Lockington didn’t say anything.
She leaned into the car to kiss him, hanging on like a pit bull until Lockington was seeing orange and purple pyrotechnics. Her tongue tasted of cloves and her perfume was fragrant mist at the open gates of Paradise. She drew back, catching her breath, stroking his cheek. She said, “He never mentioned that you’re a gentleman.”
55
It was nearly three o’clock on Sunday morning, the shabby motel room was warm and stuffy, its air-conditioner setting up a frightful din but accomplishing nothing else. Lockington sat on the edge of the lumpy bed, chain-smoking, nipping at the fifth of Martell’s cognac so thoughtfully tucked into his suitcase by Edna Garson. He’d been out of Chicago for less than thirty-six hours, and the glowering gray city on the polluted lake seemed so long ago and far away. He’d been shot at and nearly ambushed, he’d witnessed a murder, he’d had a hole burned in his trousers, he’d established his contact at the Club Crossroads and he was probably hot on the trail of whatever he was supposed to be hot on the trail of, he’d received a straightforward proposition from a very young, very beautiful woman, and he’d chickened out. So far, not a dull moment.
There’d been more to Pecos Peggy’s offer than had met the eye. If a man’s riding the fence, undecided as to which way to throw his weight, getting hauled into bed by a creature of Pecos Peggy’s class is likely to tip the balance. Lockington knew this from experience—he’d gone down that road a couple of times, once during the previous summer, again on the afternoon before yesterday. He wasn’t damned fool enough to believe that his physical and intellectual appeal had driven Natasha Gorky to frenzied desire for his sexual favors—it just didn’t work that way. Natasha Gorky was a professional seeking professional assistance, and she’d taken the shortest route to market, swinging him from uncertain withdrawal to enthusiastic participation with the finest implement yet devised for the purpose of altering a man’s thinking. Natasha had brought an axe to be ground, and so had Pecos Peggy. The difference was that Natasha’s purpose had been perfectly obvious, and Peggy’s hadn’t. She’d been trying to win him over, but to what?
She’d promised explanation of the affair and Lockington found himself dwelling on that between jolts of Martell’s cognac. What if there was a fifth factor? Good God, he hoped not—there were too many cooks in the kitchen as matters stood. The CIA, the KGB, the Mafia, LAON, strange bedfellows indeed—unimaginable—but hardly further-fetched than an aging, down-at-the-heels private detective and a lithe and lovely country singer. There was more to be learned—otherwise, why all this bother? Peggy could have told him that the matchbook had been mailed when Rufe Devereaux was alive, but Rufe Devereaux was dead now, so run along back to Chicago and peddle your papers. She hadn’t done that. She was attempting to hold him in Youngstown, Ohio and she was willing to use her body to do it.
Lockington wasn’t a connoisseur of talent, but he knew it when he saw it. Pecos Peggy was top-drawer and top-drawer performers don’t bed down in a city of 150,000 people. The good ones go where big bucks can be turned, and if they stop in smaller towns it’s for one-night stands in high-school football stadiums that’ve been sold out for months. A few of the better-known country thrushes had slept their ways onto the charts, and had Pecos Peggy Smith been a woman of staunch moral convictions, her absence from the upper brackets might have been understandable, but at the tender age of one score years she’d been around the block a few dozen times, so morals accounted for nothing. She lived in a modest house, she drove a very expensive car, and that didn’t figure. People who drive Porsches park them in triple garages on country estates, not in the side-street driveways of middle-class neighborhoods.
Well, maybe time would tell and maybe it wouldn’t, but it’d already told on Lacey J. Lockington—he was bushed. He capped the bottle of Martell’s—it was almost half-gone, he noted with regret, recalling a couple of lines from an old country ballad:
The trouble with new love is that old love must die, And the trouble with whiskey is the bottle runs dry—
There was something to be said for those barnyard philosophers, Lockington thought—they had the knack of expressing themselves.
