He turned on his new radio and WHOT’s civilized music flooded the office. He pulled the sports section from the Cleveland Plain Dealer, tossing it onto his desk, spreading the remainder of the newspaper on the floor. He sealed the big manila envelope with tape, wrapping it around and around and around, lengthwise and widthwise, smiling a slightly fiendish smile during the process. It wasn’t about to be easily opened.
He placed the envelope in the middle of the fanned-out newspaper, spraying it red, two coats. He waited half an hour, sitting on a corner of his desk, dangling his feet, listening to WHOT, whistling to the oldies, smoking. Then he flipped the envelope and sprayed its other side. At 10:30 he affixed an address label, scrawling OLGA KARELINKO, P.O. BOX 11, WEST SIDE POST OFFICE, YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO across it. He glued the postage stamps to the upper right-hand corner of the envelope, holding it up, admiring his handiwork. It could easily be seen for a city block. He tucked the gaudy thing into his top desk drawer, turned off his radio, found The Wheels of Treachery, and settled into his swivel chair to further peruse the book.
The Wheels of Treachery contained seven hundred and eighty-eight pages. It had a nineteen-page glossary identifying Soviet military units and armor—the BMP-2 Yozh, the T-80, the T-72MI, the 2SI. The glossary touched on self-propelled artillery, missile vehicles, helicopters, and fighter craft. It was a sturdy book, done on good quality paper. There were fifty-nine chapters, each headed by an eight-spoked wheel with the chapter number on its hub. Apparently Gen. Alexi Fedorovich had a thing for wheels.
The telephone jingled and Lockington grabbed it. Gordon Kilbuck said, “You aren’t in the Goddamned telephone directory.”
Lockington said, “That’s because I haven’t been in business long enough to get into the Goddamned telephone directory.”
“I got the Confidential Investigations number from the information operator.”
“Excellent thinking, Gordon—downright excellent.”
Kilbuck chuckled. “Just thought I’d call and see if there’s anything new.”
“I’m working an angle but I won’t have anything on it until tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll call you late tomorrow afternoon. If you run into something that won’t keep, you can reach me at Howard Johnson’s Motor Inn on Belmont Avenue—remember?”
“I remember.”
“If a woman answers, don’t hang up—it’ll be Nanette. Remember Nanette?”
“I remember.”
“Say, Lockington, do you recall what I was telling you about women who like to be on top?”
“The female-dominant complex?”
“That’s it!”
“Yeah, I remember—what about it?”
“Well, Nanette has a female-dominant complex.”
“So did the receptionist from Queens.”
Gordon Kilbuck said, “Jesus, Lockington, you have one helluva memory!”
Lockington said, “Thank you for your call, Mr. Murphy.”
10
At 11:50 Lockington locked the door and sauntered to the east end of the plaza to toss the bright red envelope into a mailbox. He got back to his office in a dead heat with Natasha. The drizzle hadn’t let up, so she drove them to Dickey’s. They took their favorite table in a corner of the room. Natasha said, “I’m not hungry—are you?”
Lockington said, “No, it must be contagious.”
The waitress came by. She said, “Vodka martinis, isn’t it?”
Lockington nodded.
Natasha waited for the waitress to leave before she said, “I put Kilbuck’s money in the bank this morning.”
“Now I’ll try to earn it,” Lockington said.
“Nothing so far?”
Lockington shook his head.
Natasha said, “You seem out of sorts today.”
“No, I’m out of get up and go. Baby, when you throw a party, you throw a party! Does Russia have an Olympics sex team?”
“No—such a pity.”
Their martinis came and they sipped them slowly. Lockington said, “Maybe it’s my biorhythms, or something.”
“Do you believe in biorhythms?” Natasha asked.
“Hell, no.”
“What do you believe in?”
“I’ve never made a list.”
“Would it be a long list?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Would I be on it?”
“You’d head it.”
She squeezed his hand. “You’d head mine.” She was smiling her lopsided smile. It was a faraway lopsided smile, like she was recalling something from better days. Lockington couldn’t imagine days better than these. Or nights, for that matter. Natasha said, “It’s nice to have something to believe in.”
Lockington said, “It’s stopping the believing that hurts.”
