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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