“Where?”
“Right outside the door.”
“There’ll be a lot of those today—it’s the heat.”
“It was over a parking space—Slats Mercurio and some fat white-haired character.”
“Slats Mercurio?”
“Second-rate syndicate hood.”
“Mercurio—he got a scar on his cheek?”
“Yeah. You know Slats?”
“I arrested him a couple times.”
“Hey, for a fat man with a Jesus Saves bumper sticker, that old guy could really wing it! He decked Mercurio twice.”
“Who got the parking space?”
“A little red-headed broad with a black Mercedes.”
Lockington yawned, placing money on the desk top. He said, “Go get the fan.”
29
Moose came down the vestibule steps shortly after three o’clock, the fan over his shoulder. It was an ominous-looking chrome thing, over six feet in height and sporting half a dozen thirty-inch transparent blue plastic blades behind its nine-gauge wire screening. With its weighted base, it must have weighed close to two hundred pounds, Lockington figured. Moose eased it to the floor near an electrical outlet. He said, “It’s the biggest damn thing they had.”
Lockington nodded approval.
Moose said, “The guy told me that it’ll blow the balls off a buzzard.”
Lockington said, “Plug it in.”
Moose said, “Do buzzards got—”
“I don’t know, Moose, honest to God, I don’t.”
“Neither did he.”
“Plug it in.”
“If they do, they sure ain’t visible.”
“Plug it in.”
“’Course, I ain’t seen enough buzzards to qualify as an expert.”
“For Christ’s sake, plug it in, will you?”
Moose plugged it in. There was a menacing low-pitched sound, like the warning growl of a mama lion, Lockington thought. The rumble faded into a whine, the whine mounting in pitch to an almost inaudible whistle. Lockington’s cigarette flew from his mouth, a button was ripped from his shirt, the ashtray shot from the desk, the wastebasket capsized and the office was filled with flying papers wheeling like swallows in the gale until they were plastered against the north wall. Lockington was yelling, “Okay, turn it off!”
Moose was behind the fan, looking for the switch. He shouted, “I can’t find the little bastard!”
Lockington roared, “The plug! Pull the fucking plug!”
Moose lunged for the plug, jerking it from the outlet. The torrent subsided. Lockington said, “Jesus Christ Almighty!”
Moose said, “Hey, Lacey, I’ll bet this sonofabitch could blow the balls off an eagle!”
The phone was ringing. Edna Garson said, “I picked up baby back ribs and delicatessen garden salad and a coconut cream pie.”
Lockington said, “Okay.”
Edna said, “You like coconut cream pie?”
“Why not?”
“Is your broiler working?”
“I don’t know—I’ve never used it.”
“Maybe you better come to my place tonight.”
“All right.”
“My broiler works like a charm.”
“It sure does.”
30
When they’d located the switch and adjusted the speed control, when the debris had been picked up and the office restored to order, Lockington said, “You hit it off pretty good with Bobbie Jo Pickens yesterday?”
Moose shrugged. “Well, she didn’t proposition me, but she was affable.”
“Fair enough. Why don’t you take another run up that way?”
“When—and do what?”
“Right now—just sit around the joint, suck up a few beers, talk to Bobbie Jo if she’s around.”
“And if she ain’t?”
“Keep your eyes open, yak with the barkeep and maybe a couple customers—see if you can shake something loose.”
“Regarding Devereaux, of course.”
“Yeah. Bobbie Jo denied any knowledge of him—then she sent a couple hundred dollars’ worth of flowers to his wake. That don’t rhyme.”
“So they had a relationship. You and Edna got a relationship. A whole bunch of people got relationships.”
“A whole bunch of people ain’t hiding ’em.”
“Depends on their marital status, I’d say.”
“Okay, so it’s fifty-fifty—take a whack at it anyway.”
“I thought you were backing off of this Devereaux thing.”
“I am backing off. I’m just trying to clear up a point.”