He slept. For five minutes or less. The phone was ringing. Lockington pawed for it, dragged it into bed and said, “This is a recording. Fuck you.”
Moose Katzenbach said, “I been trying to get you for three hours!”
Lockington said, “Okay, here I am.”
Moose said, “I got into that house—jimmied a window.”
“And?”
“I found a couple things of interest. One was a postcard, mailed from Miami to a James Slagle at that address. It was postmarked June eighth of last year.”
“What did it say?”
“It thanked Slagle for his hospitality. It was signed Rufe—that’d be Rufe Devereaux, right?”
“Yeah, I guess Slagle let Rufe use the house once in a while—Slagle spends a lot of time out of town, as I understand it.”
“That gotta be straight information—I doubt if he’s ever home! The refrigerator’s empty, and there’s dust half an inch thick in there!”
“Anything else?”
“There was a bottle of peppermint schnapps and a bottle of Smirnoff’s vodka on a table by the bed—both almost empty.”
Lockington wished he hadn’t asked. He gritted, “Okay, Moose—that was it?”
“Not quite.”
“Then let’s wrap it up—I can use some sleep.”
“Slagel got three kilos of cocaine stashed in his living room closet.”
Lockington whistled. “Good stuff?”
“Top grade. I found a jug of laundry bleach in the basement—I poured some into a water glass, threw in a pinch of coke, and, man, you shoulda seen the streams! I’d say it’s damned near pure!”
“Three kilos—you’re talking a couple million!”
“Cut it, and you got twice that much, street prices!”
Lockington said, “I wonder if Rufe knew that Slagle’s a wholesaler.”
“Maybe he found out—maybe that’s why he’s dead.”
“Yeah, could be—Jesus, Rufe sure picked up with some strange types.”
“Uh-huh—drug dealers, ex-cops—”
“Good night, Moose—say hello to your new girlfriend.”
“That won’t take long, she’s right here.”
Lockington hung up, glancing at his watch. Damned near four A.M.—nearly three in Chicago. They wouldn’t be at the Roadhouse Café, it closed at two. Lockington grinned—they were in the hay! Way to go, Moose, he thought—she couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy!
56
Lockington’s telephone blew its top at eight-fifteen in the morning. Ohio sunlight was rollicking into the little gray room, staining its walls bright yellow. He corralled the offending instrument, grunting something unintelligible into its mouthpiece. Natasha Gorky said, “A happy Sunday morning to you!”
Lockington said, “There ain’t never been a happy Sunday morning.”
Natasha said, “I should get out of Chicago sometime late this afternoon—in the meantime, you must be very, very careful.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“A restaurant on North Michigan Avenue.”
“Are you still drawing a crowd?”
“The CIA’s with me, yes—parked right out front. Did you hear what I said? Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Then be doubly so. You’re in trouble with LAON—there’s a price on your head. LAON believes that you killed Billy Mac Davis.”
Lockington thought that one over. He said, “Yeah, judging from appearances, it could have been me. LAON knows where I am?”
“It knows that you’re in Youngstown—it may not know where in Youngstown.”
“How did you get this?”
“We have people in Memphis—LAON’s headquarters is there.”
“The KGB has penetrated LAON?”
“Just its fringes, but deeply enough. It’ll be the Copperhead, you can depend on that—you’re worth fifty thousand dollars.”
Lockington made a swishing sound between his lips. “Two hundred fifty a pound.”
“This isn’t funny!”
“So who’s laughing?”
“I should make it to Youngstown by midnight, Eastern Time—after that you’ll have an extra pair of eyes. What have you learned?”
“I made the contact indicated by the matchbook—the girl who was with Rufe in Chicago. She told me that I’ll be getting the whole picture tonight.”
“From whom?”
“She didn’t say—I assume that it’ll be from her. She lived with Rufe. She’s to pick me up at the New Delhi, twelve-thirty or so.”
“Listen, damn you—stay out of bed until I get there!”
“Okay.”
