jail. There was Lefty Springfield, doing time in Sing
     Sing as a result of Hook’s handiwork. Then Inky McGuinness, the two-bit card shark he had helped send up. Hook had eliminated
     those two. They would be incarcerated for a while yet.
    No, the most likely guy was Jerry Castagna, the safecracker. Jerry had gotten in Hook’s way once and was sent up as a result.
     He was out on parole as of last week. But safecrackers were safe-crackers, not killers.
    It
could
be related to this new case. He hadn’t even gotten started yet; but the smart boys knew his reputation. Maybe there was foul
     play in this after all. Gray had a nose for these things. He had mentioned murder. Maybe someone was playing fast and loose
     with dynamite to get Greerson on the case. Greerson was Transatlantic’s second-best troubleshooter. They might want to deal
     with him instead of Hook.
    A few blocks on, Lockwood spotted a familiar figure entering a telephone booth. It was Half-Pint, the two-bit hired heater.
     Hook had tangled with him before. Maybe he should see what Half-Pint was up to. Maybe he had been wiring bombs to Cords.
    Half-Pint was called Half-Pint for obvious reasons. He could barely reach to put the nickel in the telephone. He was as mean
     as they come, however. Scorpions were small but deadly. He always had a toothpick working in his mouth, and his teeth were
     bad. He was out of Chicago, where things had gotten too hot for him. For the past few years he had been working for the Mob
     out of Hell’s Kitchen, doing unpleasant things to people’s knuckles and thumbs if they didn’t pay the five percent weekly
     interest his bosses charged.
    Not that the squirt worked people over himself. No, he was the brain, the director of a group of bruisers who had tagged along
     when he left Chicago. He scared people because they saw the sadism and the insanity in his little beady eyes. He could think
     up lots of things to do to your arms and legs if you didn’t pay up. Then he would stand there and snicker, working that toothpick
     around, as his goons did the work on you.
    Half-Pint stood in the telephone booth, his oversized suit-coat (they didn’t make them ready-made that small) hanging over
     him like a curtain.
    Damn, Lockwood wished he could hear the voice on the other end. Hook got out of his car and slipped unseen into the next booth
     and listened at the glass. Half-Pint’s back was to him.
    Lockwood only heard Half-Pint say, “Yeah.” a few times before he hung up.
    Lockwood grabbed the lapel of the little creep as he stepped out. “Going somewhere, squirt?”
    Half-Pint paled as if he had seen a ghost. “B-b-ut y-you’re de—”
    “Why should I be dead?” Lockwood grabbed the punk and shoved him against the wall. Half-Pint was never good at keeping his
     trap shut, so Lockwood thought it would be easy to get him to squeal. Easy except for the two goons who suddenly came at Lockwood
     from behind.
    A blackjack blow glanced along his left ear, stunning him, and landed on his shoulder. It would have cracked his collarbone
     were it not for his suit’s padding. Lockwood went with the force of the blow, moving to absorb its energy, and then turned
     to face his adversaries.
    Killer Dumbrowsky came rushing toward Hook, his huge ugly face contorted with manic laughter. His hands looked as big as bulldozers
     as they