The Devereaux File
Page 8
That campaign had busted out before November of ’84, and Lockington wondered what Billy Mac Davis had been doing on West Randolph Street. Maybe he’d gone straight and taken a job. Politicians have been known to do that. Even in Chicago.
25
When Lockington entered the Classic Investigations office, Moose Katzenbach was pacing the floor, snapping his fingers. Lockington said, “How’s about a chorus of ‘Rose of Washington Square?’”
Moose said, “Lacey, I got up late this morning and I didn’t have time for coffee. Coffee! I gotta have coffee!”
Lockington slid into the swivel chair. He said, “So go get coffee.”
Moose said, “May Allah attend your steps and grant your every lecherous desire!” He left the office as if the seat of his pants were on fire, and Lockington settled back, yawning. His mind was at ease. He’d faced the facts, which were: Rufe Devereaux was gone, he wouldn’t be back, nothing could be done to change that, and Lockington was out of it.
The door crashed open and a man came reeling into the office. His left eye was swollen shut, his prominent nose was bent out of shape, the right-hand side of his Errol Flynn mustache was missing, and there was a large bluish lump on his receding chin. He wobbled to the client’s chair, collapsing onto it to teeter precariously there. Lockington recognized him—the Colt. 45 menace from Olenick’s parking lot, Sgt. Joe Delvano. Two men had followed Delvano into the office. The first was a hulking creature in a baggy brown suit. He had an expressionless simian face, the chest of a bull gorilla, and the hairy paws of a grizzly bear. His companion was a slender man attired in a lemon-hued sharkskin leisure suit, a forest green silk shirt, and oxblood alligator-skin loafers. He had the smoky eyes of a pissed-off king cobra, and his thin-lipped smile was devoid of humor. He said, “You’re Lacey Lockington?”
Lockington said, “Well, at the moment, that would depend on factors too numerous to mention.”
The shambles in the client’s chair mumbled, “Yeah, he’s Lockington.”
The man in the lemon-colored leisure suit said, “Hi, Lockington, I’m Vince Calabrese.”
Lockington said, “Vince, I’m hanging on your every word.”
Vince Calabrese said, “My friend, today you find yourself in the presence of the dumbest cocksucker God ever put on the face of this fucked-up planet!”
Lockington’s eyes flicked between the wreck in the client’s chair and the animal in the baggy brown suit. He said, “Which one?”
Calabrese said, “The one what got trouble walking straight.”
Lockington said, “Oh, him.”
Calabrese gestured vehemently. He said, “Get him outta here, Angelo, before I blow his fucking liver out!”
The monster in the brown suit reached for the casualty in the client’s chair, hauling him to standing position, pushing him in the direction of the exit, hastening his departure with a swift kick.
Calabrese had occupied the client’s chair, shaking his head. He said, “You give a fucking imbecile a job, and you get a fucking imbecilic performance—right?”
Lockington shrugged. “I dunno—I never gave a fucking imbecile a job.”
Calabrese said, “Dom told him, ‘See what you can find out about where Devereaux went when he sneaked outta that tavern on Monday might.’ Dom told him, ‘Check with this guy Lockington—maybe he can help you.’ That’s what Dom told him.”
Lockington didn’t say anything.
Calabrese went on. “So what does this jackoff do? He makes like some kind of fucking secret agent, that’s what he does! Instead of walking in here and asking you a couple straight-up questions, the sonofabitch gets on the fucking telephone and pretends he’s a fucking Chicago police sergeant, and when that don’t work, he goes around waving a fucking cannon like a fucking banana republic revolutionary! That’s bush league, Lockington—this ain’t fucking nineteen twenty-eight no more!”
Lockington said, “What’s on your mind, Vince?”
Calabrese said, “Well, so now you see what happens to assholes who take matters into their own hands! Can I use your telephone?”
“Local call, or Sicily?”
Calabrese reached for the phone, laughing. It was a shrill cackle, the midnight laugh of a foggy river loon, Lockington thought, but he’d never heard the midnight laugh of a foggy river loon, so it was probably a lousy metaphor. Calabrese had dialed a number. In a moment he whistled into the mouthpiece and hung up, winking at Lockington. He said, “Marvelous things, them fucking cellular phones—you can talk to a guy parked right outside the door.”
Within a minute the vestibule door had opened and a man with a cane had made his way down the stairs and into the office. He was a very old man, white-haired, dressed in a dark blue suit. His shirt collar was high and stiff, his blue-striped gray necktie was perfectly knotted, his highly polished black oxfords sparkled in the dimness of the office. Calabrese strode across the room to take the old fellow’s arm, escorting him to the client’s chair, seating him there. He said, “I’ll leave you gentlemen alone.” With that he went into the vestibule to stand ramrod-straight at the bottom of the stairs, like a sentry at a castle drawbridge. The old man extended a limp hand. He said, “Mr. Lockington, this is a distinct pleasure.”
