The Fedorovich File

by Ross H. Spencer

  Lockington said, “There ain’t no Mohawk West terminal on Grand Avenue—you’re thinking of Great Lakes Central.”

  “Great Lakes Central sold to Mohawk West in August.”

  “Then Willoughby probably got knifed in the Roundhouse Cafe.”

  “Yeah, by God, that was it—Roundhouse Cafe! You must be familiar with Chicago!”

  “I’ve been there.”

  “You know this Roundhouse Cafe?”

  “It’s half a block from the truck terminal, across the street from the Amtrak coach yard.”

  “You’ve been in it?”

  “A few times—it’s a railroader-truck driver hangout—rough joint.”

  “Good spot to pick up bimbos?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Figures—Cy Willoughby was cunt-struck.”

  Addison said, “Well, we gotta roll—lots of luck, Nate.”

  Nate said, “Thanks for nothing.”

  They went out. The rain was coming down in gray sheets. There’s nothing more depressing than an October rain, Lockington thought, unless it’s a November rain.

  41

  On Route 11, returning to Youngstown, Addison braked the Chrysler to a near halt, swerving sharply to the side of the road to let a black Ford pickup truck whiz by. Lockington said, “What was that all about?”

  Addison was back in his lane, rolling north. He said, “The sonofabitch got on my ass the minute we left the Red Ball terminal, and it stayed there!”

  “I didn’t notice. Man or woman?”

  “Man, this time—guy wearing sunglasses. How about that—sunglasses in all this rain!”

  They left Route 11, turning east toward the Youngstown line. Addison was squinting into his rear-view mirror, grinning. “He’s back there, three cars deep—determined bastard, ain’t he?”

  “What plates is he carrying?”

  “Pennsylvania, but I can’t make ’em out—they’re splotched with mud, just like the T-bird’s. Odd coincidence.”

  At the Austintown doughnut shop Lockington climbed into the Mercedes, heading for the office, dreading the telephone call he’d have to make.

  “Nothing much happening,” Barney reported. “A guy called—didn’t give his name—I told him that you’d be in shortly.”

  Lockington nodded. Probably Cayuse Bresnahan, frothing at the mouth. “Barney, why don’t you go out and grab a bite of lunch?”

  “Because it ain’t even ten-thirty yet.”

  “All right, make it breakfast.”

  “I already had breakfast—orange juice, oatmeal, ham, pancakes, apple pie, and two glasses of milk.”

  “Then go out for coffee.”

  “I don’t like coffee. If I liked coffee, I’d have had coffee for breakfast.”

  “Maybe a bromo?”

  “I don’t need a bromo.”

  “Then just go out, will you?”

  “What for?”

  “About half an hour.”

  Barney said, “You know what I think?”

  “You think that I want you to get the hell outta here.”

  “Sure, because something’s gonna happen that you don’t want me to know about!”

  Lockington said, “Son, you’re showing genuine promise. One of these days you’re going to be a top-notch private investigator.”

  Barney went out, head down, obviously miffed. Lockington slipped into the swivel chair, grabbing the telephone. Here went nothing. He dialed. The phone in Chicago rang twice before a raspy voice said, “Classic Investigations.”

  “Hello, Moose.”

  Moose Katzenbach said, “Who’s—Lacey, is that you?”

  “Yeah, Moose, it’s me.”

  “Well, what the hell’s going on—how come you never got back from Ohio?”

  “I came back for a day, but it’s better in Ohio, Moose, cleaner, quieter—there are trees here.”

  “You ain’t coming back to Chicago, even for a visit?”

  “Maybe for a visit one of these days. Look, Moose, you still get into the Roundhouse Café occasionally?”

  “Once in a while, sure—not as often as I used to, but now and then.”

  “I’m looking into something that happened there last night.”

  “Yeah, Buck Payson was telling me about it this morning—some truck driver got knifed—Buck was there when they found him. Real professional job, Buck said. How did you find out about it in Ohio?”

  “The truck driver was from here.”

  “I’ll be damned—small world, ain’t it? I knew the guy—just well enough to speak to, but I knew him—Cy Willoughby, right?”