“You think she’s covering something?”
“I know she’s covering something. Look, this broad has been in bed with ten trillion guys! Why should she play hide-and-seek where Rufe Devereaux’s concerned?”
“Maybe he was married.”
“Maybe he was, but I’ll lay fifty-to-one that he wasn’t.”
Moose got up and put on his hat. “Well, what the hell, I got nothing better to do with my time.”
Lockington said, “We’re closing for the day. See you in the morning.”
Moose waved and went out, Lockington locked the door and walked west to the Randolph Street parking lot. He drove north to Belmont Avenue, then west to Kimball. There was no point in reporting to Edna Garson at so early an hour—it already figured to be a long and strenuous night. Funny thing, he thought—a man will eat his heart out, hoping that a woman of Edna’s caliber will cross his path. Then, when she does, he starts looking for ways to assert his independence—it makes him feel better about himself.
A woman of Edna’s caliber knows that.
31
Mike’s Tavern was housed in a dismal gray-shingled two-story building on the southwest corner of the Belmont-Kimball junction. Lockington was familiar with the place—he lived less than a mile from it and he’d shot a drug hustler just across the street, the episode having been the beginning of his rapid fall from grace with the City of Chicago Police Department. He’d known Mike Kazman for years and he found him very much as he’d last seen him, leaning against the backbar, arms folded across his chest, staring glumly at a row of unoccupied barstools. Kazman was a big jovial man with an unruly shock of gray hair, a ruddy complexion, a set of keen blue eyes, and a pronounced limp from a Guadalcanal shrapnel wound. He was staring at Lockington. He said, “Oh, my God, ain’t it awful the things a man will run into when he ain’t got no gun!”
Lockington grinned, straddling a backless barstool. They shook hands and Lockington said, “Been a while, Mike.”
“Late last summer—the day you dropped Sapphire Joe Solano.”
“That’s right.”
Kazman said, “I heard you got your own agency now.”
“Less said about that the better. What’s new in this corner of the canyon?”
Kazman threw up his hands. “Lacey, in the last few days, I’ve had more action than you could shake a stick at. You still on Martell’s?”
“Yeah, and get in with me.” Lockington shoved a twenty onto the bar. “What kind of action?”
Kazman produced a pair of double shot glasses, filling them with Martell’s cognac. “Water?”
Lockington shook his head.
They drank and Lockington made the sign for another round, making a series of tight circles above their glasses with his forefinger. Kazman poured and said, “Well, last Monday night some guy come in here and I heard he got shot Tuesday morning at the International Arms Hotel.”
Lockington said, “I’ll be damned.”
Kazman said, “Of course, I ain’t even sure he got shot—that’s just a rumor I picked up—I didn’t see nothing about it in the papers. But goddamn it, something happened because there’s been a regiment of people coming in here asking all sorts of questions, and I can’t answer any of ’em!”
They drank and Lockington nodded for a repeat. He said, “Who was the guy?”
Kazman poured co
gnac. “Damned if I know, I never laid eyes on the sonofabitch! George Pollard works Monday nights. George don’t know mud from marmalade. You’re acquainted with George, ain’t you?”
“Yeah, I know George Pollard. How do these questions run?”
They drank and Kazman sloshed Martell’s into their glasses. He said, “Oh, like what time did the guy come in here and was he carrying an attaché case, and what time did he leave and did he take the attaché case with him when he left, and how long was he gone and did he have the attaché case when he got back, and how long was he here the second time? Stuff like that.”
“He was here twice?”
“Yeah, according to George. George says he was with some chick what was an absolute showstopper—longlegged brunette, blue-eyed, beautiful—George says he ain’t never seen nothing like her, but George ain’t the world’s greatest living authority. So they was at the bar, these two, and the guy called a cab, and he had it wait in the alley out back because I guess he figured somebody was following him or something. He went out the alley door, jumped in the cab and hauled ass. The woman hung around, had a few highballs, played some country music on the jukebox, didn’t say much. In a while he come back and collected the tomato. George says they drove off in some high-class foreign car, but George wouldn’t know a Ford from a fucking Ferrari.”