Lockington shook hands with him, just a single pump. He said, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
The old man smiled wanly, placing his cane between his knees, cupping his hands over its crook, hunching to rest his chin on them, studying Lockington with inquisitive brown eyes. His face was gnomelike, wrinkled like a bas-relief map of Tibet. He said, “Spatafora, Mr. Lockington—Dominic Spatafora.”
Lockington nodded. This was the big fish, the Don, the honcho of Mafia Midwest, a man who could have your guts ripped out by twitching a finger. Spatafora was saying, “I regret that our first meeting has been prefaced by so ugly an incident.” His voice was harsh but he controlled its abrasiveness by speaking softly. “However, every organization has its misfits, its foul balls, if you will—I’m sure that you’re aware of that.”
Lockington spread his hands, acknowledging that every organization has its misfits, its foul balls.
Dominic Spatafora said, “Unfortunately, one of my—er, associates has waxed, shall we say, overly zealous?”
Lockington said, “Yes, I suppose we could say that.”
Spatafora slipped a pale hand into a coat pocket, bringing forth an envelope, placing it on the desk at Lockington’s elbow. He said, “Where there’s a wrong, there must be a right.” He tilted his cane to a forty-five-degree angle, leaning in Lockington’s direction. “Mr. Lockington, on Monday evening, an acquaintance of yours slipped through the back door of a tavern at the corners of Belmont and Kimball avenues. He came back shortly, but it’s likely that he returned with less than he left with. Do you follow me?”
Lockington said, “Not at all, Mr. Spatafora—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Spatafora’s smile was slow and genuine—the appreciative smile of a chess enthusiast for a britches move. He said, “Well, Mr. Lockington, so be it for this time, but in the event you should come upon information or material pertinent to this matter, I would appreciate a call. You would be handsomely rewarded, I assure you. You will find my card in the envelope.” He struggled to his feet, bowing stiffly, and Vince Calabrese left the vestibule, hustling to the old man’s side, and guiding him toward the door.
They went out and Lockington opened the envelope. He found a five-hundred-dollar bill folded around a simple black-on-white business card. He studied the card. STARCREST IMPORTS & EXPORTS. Lockington’s smile was sour. Imports translated to cocaine, exports to firearms, probably. There was no name on the card, just a telephone number.
He slipped the cash and the card into a pocket, considering the difference between appearances and realities. Dominic Spatafora had seemed a friendly and courteous fellow, a gentleman by the most demanding standards—there’d been an aura of grandfatherly kind
ness about him. Lockington lit a cigarette. That old sidewinder had sentenced more men to death than any ten judges in the country.
26
A man may mute his words and tether his actions but his mind remains free to do as it pleases. Lockington had withdrawn his physical capabilities from the Devereaux affair, but his thoughts swarmed to it like bees to a clover patch. The mysterious attaché case constituted the eye of this particular hurricane. He ticked off the sequence of events as he’d understood them—Rufe Devereaux renting a high-performance automobile at O’Hare, barreling down the Kennedy Expressway, peeling off at the Kimball Avenue exit to enter Mike’s Tavern with his female companion, leaving the lady at Mike’s, scooting through the rear door to a waiting taxi, coming back better than two hours later with the attaché case, obviously, because it’d been in his possession when he’d reached the International Arms. Old Dominic Spatafora had seemed convinced that the contents of the attaché case had been disposed of during Devereaux’s brief absence. Beyond that, Spatafora was harboring a notion that Lockington had been the recipient thereof, a theory apparently shared by just about everybody.
There was a woman to be accounted for—a lovely, dark-haired, blue-eyed young thing. Where the hell did she figure—had Rufe known her in Ohio, had he met her during the Cleveland-to-Chicago flight, had she been an O’Hare field hustler, one of those five-hundred-dollar overnight conveniences—what was her role? Rufe had never been particular as to where and how he’d gotten his women. If the big Cajun had owned an Achilles heel, it’d worn sheer black lingerie. Such were the meanderings of Lockington’s mind when Moose Katzenbach came in to plunk a large white styrofoam cup on the desk top. He said, “Coffee, sahib.”
Lockington scowled. He said, “Sahib ain’t bad, but in the future you will address me as Your Omnipotence.”
Moose said, “Say, I’m feeling better! You still in the market for ‘Rose of Washington Square?’”
Lockington said, “That urge has flown.”
Moose seated himself, crossing his legs, lighting a cigarette. “That’s good—I forgot the fucking words anyway.”
Lockington took a noisy slurp of his coffee. He said, “My God, this is awful stuff! The Greek joint across the street?”
Moose said, “Yes, Your Omnipotence.”