“You’ve done that?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know. Several, I guess.”
“I haven’t—not several times—just a few. Perhaps you believe more quickly than I—perhaps you want to believe. Do you?”
“I suppose so. Doesn’t everybody?”
“No, not everybody—at least I don’t.”
“Why not?”
Natasha was silent for a few moments. Then she said, “It isn’t so much that I object to believing in something as it is that I’ve never been determined to find something to believe in.”
“I may not understand that.”
“I may not either, but wouldn’t it seem that unwavering belief can’t be sought out, that it comes not because of anything, but in spite of everything?”
“I don’t know—would it?”
“Why, of course! Take us, for instance.”
“What about us?”
“Well, you see, you’ve believed in me because you’ve wanted to and it might be temporary, but I’ve believed in you without wanting to or not wanting to, and that, Mr. Lockington, is permanent!”
“And, if we carry this further, I won’t know what the hell I believe—it’s like messing around with infinity.”
Natasha was nodding, staring into her martini glass. She glanced up. She said, “Do you believe in infinity—that it exists without end?”
“There’s an end to all things.”
“To all things, yes, but infinity isn’t a thing.”
“Then what is it?”
“It isn’t something you see, it’s something you sense.”
Lockington growled, “Hey, if I can’t see it, I don’t believe in it.”
Natasha’s lopsided smile was back. “Not true—you believe in love.”
“Oh, sure, but that’s different.”
Natasha leaned back in her chair, winking at him. It was a triumphant wink. She said, “Oh, Lacey, isn’t it though?”
They finished their martinis and she drove him back to Mahoning Plaza, blowing him a kiss as she pulled away. Lockington went into his office feeling like he’d just climbed out of a pinball machine, uncertain of why the conversation had taken that tack, knowing that it’d been manipulated throughout, but not knowing how. And not giving two whoops in hell. Forty-nine-year-old ex-Chicago police detectives crazy in love with thirty-one-year-old ex-KGB agents hardly ever give two whoops in hell.
11
He riffled through his telephone book and called the Youngstown Board of Education. A man answered. He said, “Yeah?”
Lockington wasn’t sure that he’d dialed the right number—he heard a great deal of commotion in the background, scuffling sounds, slamming and banging. He said, “Youngstown Board of Education?”
“Yeah.” The man sounded impatient.
Lockington said, “I have a question, sir.”
“Okay, shoot, but make it fast.” The wail of sirens was drifting through the receiver.
“If a kid lived at 326 West Dewey Avenue in Youngstown, what school would he attend?”
“How old is the kid?”
“Oh, fourteen or so.”
&n
bsp; “That’d put him in the eighth grade, right?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Yeah, make it eighth grade.”
“He’d go to Princeton Junior High School.”
Lockington could hear more sirens on the line. He said, “Where is Princeton Junior High School?”
“Just a couple blocks south of 326 West Dewey.”
“What street’s it on?”
“It’s on Hillman Street.”
“Good! Now where is Hillman Street? I’m new in town.”
“Man, you must be—I wouldn’t take a kid into that neighborhood!”
“This is a suppositional kid.”
“Hey, his nationality don’t matter—what matters is how big is he? That’s a rough area!”
“About Hillman Street, please.”
“Oh, yeah, Hillman. Hillman runs north and south between Oakhill and Edwards.”
“That might help if I knew the locations of Oakhill and Edwards.”
“Oakhill’s just west of Market Street—Edwards is a couple blocks east of Glenwood.”
Lockington thought about it. He said, “Glenwood—that’s the street that runs into Mahoning Avenue from the west, sort of.”
“Glenwood runs north and south.”
Lockington could hear splintering sounds. He said, “It doesn’t run north and south at the foot of the Mahoning Avenue Bridge. At the foot of the Mahoning Avenue Bridge it’s headed damned near due west.”
“Uh-huh, well, yes, I guess you could say that, but Glenwood goes north and south mostly.”
Lockington could hear bells ringing, and rumbling sounds, and the tinkle of breaking glass. He said, “Can I turn right onto Glenwood off of Mahoning Avenue?”
“I wouldn’t try it.”
