The Fedorovich File
Page 17
Barney looked up from a desk cluttered with sheets of scratch-pad paper, all bearing sets of eight-spoked wheels.
“You had one call.” He glanced at a notation on a wheels sheet. “Kilbuck—he left a number.”
Lockington said, “Okay, take a half-hour break, and I’ll catch up on a couple of matters.”
Barney left the desk, sauntering wordlessly through the office door, not looking back, reminding Lockington of a whipped puppy. Lockington shook his head. The kid wanted to move in on the ground floor and there just wasn’t room for him, not at this stage of the ball game.
He dialed the number Barney had given him. Nanette answered the phone. Lockington said, “Nanette, let me speak to Gordon Kilbuck, will you?”
Nanette said, “Howja know it’s me?”
“Your voice—you have such a sweet voice.”
Nanette giggled. Lockington winced. He’d heard sweeter voices in the lion house at Chicago’s Lincoln Park Zoo.
Gordon Kilbuck got on the line. “Lockington?”
“Yeah, what’s happening?”
“Funny thing—I wanted to ask you the same question.”
“Well, for starters, somebody took a shot at me yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh-oh!”
“That’s what I said.”
“Where?”
“Down in Mill Creek Park.”
“You’re bugging people! Any idea who?”
“Not yet, but buckle up—this teapot is gonna blow shortly!”
“How shortly? You’re about due for another payment.”
“Maybe before then.”
“That’ll be great!”
“Maybe it will and maybe it won’t.” Lockington hung up, leaning back in his swivel chair, lighting a cigarette, blowing smoke at the ceiling. He was marking time, Mawson was just a whisker off the pace, and the telephone was ringing. Cayuse Bresnahan’s voice was terse. “Lockington, I think I’m onto something!”
“Concerning?”
“Concerning what happened yesterday afternoon.”
“What happened yesterday afternoon?”
“I’m talking about target-practice—know what I mean?”
“Uh-huh—so let’s hear it.”
“Not on the phone. Can you be at the Valencia Cafe in an hour?”
“I can be there in five minutes.”
“I can’t.”
“Where are you?”
“We’ll talk when I see you.”
“Okay, then—Valencia in an hour.”
“Good boy! We just caught a break!”
“That’s what Neville Chamberlain said when he got back from Munich.”
Bresnahan chuckled and Lockington heard the phone clatter onto the hook.
Fifteen minutes later, Barney came in. He said, “I’ve been out in my car, doing some figuring. Do you know how many permutations could be in this wheels thing?”
Lockington said, “Break it to me gently—I’m operating on one slice of toast.”
Barney said, “Upwards of a septillion, as I see it.”
“Is that a googol?”
“If it ain’t, it’ll do till one comes along.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“I may have to take the sonofabitch home with me!”
51
He parked the Mercedes in the bumpy lot behind the Valencia Café, going in several minutes ahead of schedule for two reasons, the first being that Cayuse Bresnahan might get there early, the second being that Lockington was thirsty. Bresnahan had implied that he had knowledge of Sunday’s events. How he’d learned of them puzzled Lockington, but how he’d learned wouldn’t be as interesting as what he’d learned.
The Valencia Café was running slow. There was an old man at a table, nursing a glass of wine, and another in a booth, sleeping. The elderly lady behind the bar gave Lockington a smile. Obviously she was in a better mood this time around. “Weren’t you in here the other day with a guy whose shirt was half-missing?”
Lockington said, “Yeah, that was Bresnahan—his twenty-foot crocodile attacked him.”
“I wouldn’t have a crocodile in the house!”
“Neither would Bresnahan—he keeps his in the garage.”
The elderly lady said, “I’m Clara—who’re you?”
“The biggest liar in Mahoning County.”
“You ordered Martell’s cognac and we were out.”
“And you’re still out.”
“That’s right—brandy okay?”
Lockington nodded and Clara poured brandy before going to the other end of the bar where a television set was belching a soap opera. On the screen a half-naked blonde woman was in bed with a half-naked dark-haired man. The blonde woman was saying, “Holy Toledo, what if Mary finds out about us?”
