Lockington said, “Cognac—Martell’s cognac.”
The barmaid said, “Cognac? Looky, buster, this ain’t no fag joint!”
Lockington spread his hands. He said, “All right, booze will do.”
“What kinda booze?”
“The kind you’re pushing.”
“Thass better!”
She popped a murky shot glass onto the formica and poured from a bottle of Nolan’s Bourbon Supreme. By way of relieving the tension, Lockington said, “Are you Helga?”
“No, I’m the fucking Countess Maritza!” She broke into a hoarse staccato cackle, sounding a great deal like a motorboat hung up on the sandbar, Lockington thought, although he was unfamiliar with motorboats and he wouldn’t have known a sandbar from a butterscotch sundae. He said, “Well, maybe you ain’t the Countess Maritza, but I’ll bet you were a hummer in your day.” It was one of Lockington’s very best lines.
The acid seeped out of her. She took his ten-dollar bill, rang up a dollar, and fanned out nine singles on the bar. There was a wistfulness about her. She said, “Hey, mister, I wasn’t too shabby—no guys never objected to me dropping my panties!” She lit a cigarette and broke into a series of racking consumptive coughs. She spat into the bar sink. “Yeah, I’m Helga. You from around here someplace?”
“Sort of.”
“Uh-huh. Going to a wake?”
“Right—old friend of mine.”
Helga thought about it. “Old friends’ wakes ain’t all that much fun.”
Lockington nodded agreement, saying nothing.
Helga said, “I get the biggest chunk of my action from Olenick’s—sometimes six, eight people at a time, but they don’t never stay long.”
“You probably pull some ball-game trade.”
“Not much—I’m too far north.”
“You oughta do pretty good when they start playing night ball.”
She shook her head. “Doubtful. Nobody in his right mind would walk clear the hell up here from Wrigley after dark.”
A young man had come in, seating himself on the first stool inside the entrance. He was a hatless, sturdily built fellow, sandy-haired, clean-cut, with quick gray eyes and neatly dressed. Helga looked his way and he mumbled, “Just a bottle of Old Washensachs, please.” He seemed ill at ease, his knuckles rat-ta-tat-tatting on the countertop. Lockington’s experienced gaze noted the shoulder-holster bulge in his powder-blue sports jacket. He avoided Lockington’s eyes, turning self-consciously away to watch the Clark Street traffic crawl by.
Lockington gulped his Nolan’s Bourbon Supreme, understanding why the stuff wasn’t famous. He left a dollar on the bar, waved to Helga, and went out to head north. He didn’t look back. Looking back wasn’t necessary. He’d picked up a tail. He shouldered his way through the thickening dusk, wondering why.
19
The scent of carnations hit him in the face like a moist blanket, it permeated the interior of the decaying brick building on North Clark Street. It’d never go away, Lockington figured—over the decades, the pores of the place had become clogged with the odor. He made his way up a long, narrow hallway, hat in hand, feeling the hush. The walls were dark-paneled, the floors dark-carpeted, the lamps on little black tables were amber-shaded and dim. Somewhere an organ and chimes recording was playing. Lockington was acquainted with the number—“Abide With Me.” An old woman with a fractured voice had sung it at his grandmother’s funeral. Lockington’s grandmother had been run over by a Budweiser truck just ten days after she’d quit drinking. There’d been a moral there, Lockington was certain, but he’d never been able to locate the damned thing.
Olenick’s Funeral Home was silent—death reigned there, death was the force, death was the reason for living. Some reason. Lockington detested all fucking undertakers.
Like the stem of a flower, the hallway terminated at its blossom, an oblong room that featured an enormous reproduction of an oil painting of Jesus Christ. To its black wooden frame a wag had taped a crudely lettered white filing card—WOULD YOU BUY A USED CAR FROM THIS MAN? If management had noticed it, it hadn’t done anything about it. What the hell, this was North Clark Street in Chicago.