“But if I can’t turn right onto Glenwood, how the hell can I get onto Glenwood?”
“You’re coming from Mahoning Avenue?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, if I was you, I’d cut through Mill Creek Park—you get into Mill Creek Park by going south on Belle Vista a little bit beyond the cemetery, then you swing east down to the lake, turn right, go around the lake and start bearing left. You’ll run right into Glenwood.”
“And Glenwood is just a few blocks west of Hillman Street?”
“You got it. Look, mister, I gotta get offa this telephone—there’s things to be done here!”
“Sorry to have held you. To whom have I been speaking, sir?”
“My name’s Kevin O’Malley.”
Over the line came the sounds of men shouting hoarsely and women screaming. Lockington said, “Well, thanks, Kevin, you’ve been extremely helpful. What’s your capacity at the Board of Education?”
“I’m not with the Board of Education, I’m with Engine Company Five—somebody phoned in an alarm, only we ain’t found the fire yet.”
Lockington hung up. Youngstown people were an accommodating bunch, he thought.
12
He parked the Mercedes at Princeton Junior High School, knowing how Columbus must have felt when he’d sighted the New World. Mill Creek Park’s roads are winding, bordered by trees, and in the rain Lockington had managed to get lost, driving for twenty minutes without seeing a living soul. Eventually he’d found himself on Meridian Road, heading north to Mahoning Avenue, where he’d started. He’d stopped at a Sohio gas station where a bearded attendant had listened to the tale of Lockington’s odyssey. He’d said, “You must have turned right at the south end of Lake Glacier—did you cross a bridge?”
“Yeah, a couple dozen, only maybe they were all the same bridge.”
“This time,” The attendant had said, “turn left at the end of the lake, cross a bridge, turn left again, and you’ll go up a long hill to Glenwood Avenue. Turn right on Glenwood and you have it made.”
It’d worked.
Princeton Junior High School was a large white brick building, probably erected in the thirties, Lockington figured. Old, but well-maintained. Its walls had been freshly painted, its floors gleamed. It was located in an area of South Side Youngstown that had known palmier days, but not recently. Decay had gripped the neighborhood and it was spreading like wood rot. Lockington had seen it all before—the identical irresistible plague was devouring Chicago at the rate of a block a week.
James T. Loftus was Principal of Princeton Junior High School—from the secretary’s office Lockington could read the oblong bronze plate on Loftus’s desk. It said JAMES T. LOFTUS, PRINCIPAL, but it didn’t say PRINCETON JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL. Good thinking. That way, James T. Loftus could become principal of another school and he wouldn’t have to buy a new oblong bronze plate. James T. Loftus wasn’t at his desk, but his secretary, Maria Garcia, was at hers. Maria Garcia had her own oblong bronze plate and Lockington sensed that she wasn’t going to be easy to get around. She was a shaggy-thatched, hard-eyed, granite-jawed Gibraltar of a woman and she radiated self-importance. She weighed in the vicinity of two seventy-five and it was obvious that she was in no mood for tomfoolery.
“Insurance?” She glared at Lockington. “We don’t need no stinking insurance!” Her voice was as mellifluous as a heavy-duty chain saw.
Lockington said, “I’m not selling insurance, ma’am—I’m trying to locate the recipient of a policy payoff.” He smiled his most disarming smile. Maria Garcia was not disarmed.
“Mutual of Slippery Rock? Never heard of it.”
Lockington said, “Life, fire, casualty, industrial, group hospitalization, comprehensive—that sort of thing. We’re big, ma’am, very big—forty million in policies annually.”
Maria Garcia’s eyes were boring holes in the bridge of Lockington’s nose. “What’s the location of Slippery Rock’s offices?”
“Chicago, ma’am—downtown Chicago—southwest corner of State and Monroe.”
“How very odd—Slippery Rock’s in Pennsylvania.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve wondered about that myself from time to time.”
“And just what do you do with Mutual of Slippery Rock, Mr…?”
“Lockington, ma’am. Investigation usually, but in this instance I’ve been assigned to trace the beneficiary of a quarter-million dollar life insurance policy.” Lockington was beginning to get a feeling closely akin to that experienced by those confronted by irate water buffalo. “His name is Alexi Fedorovich, ma’am—he may have attended Princeton Junior High.”
