Information Brown said, “Sir, you are a gentleman of quality and great understanding.”
Lockington said, “I’m aware of that, but don’t let it get around.”
11
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1301 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: POTENTIAL PROBLEM HERE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1402 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: CLARIFY/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1303 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: MAN NAMED LOCKINGTON IN PICTURE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1404 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: LOCKINGTON NOT HOUSEHOLD NAME/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1304 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: OPERATES SMALL PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS AGENCY/ EX-CHICAGO COP/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1405 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: WHY EX?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1306 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: KILLED FOUR IN WEEK/ PRESS CRUSADE FORCED DISMISSAL/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1408 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: HAS CONNECTION WITH TURKEY?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1309 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: AFFIRMATIVE/ DRINKING BUDDY/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1410 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: SOURCE INFORMATION?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1311 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: LOBBY DETAIL PLAINCLOTHES COP NAMED WEBB PRITCHARD/ ACQUAINTED LOCKINGTON CHICAGO FORCE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1412 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: LOCKINGTON INQUISITIVE?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1313 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: COULD GET THAT WAY/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1414 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: LOCKINGTON GOOD?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1315 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: PRITCHARD SAYS DYNAMITE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1415 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: TAIL ON LOCKINGTON?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1316 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: AFFIRMATIVE/ DELLICK/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1416 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: BUY LOCKINGTON/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1317 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: GET IN OR STAY OUT?/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1418 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: STAY OUT/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1319 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: QUESTION WISDOM THAT MOVE/ WILL MAKE LOCKINGTON MORE CURIOUS/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1420 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: PRECISELY/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1321 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: UNDERSTOOD/ LIMIT?/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1422 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: FIVE FOR NOW/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1322 CDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: WHAT IF NO DICE?/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1423 EDT/ 5/24/88
BEGIN TEXT: EXCELLENT/ WE CAN USE HIM/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
LINE CLEARED LANGLEY 1423 EDT 5/24/88
12
It’d been before Edna Garson and before Julie Masters. It’d been before the Morning Sentinel had drummed Lockington out of Chicago police force service. It’d been in the early spring of ’84. The Billy Mac Davis for President bandwagon had swept out of the south and into Chicago, a gala caravan of red, white and blue chartered buses. SUDDENLY, A CHOICE! the placards had proclaimed. There’d been a rally at the Chicago Stadium on West Madison Street and Lockington had been there, heading up a five-man plainclothes pickpocket detail. Rufe Devereaux had attended for whatever reasons CIA operatives attend such functions—possibly the apprehension of subversives, Lockington had figured.
It’d been a rip-snorting Sunday afternoon affair replete with satin- and sequin-attired country singers and denim-clad guitar pickers. It’d packed all the fervent, feverish vibrancy of an old-fashioned, fire-and-brimstone Dixie revival meeting. The stage had been awash in American flags, the Chicago Stadium pipe organ had boomed and blasted, fifteen thousand people had joined in the singing of “America the Beautiful,” and Lockington had come down with a severe case of goose-bumps, because if there’d have been anything that he’d have appreciated more than fifteen thousand people singing “America the Beautiful,” it’d have been fifteen million people singing “America the Beautiful.” Lockington was a hard-nosed, two-fisted, dyed-in-the-wool patriot.
The Sunshine Brothers Quartet had sung “Church in the Wildwood” and “If I Could Hear My Mother Pray Again.” Then Bobbie Jo Pickens had been introduced. Bobbie Jo Pickens had been a tall, middle-aging, hoarse-voiced, blonde vocalist in a tight-fitting gold lamé gown. She’d strode confidently to centerstage to grab a microphone stand, straddle it, roll her hips, twitch her groin, and belt out “Sleepwalkin’ Mama” to the accompaniment of a wailing electric guitar and a slow bluesy piano. She’d brought the house down. The switch from gospel to honky-tonk had been abrupt, but Billy Mac Davis had been touching all bases. Following a rambling prayer by a cadaverous Pentecostal preacher, Davis had stepped to the lectern to tear into the Loyal Order of Moose, the Citrus Growers’ Association, the Mystery Writers of America, and similarly dangerous organizations. He’d been a chunky, silver-haired, wild-eyed, arm-waving foot-stomper, one step short of full swastika rank and mere inches removed from an insane asylum. He’d spouted a venom-marinated doctrine calling for the immediate deportation of all blacks to Africa, the return of every last Mexican to Mexico, and “trial by the people” for white liberals.