“You’re slahduhk!” She hung up.
That’d been her second slahduhk. Lockington didn’t understand Russian. It was probably just as well. Great oaks from little slahduhks grow.
57
Sunday’s early afternoon sky was sapphire, cloudless but for a few tiny white puffs scudding high along a soft breeze out of the west. John Sebulsky sat on a teetery wooden stool behind the battered bar of the Flamingo Lounge, his jaded vacant stare returning to focus with Lockington’s arrival. Sebulsky said, “Hello, Lacey—you just missed it.”
Lockington said, “I’m glad. What did I just miss?”
“The Sugar sisters kicked the living shit out of Burt Soltis.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t buy them a drink.”
“Who’s Burt Soltis?”
“Burt used to be middle linebacker for the Steelers.”
“Soltis—he was all-league few years ago?”
“Yep.”
“Where are the Sugar sisters now?”
“Down at Bailey’s Bar, I think. I heard sirens in that area half an hour ago.”
“Where’s Soltis now?”
“Southside Hospital—that redhead got a lethal left hook.”
Lockington squeezed onto a barstool and Sebulsky said, “Martell’s?”
Lockington nodded. He appreciated bartenders who remembered. He said, “Have one with me.”
Sebulsky nodded, pouring the Martell’s and popping the top on a bottle of Michelob Dry. He said, “Thanks.”
Lockington said, “I went out to the Club Crossroads last night. Interesting joint.”
“See Pecos Peggy?”
“Sure did.”
“Whaddaya think?”
Lockington whistled.
Sebulsky said, “Damned wonder she ain’t been discovered.”
Lockington said, “Getting discovered is one-quarter luck, three-quarters fuck. What’s her last name?”
Sebulsky frowned. “Don’t believe I’ve ever heard it. Why?”
Lockington shrugged. “In case she makes it big, I’ll be able to say I saw her before she got there. Like I saw Belinda Darkhorse back in ’eighty-two at some carnival.”
“Belinda Darkhorse?”
“Yeah—she juggled half a dozen grapefruits and took off her clothes at the same time. Belinda ain’t got there yet.”
Sebulsky didn’t say anything for a while. He sat on the edge of the wooden stool, hunched forward, peering through the open door, watching Mahoning Avenue traffic and the afternoon roll by. Then he said, “Y’know, I’ve been thinking about you. You’re some kind of Chicago cop, ain’t you?”
Lockington shook his head. “Nothing official—just another private investigator. I’m looking into an insurance matter.”
“Uh-huh. How come the interest in Pecos Peggy?”
“Inheritance thing, maybe—no point in getting people all shook up until identities are established.”
“She’s in line for money?”
“Possibly, if her name’s Gagliano.”
“Gagliano doesn’t ring a bell. A bundle?”
“If eighty grand’s a bundle.”
“In Youngstown, eighty grand’s a bundle.”
“Didn’t you say something about knowing a bookkeeper at the Crossroads?”
“Ace Loftus—I went to high school with Ace.”
“Could you ask him how Pecos Peggy signs her paychecks? It’d help.”
“I already know the answer to that one. There ain’t no checks—it’s cash only. He got no idea how much she gets—guess that’s been worked out with the owner.”
“Out-of-town man, you said—Jack Taylor?”
“Yeah—you got a good memory.”
Lockington said, “The IRS takes a dim view of those cash-only transactions.”
Sebulsky grinned. “What the IRS doesn’t know about cash-only deals would make one helluva big book.”
“Okay, the check angle’s out. Pecos Peggy drives an ’eighty-eight red Porsche—Ohio plates nine-eight-oh PRK. Her name’ll be on the title registration. You said that you have a cousin with the county cops.”
Sebulsky snapped his fingers. “Damn right—he could run it through as a check on an abandoned vehicle!”
“It’s worth fifty.”
“I think I could have that in an hour or so. Anything else?”
“How do I find out who owns the property at Five fifty-one North Dunlap Avenue?”