  “What did you know about him?”

  “Well, not much—Chicago was his regular run from Ohio, two, maybe three times a week. He’d hit the Roundhouse looking for stray quiff—he managed to score, usually—hell, if you can’t score at the Roundhouse, you’re all washed up.”

  “You hear anything on who might have done him in?”

  “Naw, but I ain’t been all that interested. You want me to dig into it?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, yes.”

  “Sure thing! I still got connections on the force—I think maybe Kalmer and Krakow worked that one.”

  “The K-Boys—they’re a good team.”

  “Okay, Lacey, tell you what—I’ll call Jack Kalmer, then I’ll take a run up to the Roundhouse. You got a number where I can reach you?”

  Lockington gave him the Confidential Investigations telephone number.

  Moose said, “How long you gonna be there?”

  “Till five.”

  “Shouldn’t take that long.”

  “Thanks, Moose. How’s the agency going?”

  “Surviving. I get a couple divorce cases a month—the wolf’s out there but he ain’t at the door yet. I’ll call you, Lacey, one way or the other.” Moose hung up.

  Lockington leaned back, relieved. Edna Garson hadn’t been mentioned, which was just as well. Edna Garson had been a long time ago.

  42

  Cayuse Bresnahan came in as Lockington was hanging up the telephone. He wasn’t foaming at the mouth but Lockington thought he could detect wisps of steam oozing from beneath his black Stetson. Bresnahan sat on the bench near the window. His eyes were gray slate.

  “All right, Lockington, I want a peg that I can hang my hat on! Tell me anything—tell me that Fedorovich was kidnapped by Martians, tell me that he went to take a crap and the hogs ate him, tell me that the sonofabitch is playing oboe with the fucking Minneapolis Symphony, but for Christ’s sake, tell me something!” He was haggard and he needed a shave.

  Lockington yawned. “Okay, how’s about four people getting murdered since I hired out to find Alexi Fedorovich—that good enough?”

  Bresnahan snapped, “I like the one about the Martians—more credibility.”

  Lockington said, “Maybe so, but the statement stands.”

  “Cut the comedy—I’m serious!”

  “You wanta count ’em?”

  “Yeah, I wanta count ’em—I got a call to make this afternoon, and I better say something besides ‘Hi, there’.”

  “All right, get out your abacus—there was a retired schoolteacher named Abigail Fleugelham and a woman named Candice Hoffman and a hot-crotched divorcée named Brenda Willoughby, and Brenda’s ex-husband, a pussy-chasing truck driver named Cy Willoughby. That’s four, ain’t it?”

  Bresnahan leaned back on the bench, grinning, slapping his knee. “Well, God damn, Lockington, that’s great, just great!”

  Lockington said, “You’d have been a real riot during the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “No, you misunderstand me—what I mean is, you must be rattling a few cages. These were people you’ve talked to?”

  “I’ve talked to two of ’em.”

  “Then you’re getting close!”

  “I’m not one step closer than when I started.”

  “The hell you aren’t—you just don’t know it! You can back this story up?”

&n
bsp; “Ask Frank Addison.”

  “Who’s Frank Addison?”

  “A Youngstown police detective—I left him less than an hour ago.”

  “How did Addison get into this thing?”

  “He’s investigating three of the murders.”

  “Why not all four?”

  “Cy Willoughby was the fourth—he was killed in Chicago.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “He was one of the two you didn’t talk to?”

  “Yes—Candice Hoffman was the other.”

  “You’re thinking KGB all the way, aren’t you?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Yeah—they gotta want Fedorovich so bad they can taste him.” The telephone rang. Lockington stared at it, but he didn’t reach for it. Bresnahan said, “Private business?”

  “Maybe.”

  “All right, I’m down the road! See you shortly!” He went out, his black Stetson tilted to the side of his head, his step jaunty. Lockington watched him go. There’s nothing like a few cold-blooded murders to brighten a rainy day.

  43

  Moose Katzenbach was on the line.