Through it all, Rufe Devereaux had been studying Lockington, seeing in him, perhaps, the quintessential subversive, and Lockington had been keeping a suspicious eye on Rufe Devereaux, waiting for him to dip into somebody’s hip pocket. Eventually they’d run out of patience, approaching each other to demand identification. Identification produced, they’d laughed about the incident, shaking hands to slip across West Madison Street and into a skid-row ginmill for a few belts, and while they’d been drinking, two black men had set fire to one of Billy Mac Davis’s red, white and blue buses, and a Mexican had picked Lockington’s pocket.
13
Moose Katzenbach was slumped in the client’s chair, hat tilted to the back of his head, elbows on the desk, face buried between his forearms. His snoring rattled the picture of Wrigley Field on the wall. Lockington dropped into the swivel chair and Moose grunted, raising his head. “Back so soon?”
Lockington said, “Rufe Devereaux got shot in the head.”
Moose yawned. “Well, in Rufe Devereaux’s racket, you gotta expect getting shot in the head every once in a while.” Like Lockington, Moose Katzenbach was no stranger to violence.
Lockington said, “In Rufe’s case it ain’t gonna happen every once in a while.”
“Dead?”
Lockington nodded.
Moose said, “Sorry to hear that. Devereaux cut a few corners, I’ve been told.”
Lockington shrugged. “I suppose he did—in a dirty game you gotta shoot dirty pool. Go on home, Moose, and catch up on your sleep.”
Moose lurched to his feet, straightened his hat, and said, “Thanks, Lacey—I think it just caught up with me. See you in the morning.”
Lockington watched his friend go out, a big man who’d been chewed up in an emotional meat-grinder for years.
He leaned back in the spavined swivel chair, smoking, feeling the p
ressure of the mounting afternoon heat, attempting to martial his thoughts. According to Webb Pritchard, Rufe had been last seen in the company of a good-looking female. Given the man and his lecherous leanings, that figured. According to Pritchard, he’d been last seen carrying an attaché case. Depending on what Rufe had been up to, maybe that figured. Both the woman and the attaché case had vanished, also according to Pritchard, which underlined the possibility that the woman had blown Devereaux’s brains out and made off with the attaché case. That didn’t figure. A woman in Devereaux’s good graces would have had countless opportunities to steal an attaché case without firing a shot. The telephone was ringing and Lockington clambered from the depths of his brown study to grab it. He said, “Classic Investigations.”
The voice was coarse, grating against Lockington’s raw nerve ends. “You’re Lockington.”
Lockington said, “I know it.”
“I have a few questions for you.”
Lockington said, “If nominated, I will not run.”
The caller chuckled, sounding like a four-cylinder engine firing on three. He said, “Sergeant Joe Delvano here, Lockington—Chicago Police Superintendent’s office calling.”
Lockington said, “Delvano, Delvano—I don’t recognize the name.”
“Well, hell, you’ve been gone nine months—there’ve been changes.”
“My God, I hope so.”
“You were at the International Arms a couple hours ago.” It was a statement, not a query.
Lockington said, “Yeah, I was gonna buy the joint but I came up thirty-seven dollars short.”
“You were a friend of Rufe Devereaux’s.” Again, no question mark.
“True. We sang together at the Met—Barber of Seville.”