“Well, obviously, you’d have to speak to Mr. Loftus,” Maria Garcia said, “and Mr. Loftus isn’t here at the moment.”
“I can see that, ma’am—I’d be willing to wait.”
A big black man had sauntered into the office, a sheaf of papers under his arm. He was about 40, impeccably attired in sharply pressed gray flannel, his oxblood patent leather oxfords sparkled, he wore a gold wristwatch, three gold rings, and he had a gold front tooth. His voice was soft, low-pitched like distant August thunder. He said, “I’m James Loftus—you wished to see me?”
Lockington said, “Yes, sir, if you can spare a few minutes.”
“Certainly, step into my office.” Lockington knew him now—Jim Loftus, fullback, Cleveland Browns, three touchdowns against the Chicago Bears, November 1974.
Maria Garcia cut in. “Mr. Loftus, there’s been another fire alarm at the Board of Education.”
Loftus said, “A phony, I’ll bet.”
“Yes, no fire, but the firemen did considerable damage trying to find one.”
Loftus said, “Damn! That makes three this month, doesn’t it?”
“Four.”
Loftus shook his head concernedly, ushered Lockington into his office, motioning to a chair, seating himself at his desk in a brown leather swivel chair the size of King Tut’s throne. Lockington sat, looking around. It was a fine, gleaming room, its floor carpeted in earth tones, its bookshelves holding the Encyclopedia Britannica, the Great Books, Webster’s Biographical Dictionary, Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, Roget’s Thesaurus, the Comp
lete Works of William Shakespeare, and countless reference volumes. Loftus was saying, “Miss Garcia has her good days and her bad days.”
Lockington said, “And this is one of her bad days.”
Loftus grinned, his gold tooth flashing. “No, this is one of her good days. Now, what can I do for you, Mr.—Lockington, is it?”
“Yes, sir—Mutual of Slippery Rock. Mr. Loftus, I’m trying to find a gentleman named Alexi Fedorovich—there’s a sizable insurance settlement involved. My information indicates that Mr. Fedorovich attended Princeton Junior High School.”
“I see. Do you have Fedorovich’s old address?”
“Yes, at the time the policy was written, he lived at 326 West Dewey Avenue.”
“That’s Princeton district. What were his years of attendance here?”
“Probably late thirties—he’d be sixty-five or better now. I thought that one of your faculty might—”
“No, Mr. Lockington, our records don’t go back that far—Princeton’s oldest current faculty member came here after the war.” He sat frowning, big hands on his chest, neatly manicured fingertips placed together. Then he leaned forward abruptly, stabbing a button on his intercom. “Miss Garcia, do any of Princeton’s late thirties’ faculty still reside in the Youngstown area?”
There was no immediate response and Loftus waited, smiling a long-suffering smile. Then Maria Garcia’s voice ripped from the intercom speaker. “Just one—an Abigail Fleugelham—she taught eighth grade English from ’33 to ’74. She’s on the Princeton newspaper mailing list—she’s seventy-seven—lives at the Canterbury Arms retirement home, Tippecanoe Road, Cornersburg.”
“Well done, Miss Garcia.” Loftus turned to Lockington. “Well, there it is, the best we can do.”
Lockington nodded his thanks, leaving Loftus’s office, passing Maria Garcia’s desk. Maria watched him as she’d have watched an escapee from Death Row. He left the building, stepping into the charcoal gray of the Mahoning Valley afternoon. The rain persisted. He plodded in the direction of the Mercedes, head down, hat tilted over his eyes, getting wet. Behind him a bell was ringing. He checked his watch. 3:30—the hour of liberation—school was out. Lockington frowned in the rain. It’d been a rare day when he’d gotten out of school at 3:30. There’d been all those detention periods—for getting to school late, for not getting to school at all, for not showing up for detention periods—but today Lacey Lockington was out of school at 3:30, just like the kids who abided by the rules. That knowledge was accompanied by a strangely giddy sensation, terminated when he stepped into an ankle-deep rain puddle. He got into the Mercedes, wondering how he was going to find Tippecanoe Road in Cornersburg.
The Fedorovich File Page 5