The dark-haired man said, “We won’t worry about Mary, will we?”
“Maybe you won’t, but I will! Holy Toledo, Mary has a gun!”
“Mary has a gun, but she doesn’t know how to use the damned thing.”
The blonde woman said, “Holy Toledo, are you sure!”
The dark-haired man said, “Sure, I’m sure.
The bedroom door was swinging silently open. A slender redheaded woman stepped into view. She was carrying a revolver. She said, “Bastards!”
The dark-haired man sat up in bed. He said, “Mary!”
The blonde woman sat up in bed. She said, “Holy Toledo!”
The slender redheaded woman walked to the foot of the bed. She raised her revolver. She shot the blonde woman seven times. Then she shot the dark-haired man thirteen times. The scene faded and a commercial for Debutante Sanitary Napkins flashed on. Clara was back, refilling Lockington’s glass. She said, “Mary’s been onto ’em for over a month.”
“Mary was the dark-haired guy’s wife?”
“No, Mary was his mistress. The blonde woman was his wife.”
Lockington said, “Uh-huh.”
Clara said, “This one’s over, but ‘Despair and Desire’ is on next. ‘Despair and Desire’ got a whole bunch of sex in it.”
“To hell with it.”
Clara arched her eyebrows. “Sex?”
Lockington said, “Not now—too early in the day.”
Clara retreated to the other end of the bar. “Despair and Desire” was coming on.
Lockington waited, nipping at his brandy, glancing at his watch. Bresnahan was late.
52
Two brandies and fifteen minutes beyond the appointed meeting time, Lockington dropped a five dollar bill on the bar, waved to Clara, and left the Valencia Café through its front door, walking around the building to its rear, stopping short there. Cayuse Bresnahan’s brown Ford Escort was in the parking lot, squeezed close to Lockington’s Mercedes. Bresnahan was seated in the Ford, his black Stetson tilted over his eyes. Lockington strode rapidly toward the little brown car, waving. Bresnahan didn’t move. Dead people hardly ever do. There was a small bluish black bullet hole in his left temple. A fluid scarlet ribbon had trickled down the side of his face, twining into his collar. Bresnahan’s eyes were open, glazed, staring into eternity or whatever may be out there.
Lockington looked around the Valencia Café’s parking lot. A couple of automobiles, but no movement of any sort. He got into the Mercedes, driving slowly and carefully back to the Mahoning Avenue Shopping Plaza. Barney Kozlowski sat hunched at the desk, scowling, feverishly drawing eight-spoked wheels. He said, “Golly, Mr. Lockington, this is certainly interesting!”
Lockington said, “See any cracks?”
Barney grinned. “Not yet, but I don’t quit easy!”
“Look, kid, this thing could take a while. Work on it at home where you can be comfortable. I’ll finish out the afternoon.”
Barney scrambled to his feet, gathering his papers, rolling them, shoving them under a brawny arm. “See you in the morning, Mr. Lockington!” He went out, his outlook definitely improved.
Lockington sighed, sinking into the swive
l chair, firing up a cigarette, turning on WHOT and the music of a generation that’d fought two wars, both of which Lockington had missed. But he hadn’t missed Vietnam and, somehow, he wished that he had. How can you brag about serving in your country’s only losing action? But the men who’d fought it hadn’t surrendered, it’d been America’s turncoat politicians—hawks on Friday, doves on Monday, assholes seven days a week. Lockington shook his head. The bewildered mind is the Devil’s playground.
The door opened and Barney was back. He said, “I was crossing Schenley Avenue when I saw a couple police cars and a paramedics’ van in the Valencia Café’s parking lot.”
Lockington shrugged. “Probably a tavern brawl. You came back to tell me that?”
“No, the reason I came back was to ask you if it’s possible that these wheels turn.”