They drank and Lockington said, “One more time.” Kazman poured one more time. The story meshed with what Lockington had heard.
Kazman hoisted his glass. He said, “To the old days, Lacey.” Lockington clinked glasses with him and they belted down their double hookers. Kazman was pouring again. He said, “I guess what all these people are trying to find out is where the hell was this guy while he was gone.”
They drank and Kazman provided refills. They drank and Lockington signaled for another. He said, “All these people? What kind of people—how many have been here?”
Kazman tilted the bottle of Martell’s, draining it, rummaging in a backbar cabinet for a replacement, finding one, opening it. He said, “Well, a couple of ’em was hoods, that was obvious—hell, I know a hood when I see one. There was a few others what could of been government men—you know the type—clean-cut, well-dressed, polite guys. Then there was an older character, a real asshole—had shiny silver hair and a southern drawl—drove a white Caddy sedan with a Jesus Saves bumper sticker—parked it right out front during rush hour, and Max Murphy gave him a ticket. You know Max Murphy?”
Lockington nodded. “Yeah—old timer—I think he was born in a blue-and-white.” They drank and Kazman poured from the new bottle of Martell’s. Lockington said, “Interesting group.”
“Uh-huh, and there was one more—redheaded heifer—oh, man, Lacey, she was something special—I mean table pussy!”
They drank and Lockington waved for another. “She asked the same questions?”
“Hell, all I remember is she drank straight vodka with no wash! She stopped my wagon!”
“You catch her name?”
“She never give none and I never asked her, but I’d saddle that one if her name was Rhoda Blunderschitz!”
They drank and Kazman poured again. Lockington said, “I don’t think I ever knew anybody named Blunderschitz.”
They drank and Kazman dumped Martell’s into their glasses, spilling a few drops in the process. He said, “Me neither—I just made that name up. You ever just make a name up, Lacey?”
“Oh, sure, several times.”
They bumped glasses and down went the Martell’s. Lockington checked his watch. Plenty of time yet. He motioned for another round. Kazman said, “Hey, Lacey, you sill shing harmony on ‘Tie Me Your Apurn Shrings Again?’”
Lockington said, “Yeah, but lass time, ole broad upstair call cops. She still up there?”
“Nellie Carshon? Sure, Nellie still up there.” They drank the new round and Kazman poured cognac. He said, “We use do ‘Apurn Shrings’ an’ ‘I’m Drifting Back Dreamland’ an’ whole bunch others too alsho.”
Lockington’s smile was for days long gone, a gentle, pensive thing. He said, “We did ‘Let Resh World Go By’ an’ ‘Darrtown Strutters’ Balls.’”
They gulped their drinks, banging their glasses to the bar. Kazman filled them. This was hard-nosed, relentless, Chicago-style drinking. Kazman said, “Doan forget ‘When Brue Moon Turn Gole.’ That probly our very bess nummer—‘Brue Moon Turn Gole.’” He threw back his head, staring at the ceiling, humming the pitch. “Okay, Lacey-boy, you ready?”
Lockington cleared his throat. He said, “Let ’er flicker!”
Mike Kazman lit into “When My Blue Moon Turns to Gold Again.” Lockington’s tenor soared above the melody line. At least Lockington had the impression that it was soaring. Like an eagle, he thought. The cognac was going down like honey, the hour was golden, a magic spell was upon them. He felt his down-in-the mouth mood release and tumble away like a spent booster rocket. Some days were better than others.