There were registration books on tall tables, and to left and right there were small smoking lounges with uncomfortable-looking straight-backed chairs. Dead ahead were two rooms where caskets rested on low, blue velvet-draped biers. Hanging over the entrances to these rooms were chrome-framed white-on-black signs—above the door on the right, LIPSCOMB, JOHN; above the door on the left, DEVEREAUX, RUFUS. The white letters of the signs were interchangeable, lightly secured in the slender grooves of their black backgrounds. Lockington had seen similar displays in greasy-spoon eateries—HAMBURGER & FRIES $1.95. Chicago prices, of course. In New York they said HAMBURGER & FRIES $5.95 ONIONS EXTRA. Lockington had been to New York once, a mistake he had no intention of repeating.
There were half a dozen people in the Lipscomb room, another eight or ten in the Lipscomb smoking lounge. A woman was sobbing softly in the smoking lounge. So was a man. Men will weep now and then—not so readily as women and not so often, but it’ll happen. Lockington had cried when he’d lost his mother, he’d cried when he’d lost Julie Masters, and he might cry if he lost Edna Garson, but that would depend on how he lost her. He wasn’t sure that he’d ever lose Edna Garson, nor that he’d ever want to. Edna was a pillar, propping up his life.
There was no one in the Devereaux room, no one but Rufe. Lockington stood beside the battleship gray casket, gnawing on his lower lip, the gravity of the moment closing in on him like a great vise. The casket lid was down. They didn’t bother attempting to reconstruct a man’s head unless the man was a helluva lot more important than Rufe Devereaux.
In a corner of the room there was a single magnificent array of flowers contained by a white wicker basket the size of a laundry tub. Lockington appraised it at two hundred dollars—a thousand in New York. He saw no card. Possibly the boys at the Agency—but the Agency had set up the ground rules. No hoopla, no flowers, no ceremony.
A pudgy, cherub-faced little man in a black suit came into the room—probably one of the Olenick family, Lockington thought. The man nodded, smiled, and picked up the flower basket, shifting it to a position at the foot of the casket. He said, “Looks better there, don’t you think?”
Lockington said, “That’s one helluva bunch of posies.”
The little guy said, “Isn’t it, though? Reindorff’s arrangement—instantly identifiable. Reindorff’s does beautiful work—another gentleman commented on it earlier.”
Lockington said, “Reindorff’s—Reindorff’s is on Wabash Avenue.”
“No, Reindorff’s is in Logan Square.”
“Yeah, that’s right—I was thinking of Rheingold Jewelry. Rheingold is on Wabash.”
The little guy said, “No, Rheingold is on West Monroe.” He went out.
Lockington hadn’t considered sending flowers.
Flowers don’t help.
20
He touched the top of the casket with a gentle hand before withdrawing from the room and crossing to the Devereaux smoking lounge, there to hunch on a straight-backed chair, light a cigarette, and wait, but not for long. A man in a powder blue sports coat hove into view, coming from the hallway at a tentative gait to peer into the room where Rufe Devereaux’s casket rested, then turned to check the smoking lounge. His smile was halfhearted. He said, “Ah—Lockington.”
Lockington made no reply, watching him come into the lounge and park on a chair. He produced a cork-tipped cigarette, firing it to life with a chrome Zippo lighter. He crossed his legs and leaned back, blowing a gray plume of smoke in Lockington’s direction. He said, “I wanted to talk to you at Helga’s Place, but—well, you know how it goes.”
Lockington said, “No, how does it go?”
“Well, let’s just say that at this time, it’s a bit hairy.” He put out a hand. “I’m Steve Dellick.”
Lockington’s handshake was u
nenthusiastic. “I’m Lockington, but you already know that. What else do you already know?”
Dellick said, “Well, for one thing, you were at the International Arms yesterday, speaking with a Chicago police detective named Webb Pritchard.”
“Briefly, yes.”
“You know Pritchard?”
“After a fashion.”
“You were looking for Rufe Devereaux. What was your business with Devereaux?”
