The Devereaux File
Page 7
Devereaux’s cold-blooded murder appeared to be running a distant second to the fact that his attaché case had vanished, and the whole cockeyed world seemed to be laboring under the impression that Lockington had knowledge of its whereabouts. He reached the Pontiac in the drenched, poorly lighted expanse behind Olenick’s Funeral Home, fumbling for the ignition key in a gusty west wind and a rain that was turning nasty. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, he sensed them, and he turned to look down the barrel of what appeared to be a Colt .45 automatic pistol, a close-range weapon that can decapitate a man. It was held unwaveringly by a lean, hook-nosed fellow with an Errol Flynn mustache and a receding chin. The newcomer said, “Get in the car, hotshot—you and me gonna have us a little chat about Rufe Devereaux.” Lockington recognized the raspy voice of Sgt. Joe Delvano. He also recognized a big man who’d materialized silently from the shadows to stand behind Delvano. The big man growled, “Drop the gun or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
Delvano froze, the Colt .45 clattering on the blacktop. The big man kicked it across the parking lot. He placed his left hand on Delvano’s right shoulder, turning him clockwise, busting him on the jaw with a whistling right haymaker. Delvano, suddenly airborne, arched to crash-land face-down on the hood of a white Chevrolet, adhering to its surface with the animation of that much raw liver. Moose Katzenbach turned to Lockington. He said, “Lacey, this is a piss-poor neighborhood.”
Driving west on Irving Park Road, Lockington whistled tunelessly to the beat of his frayed windshield wipers. After a while he said, “Thanks, Moose.”
Moose said, “My pleasure. I stopped to gargle a few beers and I got to thinking maybe you might need some help, so I grabbed a cab.”
Lockington said, “Who was the cat with the howitzer?”
Moose said, “Bugsy Delvano—third-rate syndicate monkey. I didn’t recognize the other one.”
“The other one?”
“Yeah, there was a guy who followed you out of Olenick’s. Any damn fool coulda seen he was on your trail, so I stopped him and asked who he was. I might of let him go if he hadn’t been a wiseass.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me he was with the CIA. That pissed me off.”
“Uh-huh—where is he now?”
“I whacked him one and I stuffed him in a garbage can on the north side of the building.”
Lockington groaned a bowel-wrenching groan. “Jeezus Christ!”
Moose shook his head. “Naw, Lacey—impossible. No beard, no robe, no sandals, and he was packing a heater.”
22
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0803 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: LOCKINGTON APPROACHED BY DELLICK/ NO SOAP/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 0904 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: FIVE THOUSAND NOT ENOUGH?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0805 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: MONEY APPARENTLY NO OBJECT/ DELLICK SLUGGED/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 0906 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: LOCKINGTON?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0806 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: NEGATIVE/ DELLICK/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 0907 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: WILL REPHRASE/ DID LOCKINGTON SLUG DELLICK?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0808 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: NEGATIVE/ SOMEBODY ELSE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 0909 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: WHERE DELLICK SLUGGED?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0810 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: BETWEEN EYES/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 0910 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: WILL REPHRASE/ WHERE DELLICK WHEN SLUGGED?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0811 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: DRIVEWAY OLENICK FUNERAL HOME NORTH CLARK STREET CHICAGO/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 0912 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: MONEY LIFTED?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0812 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: NEGATIVE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 0913 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: GUN?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0813 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: NEGATIVE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 0914 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: DELLICK DESCRIBE ASSAILANT?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0815 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: AFFIRMATIVE/ APPROX HEIGHT 14 FT/ APPROX WEIGHT 600 LBS/ NEEDED SHAVE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 0916 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: ODD THAT MONEY AND GUN NOT HEISTED/ MOTIVE FOR ATTACK?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0817 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: PROBABLY PSYCHOPATH/ PSYCHOPATHS DONT NEED MOTIVES/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 0918 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: WHERE LOCKINGTON NOW?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0818 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: UNKNOWN/ DELLICK FOLLOWING LOCKINGTON WHEN SLUGGED/ WILL RENEW CONTACT SHORTLY/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 0919 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: IMPERATIVE NOT LOSE LOCKINGTON/ CODE LOCKINGTON BIRD DOG EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0820 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: UNDERSTOOD/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LINE CLEARED LANGLEY 0920 EDT/ 5/26/88
23
Chicago, Illinois is a city of gross excesses, its weather not excluded. On that May Thursday morning the heat was stifling, coiling around the throat boa constrictor-style, boiling from the blistered asphalt of Kimball Avenue to cascade into Reindorff’s Gift and Flower Shop with Lockington’s entrance. He closed the door behind him hurriedly, luxuriating in the coolness of the place. The woman at the counter was rather attractive for her probable fifty years, Lockington thought—she had neatly groomed, slightly wavy, gray-streaked dark hair, a pug nose, a soft mouth, and she wore a loose, open brown smock over a starchy white blouse and sharply pressed beige slacks. She was arranging red silk tulips in a white ceramic vase and she glanced up, her green eyes sparkling inquisitively behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. “Yes, sir—may I be of assistance?” This puzzled Lockington. In Chicago they hardly ever ask.