32
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1643 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: THANX EXCELLENT PIX/ RUN FOLLOWING AGAINST PLATES CHECKS/ FIRST NICHOLAS SLATS MERCURIO/ CHGO/ HANGERON SPATAFORA ORGANIZATION/ ODD JOBS MAN/12 ARRESTS/ 2 CONVICTIONS/ 2 PROBATIONS/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1544 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: MERCURIO VEHICLE REGISTERED STARCREST IMPORTS EXPORTS/ PROCEED/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1645 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: SECOND BILLY MAC DAVIS/ MEMPHIS/ EX-PENTECOSTAL EVANGELIST/ EX-SENATORIAL CANDIDATE TENNESSEE 1980/ EX-PRESIDENTIAL HOPEFUL 1984/ EXTREMIST CONSERVATIVE/ WHITE SUPREMACY ADVOCATE/ PROBABLE MENTAL CASE/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1546 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: DAVIS VEHICLE CARRIES ILLINOIS PLATES/ ORRINGTON AVENUE EVANSTON ADDRESS/ PROCEED/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1647 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: THIRD NATASHA GORKY/ BORN ODESSA/ LINGUIST CHGO POLISH CONSULATE/ IN U.S. POLISH DIPLOMATIC VISA/ SPEAKS FLAWLESS ENGLISH/ LIKELY KGB AFFILIATIONS/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1548 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: CHECK/ BLACK MERCEDES REGISTERED CHGO POLISH CONSULATE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1649 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: BIRD DOG?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1549 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: MOST RECENT REPORT TAVERN BELMONT-KIMBALL AVENUES/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1650 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: SAME AREA DEVEREAUX SKIPPED FROM?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1551 CDT / 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: SAME TAVERN/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1651 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: EXCELLENT/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1552 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: WHY EXCELLENT?/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1652 EDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: BIRD DOG ABOUT TO MAKE MOVE/ WATCH CLOSELY/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1553 CDT/ 5/26/88
BEGIN TEXT: WILCO/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LINED CLEARED LANGLEY 1653 EDT 5/26/88
33
The Thursday evening was warm, moist, and overcast. There was no breeze, there were no stars. When the cab pulled away from the lockup, Edna Garson said, “Who called the police?”
Lockington growled, “Nellie Carson.”
Edna said, “Who’s Nellie Carson?”
Lockington said, “The witch who got the apartment above Mike’s Tavern.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Across the street from Mike’s.”
“Where’s Mike’s?”
“Belmont and Kimball.”
Edna gave instructions to the driver, then she turned back to Lockington. “Are you capab
le of driving?”
“Ever since I was fifteen.”
“Yes, but you haven’t been drunk ever since you were fifteen.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
“The charge was disturbing the peace. What the hell were you doing?”
“Singing.”
“Oh, my God! For how long?”
Lockington shrugged. “I dunno—maybe two, three hours. Who bailed Mike Kazman out?”
“His brother-in-law.”
“Impossible. Mike ain’t married.”
“His sister is.”
“Oh.”
“You’re still drunk.”
“So is Mike Kazman.”
“I got that impression. When they let him out, he was singing ‘My Wild Irish Rose.’”
“Yeah, I heard. Who was that lousy tenor?”
“The desk sergeant.”
Lockington shook his head. He said, “They were downright atrocious on ‘When My Blue Moon Turns to Gold Again.’”
Edna nodded. “Not particularly good on ‘When I Lost You,’ either. Do you know ‘When I Lost You?’”
“Why, hell, yes—everybody knows ‘When I Lost You.’”
Edna said, “Sing ‘When I Lost You.’”
Lockington sang “When I Lost You.”
The cab driver hauled his vehicle to a screeching halt, spinning in his seat. He was a big man with a handlebar mustache. There was a skull and crossbones embroidered on his black T-shirt. He said, “Hey, I know that one! Sing it again!”
Lockington sang it again and the cab driver chimed in. He had an excellent tenor, Lockington thought.
Edna Garson was dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. She said, “Such a beautiful song.”
34
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0900 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: BIRD DOG ARRESTED/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
The Devereaux File Page 9