  “I caught Jack Kalmer at home and he gave me all he had so I didn’t bother going up to the Roundhouse.”

  “How did it play?”

  “Well, Jack said they questioned everybody who was sober enough to be questioned.”

  “At the Roundhouse, that probably required all of thirty seconds.”

  “Yeah, it was Friday night and most of ’em was looped, but there was a Mohawk West driver who just got in from Denver and he was making sense—turns out he’d been sitting next to Willoughby at the bar and Willoughby was trying to con some hefty redhead into making the run to Ohio with him, said he’d have her back in Chicago in a couple days. He was giving her the usual jaw-job and he’d just about sold the package before he got up to hit the washroom. The Mohawk West driver said that he noticed a guy leave the bar to follow Willoughby into the can, and he said that they were in there quite a while, but he didn’t think much of it, even when the guy came out and Willoughby didn’t. Then this redhead asked the Mohawk West driver to check on Willoughby because he’d been gone such a long time, and he went into the john along with Buck Payson. Willoughby was flat on his face and they figured he’d passed out till they rolled him over.”

  Lockington said, “Could the Mohawk West man describe the guy who followed Willoughby into the washroom?”

  “Not real good—skinny guy, he said—you know that route, Lacey—you ask five people, you get five different descriptions.”

  “Anything on a vehicle?”

  “Yeah, and that’s where it looks promising—the Mohawk driver had been sitting near the window and he said that when the guy came out of the men’s room he went straight through the door and drove off in an ’87 baby blue Audi sedan.”

  “It was an Audi, he was certain of that?”

  “Positive—he said he noticed the car when he came in because he got one just like it, only his is black.”

  “They have an APB out on the car?”

  “Sure—they got no plate numbers, but how many baby blue Audis can there be?”

  “Okay, Moose—if you get more on this, let me know, will you?”

  “Sure will—look, Lacey, one of these days, you and me gotta sit down and have us a long heart-to-heart.”

  “What about, Moose?” Lockington knew what about.

  Moose hesitated. Then he said, “Well, about this agency for one thing. You just hauled off and vanished, and I took it over, and I’m making a living, so I owe you for it.”

  “Not a dime! I got it for nothing—be my guest.”

  “I knew that’s what you’d say! How’re you doing, Lacey—you own this Confidential Investigations?”

  “Yeah, more or less—it’s a partnership, sort of. I’m getting by.”

  “Good! There was one other thing, Lacey, but we’ll talk about it later.”

  Lockington said, “Moose, all the ‘one other things’ would fill the Grand Canyon. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay, Lacey—we’re probably on the same railroad.”

  “Probably. I’ll be listening, Moose.” Lockington hung up. The one other thing would be Edna Garson, of course. Lockington didn’t want to talk about Edna Garson, that was one thing he’d just as soon not look back on.

  44

  The phone was ringing again—Kilbuck, or Addison, or Bresnahan, or maybe Moose Katzenbach. Lockington jerked the jangling instrument from its cradle. He snapped, “Okay, whaddaya have?”

  Natasha Gorky’s voice drifted dreamily over the wire. “Lacey, if you don’t know what I have by now, I’ve wasted time and energy—especially energy.”

  “Sorry—I thought it might be someone else. What’s up?”

  “I have an absolutely wonderful idea!”

  “You had an absolutely wonderful idea last night—you had about twenty absolutely wonderful ideas last night.”

  Natasha’s laugh was silvery. “Would you believe that I slept until nearly nine-thirty?”

  “And would you believe that my neck is out of joint?”

  “Poor baby—and you did so very well—you were sensational!”

  “That’s what they intended to tell the guy who went over Niagara Falls on a bicycle.”

  “About my absolutely wonderful idea—the rain’s due to clear this evening, and tomorrow’s supposed to be scrumptious—sunny and in the high seventies!”

  “Thanks for the weather report.”

  “Well, can you think of one earthly reason why we shouldn’t go on a picnic tomorrow?”

  Lockington was unable to think of one earthly reason why they shouldn’t go on a picnic tomorrow.

  Natasha said, “We could go to that park southeast of here—Mill Creek Park, is it?”