“We were going to overthrow the government, establish a police state, and declare war on Russia. We planned to attack through the northeastern tip of Turkey—saturation bombing, then heavy armor, then—”
Steve Dellick’s audible sigh was of the monumentally patient variety. He said, “Please, Lockington—we’re trying to bust a murder case. Rufe Devereaux was one of ours.”
Lockington said, “We—Knights of Columbus, San Diego Chargers—who’s we?”
“Central Intelligence Agency.” Dellick dug for his wallet. “Identification?”
Lockington waved the offer away. “Okay, I’ll buy it. I hadn’t seen Rufe Devereaux in more than a year. We’d probably have gotten drunk. We used to do that on occasion.”
“‘On occasion’—what would ‘on occasion’ amount to?”
“Once a week, once a month—it varied. Why?”
“I’m trying to determine if you two were close—were you friends or merely acquaintances?”
“I can’t say—probably a bit of both.”
“Tavern pals?”
“I suppose that’d sum it up.”
“In your last drinking sessions with Devereaux, did he tell you that he was taking an indefinite leave of absence?”
“No.”
“Did he at any time make reference to someone known as the Copperhead?”
“Once—passing mention. An expert assassin, he said.”
“Did he speak of a man named Sheckard—Sam Sheckard?”
“No. Who’s Sam Sheckard?”
“Probably an alias for the Copperhead.”
“You people believe that Devereaux was killed by the Copperhead?”
“We’ve considered that possibility.”
“Because Rufe was on the Copperhead’s trail?”
“Was he?”
“You tell me.”
Dellick shook his head. “Lockington, we just don’t know.” He studied the carpeting between his feet. “You’re an ex-cop, right?”
“Right.”
“With an itchy trigger finger?”
“Wrong.”
Steve Dellick’s knowledgeable smile bordered on a smirk. “And now you’re a private investigator?”
“That’s what my license says.”
“When did you last see Devereaux?”
“Winter before last—February, or thereabouts.”
“Any reason why he should contact you after all that time?”
“I didn’t know his reason. I assumed that we’d have lunch and a few drinks.”
“Did you catch a sense of urgency?”
There’d probably been an urgency, but Rufe had spoken with Edna Garson, and there was no point in dragging Edna into the picture. Lockington said, “No.”
“Do you know that Devereaux had in his possession an item of considerable importance?”
“Are you talking about the attaché case or the woman?”
“The attaché case. Webb Pritchard mentioned it?”
“Yes, but he didn’t get into details. What was in the attaché case?”
Dellick ignored the question, clearing his throat. Here comes the commercial, Lockington thought—funny how people telegraphed it by clearing their throats. Dellick said, “Uhh-h-h, look, Lockington, the Agency is beginning to wonder if you aren’t on the verge of getting involved in something that you have no business getting involved in—you know what I mean.”
“No, what do you mean?”
“Well, you see, this Devereaux affair is sticky—it figures to get stickier. Why get your hands dirty?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions. I haven’t turned a hair.”
“You’ve been asking questions.”
“What the hell, I’m curious. Any law against asking questions?”
Dellick’s gray eyes glittered in the half light of the smoking lounge, but his tone was laid-back—that of a third-grade teacher attempting to reason with the class spitball sharpshooter. “We want you to leave it alone, Lockington—just leave it alone.” There was a pleading, boyish sincerity about Dellick—the kid was doing his best.
Lockington said, “Is that a request or an order?”
“It’s friendly advice. Everything will be attended to.”
“By whom?”
“By specialists. We have a few of those.”
Lockington sighed. “You followed me here to tell me that? You could have picked up a telephone!”
Dellick said, “Let me finish, please. You come across straight—I believe we can do business.”
“What kind of business?”
Dellick dug into a jacket pocket to produce a white business envelope, handing it to Lockington. “There’s five thousand dollars there.”
“For what—blowing up the fucking Kremlin?”
“For staying out of this thing—for standing clear of it.”
Lockington tossed the envelope into Dellick’s lap. “I can stand clear of it for nothing.”
“Yes, but will you?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea.”