He said, “I hope so, ma’am.” He took out his billfold to flash the tarnished badge he’d neglected to turn in. There were times when it came in handy. “Chicago Police, ma’am—we’re backtracking a floral piece sent yesterday from Reindorff’s to Olenick’s Funeral Home on North Clark Street. The name of the deceased was Devereaux—Rufus Devereaux.”
The lady in the brown smock squinted, reaching for a thick blue ledger on the countertop, pulling it to her, then pushing it away. “No need for that. I remember it now—our Imperial grouping. Lovely thing. You’ve seen it?”
“Yes, ma’am, yesterday evening—exquisite. Who was the sender, do you recall?”
“Certainly—a woman named Pickens. She’s well known in the Logan Square neighborhood. She operates a country music tavern on Milwaukee Avenue, just around the corner, practically.” She jammed red silk tulips into the vase with savage thrusts. “Oh, I could tell you a few things about that one, if you’re interested.”
She was hopeful that he’d be interested, Lockington could tell. He said, “Every bit of information helps, ma’am. Are you acquainted with Miss Pickens on a personal basis?”
“I wouldn’t be caught on the same side of the street with her! I’m aware of the things she does!”
Lockington lit a cigarette, saying nothing but nodding a green light.
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She was in high gear now, gathering momentum. “You know about the country music element, I suppose.”
“Not really. What about the country music element?”
“Why, these people have sex indiscriminately—like animals!”
“Is that a fact?”
“It most assuredly is, and they say that this Pickens creature has—er-r-r—would obliged be the word I’m looking for?”
“Probably, if you want to use more than four letters.”
“No, let’s make it accommodated—accommodated conveys my meaning clearly enough, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’ll do just dandy, ma’am.”
“All right, she’s accommodated as many as four of those scruffy guitar players in the same bed at the same time! Now isn’t that downright revolting?”
“Not if you’re a scruffy guitar player.”
“Her first name’s Bobbie, but they call her Easy—Easy Pickens. You grasp the significance, I’m certain.”
Lockington shrugged comprehension of the significance, studying the ash of his cigarette.
She said, “What’s she done? Nothing will shock me, I guarantee!”
“It’s a police matter, ma’am—I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“But it’ll be in the newspapers, won’t it—I mean eventually?”
“Eventually is a long word, ma’am.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she giggled. “My, but you’re interesting! I’ve always labored under the impression that policemen were—were—oh, damn, what is the word?”
“Scruffy, ma’am?”
“No, doltish—I’ve already used scruffy and I simply detest repetition!”
Lockington said, “‘Use not vain repetitions as the heathen do, for they think they shall be heard for their much speaking.’”
She clapped her hands. “Oh, that’s excellent! Who said it?”
“My father—he used it twenty times a day.”
“It sounds almost biblical.”
“It is biblical—it’s the only verse my old man ever memorized.”
“I could tell you more about this Pickens female, if it’ll aid in your investigation.”
“I believe I have all I’ll need at this time. You’ve been extremely helpful, ma’am—I want to thank you for your cooperation.”
“You’re entirely welcome! You’re much nicer than Sergeant Delvano—Sergeant Delvano was—well, scruffy.”
“Joe? When was Joe in?”
“Yesterday afternoon, three or so. I’m a widow—my name’s Martha Merriam. I don’t believe I caught yours.”
Lockington said, “Voltaire—Sergeant Voltaire.”
“Any relation to the French playwright?”
Lockington turned to go. “No, but my cousin pitched for the Toledo Mudhens.” He went out. The heat was clamping down on Chicago, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He crossed the street to his car and a gray Buick missed running him down by three-quarters of an inch. There was a heavy-set woman at the wheel. Lockington shrugged. Some things never change.
24
Lockington drove south on Milwaukee Avenue, southeast, really—Milwaukee Avenue runs on a diagonal. The Club Howdy was on his left, and Moose Katzenbach’s report had been accurate—it was a different Club Howdy now. Its shabby gray shingles had been replaced by neat beige brick veneer. Its gaudy flashing red neon sign was gone. The new sign was smaller, pale blue, reserved. Throw in Moose’s description of the Club Howdy’s interior and it stood to reason that Bobbie Jo Pickens was cutting a hefty buck belting out country ballads. Or she was sleeping with the right people. Or both.
Lockington was entertaining a host of second thoughts. Second thoughts were new to him—he’d never had time for them. Although rarely a player of sudden hunches, he’d been given to responding to first impulses, often rashly, sometimes violently. Procrastination and Lacey Lockington were virtual strangers, this providing the reason for Lockington being alive and reasonably well in Chicago. As a police detective he’d prowled the dark corners of the city, and spontaneous action had become a habit. There’d been moments when it’d been all that’d stood between him and a cemetery plot.
At this stage of the ball game, he found himself in a position to empathize with Mrs. O’Leary’s much maligned cow. The hapless bovine had done no more than kick over a lantern. She’d burned Chicago to the ground. Lockington was no less innocent. He’d dropped into a local hotel to hoist a few with an old friend. He’d wound up smack dab in the middle of a red-hot homicide case.