Lockington frowned. He said, “Hell, I don’t know,” amazed that the thought had never crossed his mind, remembering Gen. Alexi Fedorovich’s lines at the beginning of his book—“The wheels of treachery turn slowly, one click at a time—” “Click?” Was it possible that Fedorovich had meant “notch,” declining to use the word because it would have been too obvious? And if stationary wheels could produce a googol of possibilities, what astronomical total would result if they turned, altering all values with every shift in position? Lockington’s mind reeled—he’d just brushed shoulders with infinity.
Barney was saying, “The wheels—where did they come from—a picture, maybe?”
Lockington said, “Right—a picture of some people pushing a six-wheeled cart.”
Barney’s eyes were slits. “Were they pushing the cart from right to left or from left to right? Try to remember, Mr. Lockington—it could be real important!”
“Left to right, I guess—yeah, left to right.”
“Thanks, Mr. Lockington—thanks a lot!” Barney Kozlowski was going through the door like he was busting into an enemy high school’s backfield. Lockington heard an engine roar. He watched Barney’s Mustang turn east on Mahoning Avenue, defying the laws of centrifugal force.
Then, having witnessed Barney’s departure, he turned his attention to Frank Addison’s arrival.
53
Addison sat on the window bench facing Lockington, lighting a cigarette.
Lockington said, “So what’s new?”
“Interesting happening down the street—guy found dead in his car, shot through his left temple.”
“When was this?”
“Less than an hour ago.”
“Suicide?”
“Not unless he shot himself in the head and disposed of the weapon.”
“That’d be a nifty trick.”
“Sure would.”
“I’ve heard nothing of it.”
“You won’t. It’s been squelched.”
“Who squelched it?”
“The same people who squelched the shooting at Sabatini’s Funeral Home.”
“That right?”
“Yep—Uncle Sam’s boys—heavy government pressure—you know anything about government pressure, Lockington?”
“Damn right! Couple years ago I owed the IRS sixty-two dollars. The bastards were gonna impound my car, only it wasn’t worth sixty-two dollars.”
“You aren’t talking about that black Mercedes, obviously.”
“No, at that time I had an old Pontiac.”
“How did you come by your Mercedes?”
“Won it in a raffle.”
Addison’s smile was one-half smirk. He said, “You have anything on this shooting?”
“Should I?”
“Shouldn’t you?”
Lockington shrugged. “None of my damned business.”
“You’re probably working with the feds and this guy carried a National Security Agency card—Robert Bresnahan. You acquainted with anybody named Bresnahan?”
“No, and I’ve never heard of the National Security Agency.”
“It deals primarily in the field of cryptography—busting Eastern Bloc ciphers, protecting our own—you know the route.”
“Uh-uh—explain the route, if you will.”
Addison shook his head. “It’s a circuitous sonofabitch and it runs through Chicago. Hear anything on Cy Willoughby’s murder?”
“Yeah, Willoughby was killed by a guy named Ivan Leonid, a Chicago Polish Consulate hand.”
Addison said, “Well, that gives this thing a nice international flavor, doesn’t it? The Chicago cops nailed Leonid?”
“No, they ran second. He was dead when they found him.”
“Uh-huh, and this Chicago business is connected to the guy you’re trying to find?”
“I’d say so.”
“Who’s your boy, Lockington?”
Lockington shook his head. “Not yet.”
Addison’s slow smile was the smile of a weasel in a chicken coop. He said, “All right, let’s ditch the peekaboo routine and play ‘Let’s pretend.’ Let’s pretend that you’re looking for a Soviet general who went over the hill—a guy named Alexi Fedorovich.”
“I’d rather play ‘Pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey’.”
Addison chuckled. “You’re a good one, Lockington—a real good one!”
Lockington said, “If I’m so good, why ain’t I rich?”
Addison got to his feet, “Okay, have it your way, but if you need help—”
Lockington said, “If I need help, I’ll let you know.”
Halfway to the door Addison turned. “I saw your minotaur pull out of here—I think he was prepping for the Daytona 500.”
