LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1000 EDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: WHY?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0901 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: DISTURBING PEACE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1001 EDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: HOW?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0902 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: SINGING MIKE’S TAVERN/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1003 EDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: WHEN ARRESTED?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0903 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: DURING SECOND CHORUS I GET BLUES WHEN IT RAINS/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1004 EDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: WILL REPHRASE/ AT WHAT TIME ARRESTED?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0905 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: APPROX 1730 YESTERDAY/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1005 EDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: SPRING BIRD DOG/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0906 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: BIRD DOG SPRUNG LAST NIGHT BY EDNA GARSON/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1007 EDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: WHO EDNA GARSON?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0907 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: PROBABLE ROLL IN HAY/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1008 EDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: SINGING IN TAVERN MASKED BIRD DOG’S PURPOSE?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0908 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: LIKELY/ BIRD DOG SHREWD OPERATOR/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1009 EDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: ANY IDEA WHAT BIRD DOG LEARN MIKE’S TAVERN?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0910 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: AFFIRMATIVE/ DO NOT SING/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1011 EDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: WILL REPHRASE/ WHAT INFORMATION PERTINENT TURKEY BIRD DOG GAIN AT MIKE’S TAVERN?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0912 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: NO KNOWLEDGE THIS TIME/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1012 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: BUG BIRD DOG OFFICE/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0913 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: WILL NEED COURT ORDER/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1013 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: FUCK COURT ORDER/ NATIONAL SECURITY/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 0914 CDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: DURING COMING HOLIDAY WEEKEND BEST OPPORTUNITY/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO / ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1015 EDT/ 5/27/88
BEGIN TEXT: UNDERSTOOD/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
LINE CLEARED LANGLEY 1015 EDT 5/27/88
35
At 9:26 on the steamy morning of Friday, May 27, Lacey Lockington came slowly down the vestibule stairs to make his faltering way into the Classic Investigations office, nearly one-half hour late, badly hungover, physically exhausted. It’d been a hectic evening, winding down after midnight, and Lockington could have handled that, but there were times when Edna Garson’s morningafter desires exceeded those of her night before, and this had been one of those.
Moose Katzenbach was leaning against the front edge of the desk, basking in the breeze of the new fan, observing Lockington’s approach with educated eyes, pivoting to watch him drop heavily into the swivel chair. Lockington looked up with haunted eyes. He said, “Any calls?”
Moose shook his head. “Not one jingle.”
Lockington grunted, “Good.”
Moose said, “Uhh-h-h, Lacey, if it’s any of my business, just where the hell did you disappear to yesterday afternoon? I called the Shamrock and I called your apartment.”
Lockington caught the burrs of annoyance in the big man’s voice. Wearily he said, “Look, Moose, I have been through a trying period. I have been drunk, arrested, thrown into jail and bailed out. I have been mounted and ridden like a Texas cow pony, I have been pawed, clawed, and gnawed, I have met sexual demands that would have chased the average satyr into a fucking monastery, I am but a battered shell of the man you once knew, and bearing these facts in mind, is it really important just where the hell I disappeared to yesterday afternoon?”
Moose said, “Normally, no, but this time was different. I tried calling you all the way up to midnight—apparently you didn’t make it home last night.”
“Apparently—Moose, what are you trying to tell me?”
“Well, when I got to the Club Howdy yesterday, the joint was closed up tight, so I went down the street to that crummy Nashville Corners.”
“All right. So?”
“So Bobbie Jo Pickens got herself murdered sometime Wednesday evening.”
Lockington sucked in an audible deep breath, sagging deeper into the swivel chair. After a while he said, “I don’t think I’m all that surprised. How was she killed?”
“Pistol-whipped, the barkeep at Nashville Corners told me. Nobody heard a ruckus, he said.”
“How would anybody hear a ruckus? In that rotten neighborhood nobody would hear the world come to an end.”
Moose nodded glumly, not contesting the point.
Lockington said, “Who found her?”
“She lives upstairs above the Club Howdy, and she didn’t come down for the Wednesday night show—she’s usually there by eight o’clock. Her phone didn’t answer, so they hammered on the door. Then they called the cops.”
“What time do they figure it happened?”
“Seven o’clock or so—that was the opinion of the coroner’s office.”
“Who handled it?”
“Bill Starbuck.”
Lockington nodded. “Starbuck’s good—he doesn’t miss by much.”
“She put up a fight—they say the place was a mess.”
“Anything to go on?”
“No stick-outs, far as I know.”
“Forcible entry?”
“Yes and no—the night chain was snipped, but the door wasn’t jimmied.”
“It’d take a key to get to the night chain.”
“Nothing to it—pick the lock or have a key cut from a wax impression.”
“Unless the chain was cut on the way out.”
“There’s a thought.”
“Yeah, but hardly original.”
“The Nashville Corners bartender said that the bathtub was full and she was wearing a robe. With bath water running, she wouldn’t have heard somebody messing with the door.”
“Theft a likely motive?”
“Naw—they found a few hundred in her bureau drawer.”