  “That’s right, Mill Creek Park—beautiful place.”

  “You see, after all, it’s the middle of October and tomorrow could be the last nice Sunday of the year.”

  “All right, should I pick up some picnic stuff on the way home?”

  “No, I’ve already done that—I just got back. I bought ham and cheese and buns and mustard and lettuce and pickles and olives and I’m going to bake a dozen cupcakes. Did I forget anything?”

  “What kind of cupcakes?”

  “What kind do you want?”

  “Lemon.”

  Natasha made a little kissing sound and hung up. Lockington replaced the telephone, a warm feeling sweeping Over him, not a strange sensation—he’d been experiencing it since late May.

  Moose Katzenbach called back. “Got the wrap-up for you, Lacey. Jack Kalmer just phoned me—they found the cat who killed Willoughby.”

  “Did he resist arrest?”

  “Not enough to notice—he was dead.”

  “Where was he?”

  “The Audi was parked behind an abandoned railroad shanty in the old Galewood freight yard west of Central Avenue—he was under the Central Avenue Bridge, shot through the back of the head. He had to be marched there at gunpoint—execution-style thing. The coroner’s office says he got it late last night.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Guy named Ivan Leonid—worked for the Chicago Polish Consulate. He’d rented the Audi under the name of ‘Dayton.’ He had a six-inch switchblade in his pocket—there were traces of blood on the blade and the lab matched ’em up with Willoughby’s.”

  “It wasn’t a robbery?”

  “Not a chance—he had over two hundred in his wallet. He’s your boy.”

  “That does it, Moose—thanks a million.”

  “Glad to be of help. You got a minute?”

  “Sure, Moose.” There’d be no evading it—Moose had to get it off his chest.

  “Lacey, look, about me and Edna—I’d lost Helen and I was lonely—you were out of town and Edna was hurting—it was just one of those things, Lacey—I don’t know how the hell it happened, but it did.”


  “No problem, Moose—all’s well that ends well.”

  “It didn’t end so well, Lacey—Edna dumped me in August. They hired a new barkeep at the Shamrock and he’s got her now. Serves me right, huh?”

  “No—you deserved better than that.” Lockington meant it.

  “Thanks, Lacey.” The line went dead.

  Lockington hung up, dragging his mind to more verdant pastures—Natasha’s Sunday picnic. He hadn’t been on a picnic since shortly after the big war. It’d been in the summer of ’46, he’d been seven years old, there’d been ham and cheese sandwiches and olives and pickles and lemon cupcakes—a family Sunday afternoon affair at Humboldt Park in Chicago. Most of Lockington’s memories were in Chicago—Chicago and Vietnam. Vietnam had been the safer of the two but there’d been more cognac in Chicago, and a man can’t have everything.

  Barney Kozlowski opened the office door, sticking his head in. “Coast clear?”

  Lockington said, “Sure, kid—my apologies, but I was dealing with a serious matter.”

  Barney stalked to the desk, his eyes narrowing “What was it? Extortion? Counterfeiting?”

  “No, I’ve been invited to a picnic.”

  45

  That evening during their vodka martini session, Lockington gave Natasha the story of his rainy day—the round trip to Moffitt Red Ball’s Canfield terminal, Frank Addison’s suspicions that he’d been followed both ways, Cayuse Bresnahan’s visit to the office, and Moose Katzenbach’s reports on Cy Willoughby and Ivan Leonid.

  Natasha said, “Are you in the market for an opinion?”

  “I already got an opinion—I got an opinion you and I better move to San Juan Capistrano!”

  Natasha ignored the remark. “In the first place, Addison wasn’t followed, you were followed. You’re the bellwether.”

  “Krahsny Lentuh, needless to say.”

  “Directly or indirectly, yes—Krahsny Lentuh’s laying back.”

  “Krahsny Lentuh’s laying back? Jesus Christ, Natasha, it’s murdered four people in five days! What happens when it really gets down to business? Where’s this Mawlniyuh outfit you’ve been talking about—they’re supposed to be the good guys, ain’t they?”