Dellick scowled. “All right, Lockington, it’s a free country, but watch your step. This is a major league ball game—in addition to snaffing it, you could get yourself killed.”
“By the Copperhead?”
“Doubtful. You’re a conservative—the Copperhead kills liberals.” He crushed his cigarette butt into a brown glass ashtray. “One more question—have you heard of an organization known as LAON—Law and Order Now?”
Lockington nodded. “Also Robin Hood and Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.”
“You doubt its existence?”
“Definitely. What’s your point?”
“There are threads that may link the Copperhead to LAON. LAON doesn’t like liberals, and we’ve heard that it pays well—something like fifty thousand per job.”
“That’s hearsay.”
“LAON claimed responsibility for torching the Chicago Morning Sentinel last summer.”
“Anybody can make a crank telephone call—hell, you could claim responsibility for the next airlines disaster.”
Steve Dellick shrugged. It was the shrug of a man who’s just rolled snake eyes.
Lockington got to his feet, leaning to clamp a hand on Dellick’s shoulder, squeezing hard. He said, “Listen, son—you’ve taken up my time, you’ve attempted to bribe me, you’ve made veiled threats, you’ve inferred this and intimated that, you’ve cloak-and-daggered it to the hilt, and I know about half as much as I knew before you got here! Now, if we’re gonna talk, we’re gonna talk English! What’s behind the fucking curtain?”
Dellick ran stubby fingers through sandy hair. Tiny beads of perspiration glittered on his forehead. He stared up at Lockington with frustrated gray eyes. He said, “Rufe Devereaux was a man out of control—you didn’t know Devereaux, not really.”
Lockington released Dellick’s shoulder. He said, “Y’know, that’s been a problem of mine—I’ve never known anybody, not really.” He left the building. A misty rain was falling.
21
“A man out of control”—a strange remark, but then Dellick had been vague throughout. Lockington walked the cracked blacktop driveway toward the parking lot, avoiding puddles. Without the rain it’d have been a depressing evening—with it, it was little short of crushing. His mood was black, his thoughts revolved around the battleship gray casket in Olenick’s Funeral Home—what sort of hornet’s nest had Rufe Devereaux stumbled into? He’d taken a leave of absence, Dellick had said. Leave of absence for what purpose—to engage adversaries
or to avoid them? Had there really been a leave of absence, or had Dellick’s story been a red herring intended to divorce the Central Intelligence Agency from a fatal mission it’d handed to Devereaux? Lockington harked back to early ’87 and his last contacts with Rufe, digging for words or actions that might have indicated involvement in a dangerous project, finding nothing that he could hang his hat on.
He’d been offered one thousand dollars to get in, five thousand to stay out. The first was in his bottom desk drawer, he’d refused the second—apparently he was in. In over his head, chances were.
There’d been an attaché case and a woman, both missing. What’d been in the attaché case, where was the woman, and who was the Copperhead—was there a Copperhead? Dellick had hinted that the Copperhead was employed by LAON—a shadowy figure working for a shadowy organization, and Lockington leaned toward discounting both. He’d seen no proof that either existed. For openers he had a blurred equation of ifs and maybes, half factors of undetermined values—one helluva way to start a ball game.
The flower arrangement at Rufe Devereaux’s casket—from whom? The phony Sergeant Delvano who’d called Classic Investigations and the Club Howdy—what was that sonofabitch up to? And why was Lacey Lockington suddenly a focal point in the murder of a man he hadn’t seen since Christ was a corporal? Assembling the scattered and unverified pieces available, Lockington came up with a disjointed and bewildering scenario—Rufe Devereaux had flown into O’Hare, leaving there in a rented automobile to drive at breakneck speeds to a Chicago tavern, sneak out the back door, hop into a waiting cab, disappear for a couple of hours, double back to the tavern, return the rented car to its agency, then summon another cab for the trip to the International Arms Hotel—a circuitous route serving what purpose? Whatever the intent, it’d availed him nothing—somebody had been ahead of him or not far behind.
The Devereaux File Page 6