Lockington was awake now, wide awake, his mind plunging through a jungle of possibilities in quest of probabilities, colliding with a certainty—the Devereaux matter was getting worse instead of better, and it wasn’t about to go away. When they act up like that, they have to be dealt with.
36
Moose hollered, “Boo!” jolting Lockington from his thoughts, reminding him of an incident when he’d been a youngster in the fourth grade. There’d been a big kid on the block, Howard Mayberry, four or five years Lockington’s senior. When you’re in the fourth grade, four or five years is a whole bunch. Lockington had always spoken respectfully to Howard Mayberry, but Howard had never responded. One morning Lockington had met Howard’s mother at the corner grocery store and he’d said, “Mrs. Mayberry, how come Howard never says boo to me?” Mrs. Mayberry had patted Lockington on the head. She’d said, “Howard never says boo to you? Well, don’t you worry, Lacey, I’ll take care of that!” The next evening Lockington had been coming home at dusk and his route had taken him past the Mayberry
residence and the big lilac bush in its front yard. As Lockington had gone by, Howard Mayberry had jumped from behind the lilac bush, roaring, “Boo!” and he’d frightened Lockington out of seven years’ growth. The Mayberrys had been a strange family.
Moose was saying, “Jesus Christ, Lacey, I been talking to you for ten minutes!”
Lockington stretched in the swivel chair, wishing he were in bed. Alone, of course. He said, “Yeah? What have you been talking about?”
“I been trying to find out who goes to lunch first—it’s eleven forty-five.”
“You go first.”
Moose said, “You coulda told me that ten minutes ago.”
Lockington yawned. “On your way back, see if Information Brown’s at the newsstand.”
Moose nodded and went out in a bit of a huff. Lockington hadn’t responded because his thoughts had been elsewhere. So had Howard Mayberry’s, obviously. At the age of twenty-four, Howard Mayberry had invented a timed lubricator for conveyor lines and he’d become a millionaire. Lacey Lockington had spent his twenty-fourth birthday drunk in a Saigon whorehouse.
It’d been a matter of priorities.
37
The Judson Cafeteria’s Friday special had been fried perch, but Moose Katzenbach had gone with the salisbury steak and mushroom gravy, which had been excellent, he said, adding that Information Brown hadn’t been at his newsstand.
If Information Brown wasn’t at his newsstand, then it followed as must the night the day that he’d be at the Squirrel’s Cage. Lockington put on his hat and walked over there. Information Brown was nowhere in sight. Lockington took a seat at the bar, ordered a double Martell’s cognac, and asked about Information Brown. He’d just returned to the newsstand, Avalanche MacPherson said, but he’d be back within the hour, because Information Brown had never been known to go longer than an hour without a drink.
Lockington nodded, watching a woman slip onto the barstool next to his. She was one helluva woman—she was pert-breasted, slender-waisted, slim-hipped, she had glossy auburn hair done in a neat pixie style, she had large pale-blue eyes, a perfect, slightly uptilted nose, a full-lipped gentle mouth, and a firm jawline. Her complexion was without blemish and Lockington detected no signs of makeup. Her short, simple dark brown dress was form-fitting, her beige suede pumps and matching handbag were quality merchandise, her perfume was bewitchingly vague, her smile was sudden and appealingly off-center. Her gaze was unflinching but not brazen. She was beyond doubt the most beautiful female Lacey Lockington had ever laid eyes on. She said, “Good afternoon.” Her voice was soft, throaty.
Lockington gave her a perplexed smile, watching her put a tiny Colibri lighter to a cigarette. She ordered a shot of Smirnoff’s vodka, drinking it without benefit of a wash, raising her hand for another before returning her attention to Lockington. She said, “I know who you are.”
Lockington said, “So do I.”
“You’re Mr. Lockington.”
“By golly, you’re right.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Lockington—I’m Natasha Gorky, and we’re going to get along just fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Natasha Gorky said, “You’re a private investigator.”
Lockington nodded. “Now and then.”
“I’m a linguist at Chicago’s Polish consulate—seven languages. Eight, if you count American, which bears no resemblance to the British tongue.”
“Gorky isn’t Polish.”
“I didn’t say it was Polish.”
“That’s right, you didn’t.”
“It’s Russian, of course.”
“And there’s a gun in your handbag.”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it—a Mikoyan snubnosed thirty-two—ten-round clip, German-designed, Soviet manufactured, deadly accurate.”
“And with your Mikoyan snub-nosed thirty-two, you can shoot the eyes out of a potato at seventy-five yards.”
“No, but I’ll take a bet on fifty.” A chillingly matter-of-fact response, Lockington thought. She sucked on her cigarette, smoke drifting from slightly flared nostrils, appraising him for a few moments. Then she said, “Correct me if I’m in error, but I believe that you are interested in a matter that concerns me greatly—namely the death of Rufus Devereaux.”
She wasn’t in error so Lockington didn’t correct her. He said, “You’re KGB?”
“Yes, Mr. Lockington, I’m KGB. Can we talk?”
“About what?”
“Devereaux—what else?”
“There’s nobody stopping us.”
“Privately, and at length, please.”