“Spare me the cute lines, Lockington—this is a serious matter.”
“Okay, Joe, sorry. By the way, how’s Terry Scott doing? I heard he had surgery.”
“Scott’s fine.”
“Harry Jamieson—he take the pension yet?”
“He’s thinking about it. I’m just back from vacation, Lockington—I’m not quite up to date. Now, about Devereaux—we’re trying to track his activities after he reached Chicago last night. Did he contact you when he got in?”
“No. Tell me, is it true that Buck Sarno bought a race horse?”
“I’ve heard nothing of it. Devereaux had a woman with him and there was a rental Jaguar waiting for him at O’Hare. He outran a Ford on the Kennedy but our guys kept him in sight. He was a foxy bastard—he stopped at Mike’s Tavern at Belmont and Kimball, called a cab, instructed that it wait in the alley, left the broad at the bar, and ducked out the back door. He was gone before we got the drift.”
“I see. Is there anything to the story that Rip Tilman may get married? That’d make four times for Rip.”
“I don’t see much of Tilman. We figure that Devereaux was gone from Mike’s Tavern over a couple hours. Since Mike’s is just a few blocks from your apartment, we wondered if he might have dropped in for a visit, seeing as how you were such a good friend of his.”
“Never laid eyes on him. How’s Ace Hopkins—did he ever get cleared on that rape case?”
“I think he got a postponement on that. When Devereaux got back, he picked up the quiff, returned the Jag to the agency in Rosemont, called another cab, and went to the International Arms Hotel. Our problem is with those couple hours he was missing. They’re critical.”
“Yes, well, my understanding of this thing is that the Chicago police are locked out of it, and if that’s the case, how come you’re digging into it?”
“We’re just nibbling around the edges, Lockington, finding out what we can. It’s going to spill into the open eventually, and we want to be ready.”
“Your people were tagging Devereaux from the time he got to O’Hare?”
“You got it.”
“How did you know he was coming in, and why the surveillance—was he on a wanted list?”
“Uhh-h-h, look, Lockington, that’s police business and I can’t discuss it with you. You aren’t a cop now.”
Lockington said, “No, and you never were! There ain’t no Terry Scott, there ain’t no Harry Jamieson, Buck Sarno’s been dead for ten years, Rip Tilman quit the force in ’sixty-three, and Ace Hopkins is a gay piano player at Mario’s Lounge in Arlington Heights. You’re tying up my phone line.”
There was a short intermission while Delvano regrouped. Then he said, “Hey, tell me about Devereaux’s attaché case and you get a pass. I’m trying to save your ass.”
“From what?”
“From getting it blown off.”
“By whom?”
“You’ll never know—not in this world.”
“Joe, you’re boring me.”
“Don’t get in over your head, asshole! You’ll be hearing from me!”
Lockington hung up, no more puzzled than before the call. Certainly no less.
14
Lockington’s final hour with Rufe Devereaux had come in early ’87 during the vacuum between Julie Masters and Edna Garson. It’d been a cold, wet evening, the kind that penetrates to the marrow, a good night to have gone home and stayed there. Instead, Lockington had stopped at the Shamrock Pub on West Diversey Avenue to stretch his legs and try to forget a long and unproductive afternoon spent trying to run down a chop shop reported to be operating in the Jefferson Park neighborhood. He’d put away a few belts of Martell’s before deciding that it was high time he found Rufe Devereaux and established once and for all the ’27 Yankees’ superiority over the ’06 Cubs. When Devereaux attempted to locate Lockington he’d usually find him at the Shamrock Pub. When Lockington looked for Devereaux he’d start at the Club Howdy on Milwaukee Avenue. These hadn’t been certain points of contact, but they’d been good three times in four.
