The Devereaux File

by Ross H. Spencer

  A few minutes later she pitched and yawed under him, moaning, “Oh, dobry!—ooh, parfait!—oooh, meraviglioso!—ooooh, erstaunlich!—oooooh, vunderlich!—ooooooh, storartad!”

  Lockington said, “What does that mean?”

  Natasha gasped, “Later, dammit, later!”

  They’d fallen asleep and she never did tell him, but he managed to figure it out for himself.

  66

  They’d gotten out of bed early, Natasha bouncy and bright-eyed, Lockington sluggish, looking like the parachute hadn’t opened. Lockington asked about her Mercedes—he hadn’t seen it, where was it? In Chicago, she told him—she’d driven it to the consulate and she’d left for Youngstown in the blue Thunderbird parked in front of Room 5. She’d rented Room 5, she said, her suitcase was there. Lockington wondered where Hargan was. In Chicago, Natasha opined, keeping an eye on the Mercedes. They had breakfast at the restaurant next door to the New Delhi, Natasha going through a Belgian waffle the size of a Chinese gong, Lockington settling for five cups of black coffee and several cigarettes. They’d talked, he’d brought her up to date, watching her facial expression when he’d told her that Devereaux was alive. There’d been none. He’d said, “Do you have his file?”

  Natasha said, “Right here!” She tapped her forehead with a forefinger.

  Lockington said, “I’ve been acquainted with Rufe for four years, I know nothing of his past. Has he ever been in serious difficulty?”

  “I suppose so, most secret service people are, at one time or another.”

  “But you have nothing definite on that?”

  “Nothing of consequence. He’s been a womanizer—that usually leads to complications.” Her auburn hair was still damp from the shower they’d taken. The water had been cold, and she’d squealed at the beginning. “What sort of information do you want?”

  Lockington shrugged. “An old enmity, maybe—something in his background that might have provoked last night’s attack.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing like that. His CIA career was routine in its early stages—Alabama in the late fifties, Texas, Mississippi, Georgia in the sixties, but he had ability and it was recognized. He was dispatched to foreign duty in the seventies and early eighties—Europe, the Middle East, he’s been in Russia. He persuaded two KGB operatives to defect—a devilishly clever man who’s been highly respected in intelligence circles.”

  “The Mafia will do anything for money—it could have been hired to eliminate Rufe.”

  “I suppose so, but the Mafia deals in drugs—million-dollar sales. Who could have afforded Mafia services?”

  “Possibly the CIA, possibly LAON, possibly the KGB—they’re barking up the same tree.”

  “Then who’d kill Mercurio and Calabrese?”

  “Maybe the same people who hired them.

  Natasha’s smile was less than a smile. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  “For reasons as yet unknown to me, I trust you implicitly—I can’t help that. But you aren’t running the KGB—you’re a tool, what you think is blue may be orange.”

  Natasha lit a cigarette. “All right, whatever—I’m here to help. You’re calling the shots, that was our agreement. What can I do?”

  “You can attempt to get a bit of information. It’ll be difficult, perhaps impossible on Memorial Day.”

  “I have sources. Let me try.”

  “All right, I need a birth records check.”

  “From where?”

  “Southern Mississippi.”

  “Be specific, please.”

  “You’d better have pencil and paper.”

  “Unnecessary—my memory is excellent.” There’d been no braggadocio about it, she’d made the statement matter-of-factly.

  “Okay, covering a five-year span, ’sixty-seven through ’seventy-one, I want particulars on female children born in Hattiesburg, Mississippi on June tenth—the mother probably lived in Petal, Mississippi.”

  “If she lived in Petal, why would she have her baby in Hattiesburg?”

  “Petal’s a small town, under ten thousand—it may not have a hospital. Hattiesburg has a population of over forty thousand and it’s no more than ten minutes from Petal.”

  “Strange order. It’s pertinent?”

  “Probably.”