He should have walked away from it forty-eight hours earlier—he knew that now. He should have left the International Arms, stopped at the nearest ginmill, gotten quietly crocked, and forgotten the whole confusing mess. He should have, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d managed to get himself grilled by Webb Pritchard, receive an intimidating telephone call, reject an unusual five-thousand-dollar offer from the Central Intelligence Agency, and be threatened by a Colt .45 automatic in a funeral home parking lot. On the plus side, if there was a plus side, he’d learned a bit more than he’d known earlier concerning a matter that’d been none of his affair in the first place—there’d been something between Rufe Devereaux and Bobbie Jo Pickens. Just how serious it’d been, Lockington didn’t know, but there’d been a relationship. A woman who isn’t acquainted with a man hardly ever dispatches a wagonload of flowers to his bier—a line of reasoning probably shared by the ubiquitous Sgt. Joe Delvano, if Moose Katzenbach’s booming right hand hadn’t scrambled Delvano’s brains.
Lockington hadn’t seen Rufe Devereaux since the evening he’d left him at the bar of the Club Howdy, apparently convinced that he could take Bobbie Jo Pickens to bed. According to Martha Merriam at Reindorff’s Flower Shop, taking Bobbie Jo Pickens to bed wouldn’t have qualified Rufe for anybody’s Hall of Fame, but, directly or indirectly, it might have been an action that’d put him in a northside crematorium. His interest in Bobbie Jo could have been a pivot point—at the time it’d blossomed, or shortly afterward, Rufe had taken an unexplained leave of absence from the Central Intelligence Agency, disappearing over Lockington’s horizon to surface scant hours before he’d been shot to death. Had Rufe rung Bobbie Jo’s bell and been run off the Club Howdy range by a jealous hillbilly guitar-picker, and had he been blown away because he hadn’t stayed gone? Lockington junked that line of thought instantly because Rufe had returned to Chicago with a different woman in tow, one who’d make Bobbie Jo Pickens look like a busted bale of alfalfa, if Webb Pritchard’s second-hand description was to be granted credence.
Lockington had a thousand dollars in his desk drawer, and he’d have returned it to its sender if he’d known the sender’s identity. If it was Rufe Devereaux’s money, as Lockington believed, he couldn’t return it. If it’d belonged to somebody else, they’d have to show up and ask for it. Well, so much for the sudden and untimely demise of Rufe Devereaux—Lockington was washing his hands of the whole tragic business. Aside from the loss of a dear friend, he had but one regret—he should have accepted the CIA’s offer of five thousand dollars to stay out of the picture. Making that kind of money for doing nothing is excellent work if you can get it. But, what the hell, it hadn’t been his first mistake and it certainly wouldn’t be his last. He nosed the Pontiac into the Randolph Street parking lot, his thoughts veering to verdant pastures—this evening he’d stop at the Shamrock Pub, and if Edna Garson was there, perhaps something could be arranged. It’d been a while.
He piled out of his car, turning it over to a scowling attendant—ancient, rusted-out vehicles such as Lockington’s fail to promise a great deal in the way of customer gratuities. There were several automobiles behind the smoking old dragon, all awaiting parking accommodations, and at the curb was a sparkling ’88 white Cadillac sedan driven by a portly, red-faced, silver-haired fellow wearing wire-framed, amber-lensed sunglasses, the type usually seen under the brim of a Georgia deputy’s Stetson. The man’s gaze hooked up with Lockington’s for
a moment, then shifted to Randolph Street traffic. Lockington had seen him before, he thought. He shrugged the possible recognition off. He might have sat next to him in one of Chicago’s multitudinous northside taverns. He might have discussed the Cubs or the Sox or the Hawks with him. It’d happened on countless occasions—brief sports chatter with men he’d never seen before or since.
Lockington shouldered his way through the oppressive late spring heat. By noon the office would be untenable. If nobody laid claim to that thousand dollars, he’d have an air conditioner installed, a big mother, one that’d freeze the balls off a penguin. He smiled wryly. There was a line he’d damned well better keep to himself. If Moose got hold of it, it’d become an issue, Moose voicing doubts that penguins have balls, Lockington assuring him that they do—it had a time potential of hours, and the thought of becoming involved in such a discussion with Moose Katzenbach was enough to send a chill rippling up Lockington’s back.
Randolph Street clanged and clattered, a woman caught Lockington with her shoulder, spinning him into the path of another who knocked him against a utility pole, and he was less than half a block from the Classic Investigations office when the man in the ’88 white Caddy flashed onto the screen of his memory. There he was, silver hair flashing in the footlights, red face beaded with sweat, eyes glaring, pacing back and forth like a short-leashed Bengal tiger, waving a hand mike with one hand, a Bible with the other, exhorting a crowd of fifteen thousand people to wake up and join the noble cause of America for whites only, to stamp out the gross permissiveness that was sweeping the country, to return to the old values, to an era of law and order, to vote for Billy Mac Davis in the 1984 presidential election.