It’d been six weeks since Lockington had been in the Club Howdy. There’d been no changes for the better—the lights were still dim, the barstools ripped, the booths and tables lopsided, the paint peeling from the walls, the tiles peeling from the floor. Lockington had wondered if the men’s washroom was the same. Not possessed of a strong stomach, he’d opted not to find out. Cockroaches had been conducting a track-and-field meet along the footrail of the bar, the pungent odor of urine had been held to a draw by the generous application of sweet-smelling disinfectant, the old status quo had prevailed, and Lockington had spotted Rufe Devereaux sitting in a rear booth, talking to a blonde woman. There’d been something vaguely familiar about her but Lockington hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. Devereaux had observed Lockington’s entrance, waving to him, motioning him to take a seat at the bar, then holding up a be-with-you-in-a-moment finger.
Club Howdy attendance had been sparse—a few scruffy-looking characters had been clustered in a dark corner of the place, there’d been a pair of elderly men at the end of the bar, but the tables had been deserted, and Lockington had discounted threat of being crushed in a rush. A four-piece string band had been mauling “Clayton’s Ridge” when Lockington had seated himself. “Clayton’s Ridge” came under the heading of bluegrass, and Lockington had never been convinced that bluegrass came under the heading of music. Bluegrass had always reminded Lockington of a midnight cat fight in a trash heap, but he’d ordered a Martell’s and waited. The musical mayhem had subsided before Rufe Devereaux had occupied the barstool next to Lockington’s, growling, “Lacey, where the hell you been? I was at the Shamrock last week and somebody said that you’d joined the fucking Foreign Legion.”
Lockington had said, “I tried, but they’ve stopped taking misfits.”
Devereaux had slapped him on the shoulder. “Hang on, Lacey—you’ll get over this!” He was referring, of course, to the death of Julie Masters. Lockington had shrugged, saying nothing, watching Rufe Devereaux’s booth companion mount the steps to the tiny elevated stage behind the bar. Devereaux had grinned at Lockington. “Recognize her?”
Lockington had nodded. “Sure—she’s t
he gal who sang with that Billy Mac Davis political carnival a few years back—Bobbie Jo Pickens.”
“Right! She bought the joint a month ago—she thinks that she can make something of it.”
Lockington had frowned. “If she’s gonna make something of this place, she’d better start with fifty gallons of gasoline and a match.”
Three men had followed Bobbie Jo Pickens onto the stage, one seating himself at the drums, the others plugging guitars into amplifiers. Bobbie Jo Pickens waited, a commanding on-stage presence, a hard-faced woman probably in her mid- to upper-forties, with long, wavy peroxide-blonde hair, wary brown eyes, a slim-bridged nose, flaring nostrils, a full-lipped sensuous mouth. There’d been no gold lamé gown this time around. Approximately one hundred twenty pounds of Bobbie Jo Pickens had been stuffed into a faded denim outfit that’d been geared for one-oh-five, and every important crease in her well-preserved body had shown to excellent advantage. When her musicians were ready, she’d plucked a microphone from a stand, smiling into a smattering of applause and murmuring, “Hello, there, you good ole boys an’ good ole gals—partickellary you good ole boys!” She’d flashed white bridgework when one of the good ole boys had howled like a brokenhearted timber wolf. Then she’d nodded to the band and lit into “Stand On It,” snapping and jerking to the rapid boogie background. When she’d lowered the mike, the small turnout had sent up a roar that could have been heard in Highland Park. She’d winked, gasping, “Whew-e-e-e—why, my gracious, that was almos’ as tirin’ as somethin’ else I enjoy doin’, only nowheres near as much fun!” That’d prompted another roar. Then her smile had faded, the stage lights had dimmed, a blue spotlight had clicked on, and Bobbie Jo Pickens had sung “Too Many Rivers to Cross,” “Send Me the Pillow that You Dream On,” and “When the Echo of Your Footsteps Died Away.” On these selections she’d been very good—she’d known how to handle her big, throaty voice, how to milk the last tear from a song concerning love lost, stolen or abandoned.
The Devereaux File Page 4