  She nodded. “I won’t get this instantly, you understand. It’ll take time—hours, more than likely.”

  “That’ll be all right. There’s a pay phone near the cashier. You work on that, I’ll work on something else, and I’ll see you in Room 12 in an hour or so.” He paid the breakfast check and walked back to the New Delhi Motel. He jammed the back of his rear seat into proper position and drove toward the Flamingo Lounge. There was a maybe in the back of his mind. It was an infinitesimal maybe, but considering its size, it was creating a terrible ruckus.

  67

  He found John Sebulsky seated on his wooden stool behind the bar, studying a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Sebulsky pointed to the coffee, making a sour face. He said, “Greek restaurant stuff.”

  Lockington said, “Oh, my God!”

  Sebulsky said, “Greek restaurants were the real reason for the Japanese bombing Pearl Harbor.”

  Lockington said, “You’ll have to explain that.”

  “Well, you see, generally speaking, the Japanese didn’t have anything against the United States. What happened was, there was a Greek restaurant owners’ convention in Hawaii and they were planning to open a chain of gyro joints in Tokyo.”

  Lockington nodded. “That explains it.”

  “Not a great many people are aware of that fact.”

  “I certainly wasn’t.”

  Sebulsky said, “Did you know that all Greek restaurants are in the United States? All they got in Greece is Burger Kings.”

  Lockington said, “I’ve never been to Greece.”

  Sebulsky said, “Me either. So far, I ain’t lost a whole lot of sleep over that.”

  Lockington said, “Is there a private telephone here? I want to make a long distance call.”

  “There’s a pay phone over by the dart game.”

  “Yeah, and what if the Sugar sisters come in?”

  “I see your point—where you calling?”

  “Chicago.” Lockington plunked a twenty on the bar. “That’ll more than cover it.”

  “Okay, there’s one in the office.”

  The office was filled with beer cases. Four cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon served as a desk. Lockington sat on a case of Budweiser. He took out a pad and a ballpoint pen before dialing Mike’s Tavern. Mike answered on the third ring. Lockington said, “You’re under arrest.”

  Mike said, “Lacey! Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m calling from Istanbul—there’s a belly dancer I got the hots for.”

  “Them belly dancers ain’t no good in bed—what you see ain’t necessarily what you get. What’s up, Lacey?”

  “Mike, that old baseball encyclopedia of yours—can you get hold of it?”

  “It’s in the basement. They ain’t got no baseball encyclopedias in Istanbul?”

  “It’s a holiday, the stores and libraries are closed, and I got a baseball bet with a harem eunuch. Would it be too much trouble to run downstairs and get it?”

  “Yeah, it’d be too much trouble, but I’ll do it anyway—hang on.”

  Lockington slouched on the case of Budweiser, waiting. From the bar area there came a muffled heavy thud, a sound that Lockington had learned to associate with a falling body. He got up to peer around the doorway frame. A portly man wearing a grayish-blue uniform was flat on his back in the middle of the barroom floor. The Sugar sisters were straddling him. The man was saying, “Jesus Christ, I don’t have time to buy no drinks—I got mail to deliver!”

  The redheaded Sugar sister said, “Hey, you got problems, we got problems—hell, all God’s chillun got problems!”

  The hairy Sugar sister said, “Yeah, looky all them people in fucking Beirut!”

  The
redhead Sugar sister said, “Besides, there ain’t no mail on Memorial Day.”

  The uniformed man was gasping for air. He groaned, “For God’s sake, John, give ’em a drink!”

  Sebulsky said, “I poured it the very moment you came in.”

  Lockington pulled away from the doorway, shrinking back into the comparative safety of the office. Mike had returned to the telephone. He was puffing from the trip. He said, “Okay, Lacey, I finally found it. Whaddaya wanna know?”

  Lockington said, “Give me the roster of the nineteen-oh-six Chicago Cubs.”

  Five minutes later he called 1–312–353–2980.

  He’d just hung up when John Sebulsky appeared in the doorway. Lockington said, “I made two Chicago calls.”