“Is it worth fifty?”
“Right.”
“Well, like I told you, my brother’s into real estate—it’s a holiday, but he’s a beaver, he knows all the wrinkles. I’ll give him a jingle. You talking cash on the barrelhead?”
“Yep. There’s one other thing—you know anybody who speaks Russian?”
“Hell, yes—my grandfather. He was born in Russia—Sebulsky’s a Russian name. What’s the problem?”
“There’s a word I want to get translated.”
“That might be tough—Russian got a bunch of languages and dialects. What’s the word?”
“Slahduhk—I can’t spell it, but that’s the way it sounds—slahduhk.”
Sebulsky chuckled. “Slahduhk? I’ve heard it all my life! Slahduhk means sweet.”
Lockington said, “I’ll be back in an hour.” He left a twenty on the bar. Cooperation in a strange town is hard to come by. There was bounce in his step when he headed for the door. The Sugar sisters were coming in. The redhead said, “Hello, there, you living doll!”
Lockington said, “Hi, gorgeous!” He returned to the bar with a five-dollar bill. He said, “John, give these lovely young things a drink, please.” Then he said, “Helen, thy beauty is to me like those Nicean barks of yore!”
The hairy one said, “Helen my ass—I’m Alice, she’s Leona!”
Lockington’s voice was mellifluous. His hands were clasped to his chest. He said, “They walk in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies!”
The redhead groaned, “Oh, my God, whaddaya want? Take me, TAKE me!”
The hairy one said, “Jeez, ain’t it a pleasure to meet a real, genuine, honest-to-God gentleman?”
The redhead said, “You’re fucking A!”
58
He drove toward the New Delhi Motel. He needed time for thought. He was probably missing something, and he didn’t have the remotest notion of what it might be. He parked the Pontiac in front of Room 12. The door was wide open. Lockington went in. Room 12 looked like the site of a rodeo after the rodeo. His suitcase had been turned upside down and inside out, the mattress and box spring were on the floor, his pillow had been stripped of its casing, the little overstuffed chair was on its side, its cushion against a wall, the dresser drawers were scattered about the room, the top of the toilet’s flush box was off, sitting on the sink. Lockington righted the chair, replaced the cushion and sat there, contemplating the Christ-awful mess. Then he smiled. His half-bottle of Martell’s cognac was intact. Thank God for small favors.
He had a jolt of the stuff and hiked over to the office to discuss the matter with the manager. He said, “Who tore
up my room?”
The manager said, “Speak little English.”
“You see anything suspicious in the last couple hours?”
“Speak little English.”
“What’s more, my air-conditioner ain’t working worth a damn!”
“Speak little English.”
Lockington said, “How would you respond if I were to inform you that I am a State of Ohio hotel inspector, operating on behalf of Governor Richard Celeste, may his name be praised?”
The manager repeated, “Speak little English,” but he blinked and Lockington regarded this as an encouraging sign. He jerked out his wallet, flashing his old City of Chicago Police badge.
The manager said, “Mr. Lockington, Your Excellency, it is the policy of this establishment to make its guests as comfortable as possible! The management attempts to extend every service, every courtesy! Rest assured, Your Excellency, that your room will be restored to order immediately, and your air-conditioner will be replaced within the hour! May your stay at the New Delhi Motel be a long and enjoyable one, Your Excellency!”
Lockington said, “Allah Akbar!” He went out, feeling slightly drunk with power, wondering what the hell Allah Akbar meant.
59
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1517 CDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: BIRD DOG PIGEON PHONE TAPS COMPLETE/ NO ACCESS PIGEON APT/ PIGEON TAPPED AT POLE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1618 EDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: RESULTS?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1518 CDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: NONE BIRD DOG/ PIGEON ARRANGED BEAUTY APPT END NEXT WEEK/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1619 EDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: BIRD DOG WHEREABOUTS?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1520 CDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: UNKNOWN/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
The Devereaux File Page 16