“No, he was going out to beat up on a few cops. He stays in shape that way.”
Addison eased the door shut behind him. WHOT was playing “La Cumparsa.” Lockington didn’t recognize the band, but it was a great number and it took him back to the senior prom at Kelvyn Park High School in Chicago and to Minnie Larsen. Minnie had been the daughter of Nels Larsen, a Scandinavian bricklayer. She’d been tall, blonde, goodlooking, and she’d had a snapper, the real thing, or that’d been the opinion of the majority of guys in Kelvyn Park High’s senior class. Lockington had never managed to verify the story, but he’d come close. It’d been a hot June night, the gymnasium windows had been open, the band had been playing “La Cumparsa” when Minnie had taken Lockington’s hand to guide him across Kilbourne Avenue and into the park. The band had been playing “La Cumparsa”’ when Minnie Larsen had dragged Lockington into the bushes. It’d still been playing “La Cumparsa” when Nels Larsen had dragged Lockington out of the bushes and kicked Lockington’s ass up around his ears. Almost every song is accompanied by a memory. Some memories are better than others.
Lockington switched off the radio and picked up the telephone. He dialed Chicago.
54
OCTOBER 16, 1988 / COMMLINK CHICAGO-LANGLEY / CODE 7 UNSCRAMBLED
LINE OPENED CHICAGO 1157 CDT
CHICAGO-LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 1158 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: CONTACT FROM LOCKINGTON 1149 CDT THIS DATE / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 1259 EDT
BEGIN TEXT: CONTACT THROUGH WHOM? / END TEXT / MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 1159 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: DIRECT / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 1300 EDT
BEGIN TEXT: BE ADVISED LOCKINGTON CODED BIRDDOG / SEE MAY MEMO / FUTURE REFERENCES MUST COMPLY / END TEXT / MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 1201 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: WE HAVE THAT HERE / SORRY / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 1301 EDT
BEGIN TEXT: CONTACT REGARDING WHAT? / END TEXT / MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 1202 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: BIRDDOG REPORTS GOVT. MAN MURDERED YOUNGSTOWN APPROX 1200 HRS EDT THIS DATE / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 1303 EDT
BEGIN TEXT: FOXFIRE CHECKMATE ONLY TWO AGENCY PEOPLE IN YOUNGSTOWN THIS TIME / IDENTIFY
VICTIM / END TEXT / MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 1204 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: ROBERT BRESNAHAN / SUPPOSEDLY EMPLOYED NSA / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 1307 EDT
BEGIN TEXT: CROSSFILES SHOW NO ROBERT BRESNAHAN WITH NSA / WHERE DOES BRESNAHAN FIT IN? / END TEXT / MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 1208 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: HIRED BIRDDOG TO LOCATE ALEXI FEDOROVICH / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 1309 EDT
BEGIN TEXT: BE ADVISED ALEXI FEDOROVICH CODED WIZARD / SEE JUNE MEMO / END TEXT / MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 1209 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: WE HAVE THAT HERE / SORRY / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 1310 EDT
BEGIN TEXT: BRESNAHAN LIKELY KGB / END TEXT / MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 1211 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: AGREED / BIRDDOG REQUESTS TWO OPERATIVE YOUNGSTOWN IMMEDIATELY / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 1312 EDT
BEGIN TEXT: WHAT PURPOSE? / END TEXT / MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 1213 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: WASN’T EXPLICIT / WOULD SAY BIRDDOG EXPECTS EARLY BREAK WIZARD MATTER / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 1314 EDT
BEGIN TEXT: THIS OFFICE HAS NOT AUTHORIZED HIRING OF BIRDDOG / END TEXT / MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 1214 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: DITTO / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 1315 EDT
BEGIN TEXT: IF CLIENT DEAD WHY BIRDDOG STILL INVOLVED? / END TEXT / MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY / ATTN MASSEY / 1215 CDT
BEGIN TEXT: PRESUMABLY BROUGHT IN BY FOXFIRE / END TEXT / CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS / 1316 EDT