  Sebulsky said, “Pecos Peggy gonna get her eighty grand?”

  Lockington said, “Looks like she’ll do better than that.”

  Sebulsky said, “You can come out now—the Sugar sisters just left.”

  “Will they be back?”

  “Is the Vatican in Rome?”

  Lockington said, “There’s a thought! How do I get to Rome?”

  Sebulsky said, “I think you gotta start from Cleveland. Did you hear about two guys getting shot out on Forty-six last night?”

  Lockington said, “Somebody mentioned it.”

  “They got chewed up pretty good—my cousin’s on the Mahoning County police and he said that the coroner’s office counted thirty-four holes in one guy and thirty-six in the other! You know what he thinks?”

  “No, what does he think?”

  “He thinks they ended up on the wrong end of an AK–47. What do you think?”

  Lockington said, “I think those guys should be more careful in the future.”

  68

  He parked the Pontiac in front of Room 12, getting out. The manager was standing in the office doorway, waving to him, smiling a white-toothed smile. He said, “Good morning, Mr. Lockington, Your Excellency!”

  Lockington waved back. The door to Room 12 was partially ajar and Lockington went in, closing it behind him. Natasha Gorky had the telephone to her ear, waving him to silence, motioning for him to sit down, listening intently, nodding, saying, “All right, thank you—well done!” She hung up, turning her attention to Lockington. “How did you do?”

  “Very well. You?”

  She lit a cigarette before she said, “I put it into the network with instructions that I be contacted here. It came through just now.”

  “And?”

  “And you’ve turned a corner—On June 10th, 1967, a girl was born in Hattiesburg, Mississippi—Margaret Beth Pickens. Seven pounds even, no birthmarks. The mother was a Bobbie Jo Pickens of Petal, Mississippi.”

  “The father?”

  “Blank.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Natasha said, “We can’t leave him blank—let’s color him Billy Mac Davis.”

  Lockington shrugged.

  Natasha said, “She’s the girl who was with Devereaux in Chicago?”

  “Twice, possibly more—Pecos Peggy Smith, the singer at the Crossroads, the one who took me to Rufe’s place last night.”

  Natasha said, “She’s Devereaux’s mistress?”

  “So it would appear—he’s spent a pile of money on her.”

  Natasha squinted, shaking her head. “Ironic—she sleeps with Devereaux and Billy Mac Davis hires the Copperhead to kill him. Talk about strong parental objections!”

  Lockington was silent.

  Natasha was having trouble getting it adjusted. She said, “A girl of twenty-one and a man in his late fifties—intellectual rhythms, possibly, but a physical mismatch, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I wouldn’t say.” Lockington corralled the bottle of Martell’s, uncapping it, offering it to Natasha.

  She shook her head. “I brought Martell’s and Smirnoff’s—it’s over in Room Five. I’ll bring it when I change clothes—I look like a train wreck.”

  Lockington took a slug of the Martell’s before he produced his dime-store pad to riffle through it, find a page, and hand it to Natasha. He said, “Any of these names familiar to you?”

  She studied the page, her facial expression locked at zero. Lockington would have hated to sit across a poker table from her. After a while she said, “Who are these people?”

  Lockington said, “American baseball players from more than eighty years ago.”

  She closed the pad, returning it to Lockington. “Explain, if you will.”

  Lockington said, “Would you like to go for a walk in the woods?”

  She smiled her off-center smile. She said, “Why—do you want to get my ass in the grass?”

  Lockington said, “Well-l-l, yes, that’s part of it.”