They drifted into a comfortable silence, a sense of normalcy pervading the little office—no place to go, and nothing to do when they got there. Disinvolvement brought a feeling of tranquility, Lockington thought, wondering if there was such a word as disinvolvement, deciding that there probably wasn’t, but that there ought to be.
The telephone was ringing. Lockington reached lethargically for it. Edna Garson said, “What time you gonna get home this evening?”
Lockington said, “Same time as usual—when I get there.”
Edna said, “Okay.” She hung up.
Normalcy indeed.
27
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1158 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: BIRD DOG HAD OFFICE VISITOR/ DOMINIC SPATAFORA/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1259 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: CHICAGO SYNDICATE WHEEL?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1159 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: AFFIRMATIVE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1300 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: BIRD DOG INVOLVED RACKETS?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1200 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: DOUBTFUL/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1301 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: REPORT MANPOWER SITUATION YOUR STATION/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1202 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: ADEQUATE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1302 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: ASSIGN ADDITIONAL OPERATIVE BIRD DOG/ END TEXT/MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1203 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: WILL BE CROWDED/ HARGAN JUST NOW REPORTS 3 OTHERS FOLLOWING BIRD DOG/ END TEXT/CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1304 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: IDENTIFY/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1204 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: UNKNOWNS/ KRAMER SHOOTING PIX/ WILL SEND BLOWUPS FAX/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1305 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: DESCRIBE/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1205 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: FIRST APPROX 45/ APPROX 5–10/ APPROX 170/ BLACK HAIR/ GASH LEFT CHEEK/ DRIVES 87 GREEN PONTIAC TRANS AM/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1306 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: SOUNDS B MOVIE MAFIA/ GO ON/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1207 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: SECOND APPROX 50/ APPROX 5–7/ APPROX 180/ SILVER HAIR/ FLORID FACE/ WILD GRAY EYES/ DRIVES 88 WHITE CAD DEVILLE/ BUMPER STICKER JESUS SAVES/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1308 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: CHECK/ DESCRIBE THIRD/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1209 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: THIRD APPROX 30/ APPROX 5-5/ APPROX 115/ RED HAIR/ PALE BLUE EYES/ STUNNING/ DRIVES 88 BLACK MERCEDES SEDAN/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1310 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: FEMALE?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1210 CDT / 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: VERY/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1311 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: HOW LONG THESE IN PLACE?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1211 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: FIRST NOTICED THIS MORNING/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1312 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: BIRD DOG AWARE?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1212 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: NO SIGN/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1313 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: LICENSE PLATE CHECKS?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1213 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: IN MILL/ DUE SHORTLY/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1314 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: HURRY PHOTOS/ THIS URGENT/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1215 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: WILCO/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LINE CLEARED LANGLEY 1315 EDT 5/26/88
28
The morning had ground into early afternoon with all the speed of a glacier. The phone had been silent, nothing of consequence had happened, and this was just fine with Lockington—it was too damned hot for telephones and happenings of consequence. He’d have closed shop and gone to the ball game but the Cubs and Sox were playing an exhibition thing, and exhibition stuff held no appeal for Lockington. Like all-star games, playoffs, and the World Series, they proved absolutely nothing. Lockington liked regular season play when pitching wore thin and injuries piled up and slumps came and went, that was baseball, that was when they separated the men from the boys.
Moose had gone out for hamburgers and he stood in the vestibule, chewing thoughtfully on his fourth, staring into West Randolph Street. Lockington was polishing off his second burger at the desk, mopping sweat with a blue bandanna. In the unseasonable heat time was without meaning. He dug the Yellow Pages out of a desk drawer. He leafed through it briefly before calling Apex Heating and Cooling on West Madison Street. A gruff voice answered. Lockington said, “I’m looking for an estimate on an air-conditioning job.”
“Where you located?”
“West Randolph between State and LaSalle.”
“What floor?”
“It makes a difference what floor?”
“Sure it makes
a difference what floor. If it didn’t make a difference what floor, why would I be asking you what floor?”
“Basement.”
“Maybe you’ll need a window unit.”
“We don’t got no windows.”
“No problem. We’ll just knock a hole in your wall.”
“You’ll just knock a hole in my wall? You just knock a hole in my wall and my landlord will blow your ass clear to fucking Brazil!”
“You serious?”
“Damn right, I’m serious. He’s a gun dealer.”
The line went dead. Lockington called back. He said, “You got fans.”
“What kind of fans?”
“Big fans.”
“Hey, we got a fan that’ll blow the balls off a buzzard. Cost you two eighty-six with tax.”
“Okay, I’ll send a guy over.” Lockington hung up, gesturing Moose into the office. He said, “Go over to Apex at Four-oh-eight West Madison and buy a fan.”
“How big?”
“They’ll have one waiting. They say it’ll blow the—it’s a big one, Moose.”
“Okay. Hey, Lacey, I just saw a real jim-dandy fistfight!”