  69

  CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1027 CDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: THIS STATION HAS CONTACT WITH BIRD DOG/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS

  LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1128 EDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: EXCELLENT/ HOW ACCOMPLISHED?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY

  CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1028 CDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: BIRD DOG PHONED/ REQUESTS ASSISTANCE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS

  LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/1129 EDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: PHONED FROM WHERE?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY

  CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1029 CDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: YOUNGSTOWN OHIO/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS

  LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1130 EDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: WHY ASSISTANCE?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY

  CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1030 CDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: NOT EXPLICIT/ PRESUMABLY TURKEY INVOLVED/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS

  LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1131 EDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: STATE LIGHT PLANE AVAILABILITY YOUR STATION/ END TEXT/ MASSEY

  CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/1031 CDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: READY ACCESS CESSNA 182 SKYLANE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS

  LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1132 EDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: STATE APPROX FLY TIME THIS CRAFT CHICAGO TO YOUNGSTOWN MUNICIPAL/ END TEXT/ MASSEY

  CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1033 CDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: OFFHAND 3 HRS MAX/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS

  LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1133 EDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: DISPATCH 2 OPERATIVES YOUNGSTOWN ASAP/ RESERVE RENTAL CAR YOUNGSTOWN MUNICIPAL/ END TEXT/ MASSEY

  CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1034 CDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: WILCO/ WILL SEND DELLICK & MAHONEY/ DELLICK IN CHARGE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS

  LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1135 EDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: NEGATIVE/ IN YOUNGSTOWN BIRD DOG IN CHARGE/ END TEXT/ MASSEY

  CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1036 CDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: COMPLETELY?/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS

  LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1136 EDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: COMPLETELY/ CONTACT TO BE MADE BY BIRD DOG?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY

  CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1037 CDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: AFFIRMATIVE/ BIRD DOG ADVISES OPERATIVES TAKE ROOM NEW DELHI MOTEL MAHONING AVENUE AUSTINTOWN OHIO/ SAYS LEAVE BEER CAN FRONT WINDOW/ SAYS HIBERNATE AND WAIT/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS

  LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1138 EDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: DO IT/ END TEXT/ MASSEY

  CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1038 CDT/ 5/30/88

  BEGIN TEXT: WILCO/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS

  LINE CLEARED LANGLEY 1138 EDT 5/30/88

  70

  They’d rounded the small office enclosure, bearing south into the dense woods that half-encircled the New Delhi Motel. She’d looked up into the trees, taking Lockington’s hand. “Virgin forest—I feel like a girl again.”

  “Because you were a virgin?”

  “Tawlsty gawluhvy! Because of the forest!”

  “There were forests near Odessa?”

  “Miles of them—I played in them as a child. From the hilltops I could see Odessa’s
harbor—the whaling ships came to Odessa often.” They walked on, Lockington stopping at short intervals, glancing toward the motel. Natasha said, “There was a young seaman—we met in the forest.”

  “And then you were no longer a child.”

  Natasha stooped to pick up a brown pin-oak leaf, caressing it with her fingertips. She said, “And then I was no longer a child.”

  They’d gone better than fifty yards into the woods and Lockington swung right, walking slowly to the west, his gaze fixed on the New Delhi. He stopped. They’d come to a tiny clearing, its floor matted with leaves. There were violets and a long hollow log. Lockington said, “This would appear to be a likely place.”

  They sat on the hollow log. Natasha said, “I can see the door of your room from here.”

  Lockington said, “That’s why it would appear to be a likely place.”

  Natasha said, “Is this where you get my ass in the grass?”

  Lockington shrugged.

  Natasha said, “Ah, nature!” She slipped from the log into the leaves, peeling her skirt and half-slip upward to her navel. She wore no panties. The girls in Odessa didn’t bother, she’d told him. She peered up at him with bright pale-blue eyes. She said, “Oh, I’d just love to get lost in the Everglades with you!”

  “It’s better here—dry ground.”

  “Come down here.”

  “Not so many mosquitoes.”

  “Come down here, will you?”

  “Fewer alligators.”

  Natasha sat up, grabbing his knees. She said, “Are you coming down here or am I coming up there?”

  Lockington said, “I’m coming down there.”

  Natasha smiled. She said, “How nice! Procrastination is the thief of time.”