“It’s important?”
“Terribly—to your country and to mine. For a change, our respective governments are trying to skin the same cat.”
“You’ll have to explain that.”
“I will, and in detail, if you’ll grant me the opportunity.”
Lockington thought it over, but not for long. He said, “All right, Ms. Gorky, my office is across the street, three-quarters of a block west.”
“I know the location of your office. My apartment is less than ten minutes from here.”
Lockington shrugged assent. There was a genuine urgency about her—she was letting it all hang out. They finished their drinks, leaving the Squirrel’s Cage to dodge traffic crossing West Randolph Street. She opened the door of a black Mercedes sedan, popping lightly into the car, her short brown skirt flashing briefly to her upper thighs. She smoothed it demurely into place. She had wonderful legs, Lockington just happened to notice. He went around the back of the Mercedes to pile in beside her. She pulled away from the curb, flicking a glance into her rearview mirror, her face expressionless. She said, “You’re being followed—I assume that you’re aware of that.”
Lockington said, “I rarely pay attention unless I’m running heroin.” He wondered what the hell he was doing riding around in a Mercedes-Benz automobile with a woman from Russia, instead of waiting at the Squirrel’s Cage for Information Brown. Actually, he shouldn’t have been doing either—he’d pulled out of the Devereaux business, hadn’t he? Sure, he had—the way old ball players pull out of baseball. It was worth a shot—she might light a candle.
Natasha Gorky was wheeling through Loop traffic with calm self-assurance and Lockington appreciated that. Most female drivers spooked him. She was saying, “There’ll be three automobiles behind us now—a black Ford Escort driven by a CIA operative, a green Pontiac Trans Am driven by a Mafia employee, and a white Cadillac driven by an elderly overweight man with crazy eyes and silver hair.”
Lockington didn’t respond and she continued. “The CIA fellow’s name is Hargan—Hargan is competent enough. The Mafia man’s name is Mercurio—he’s a heavy-handed dolt, slow-witted. The man with silver hair frightens me.”
Lockington said, “Billy Mac Davis?” It was a shot in the dark, but Davis was in Chicago, Lockington had seen him behind the wheel of a white Cadillac, and a man answering Davis’s description had barged into Mike’s Tavern to ask questions—a man driving a white Cadillac.
Natasha Gorky was nodding. “Then you do know. This Davis man—he’s been an evangelist, then a politician, and he’s always been a zealot. That’s a toxic mixture—Davis is frustrated, treacherous, utterly ruthless.”
Lockington turned slowly on the seat of the Mercedes, peering at Natasha Gorky. He said, “Now, look, isn’t this just a bit out of the ordinary—a KGB agent walking out of the closet, identifying herself, laying it on the line to a man she doesn’t know from Genghis Khan? It would seem to be carrying detente to an extreme—or does this come under the heading of glasnost?”
She shook her heard impatiently. “It’s neither—put it down as common sense. Incidentally, KGB doesn’t necessarily translate to an unshaven Bolshevik brandishing a lighted stick of dynamite—that’s a nineteen twenties’ stereotype and you Americans dredge it up every time you become alarmed. Also, I know you from Genghis Khan—I know a great deal about you. For exampl
e, I know that you don’t believe there’s a LAON.”
“Do you?”
“Most assuredly—it’s a red-baiting underground version of your infamous Ku Klux Klan. More about you, Mr. Lockington. You’re clever, you manipulate with remarkable expertise.”
Lockington frowned. “Manipulate? I don’t know that I like the word.”
“Manipulate…arrange—whatever. I refer to events of late last summer—the Denny-Elwood affair in which justice was served without trial, without error, and without mercy. What was your term for it?”
“I didn’t have one. I still don’t. Any other observations?”
“Yes. Your tenor isn’t bad, but you should brush up on ‘I Get the Blues When It Rains.’”
38
She lived on the east side of North Lake Shore Drive. The building was of recent vintage and well-kept—eight stories of white brick and smoked glass with parking at basement level, revolving doors, a uniformed armed guard in the snappy little foyer, a brace of silently swift elevators, and reproductions of Picasso paintings all over the place. Lockington didn’t understand Picasso and he didn’t trust people who claimed that they did. Lockington’s appreciation of art dimmed perceptibly when he was unable to determine whether the fucking picture was right side up or upside down.
Natasha Gorky’s apartment was on the seventh floor, its sliding glass doors and wrought-iron balcony facing Lake Michigan. It was a small place, cool, dim, tidy, modestly furnished—white sofa and overstuffed chair, dark blue Naugahyde recliner, smallish maple coffee and end tables, spindly white-shaded lamps, and a half-barrel magazine container circled by bright brass hoops and stuffed with copies of Newsweek. There was a stereo receiver with tape deck on an end table. When Lockington saw no television set he advanced Natasha’s intellectual stock several points in his ledger. He took off his hat, placing it on the back of the overstuffed chair before turning to seat himself at an end of the sofa, noting that a bottle of Smirnoff’s vodka, a bottle of Martell’s cognac, and a pair of double shot glasses had appeared on the coffee table as if by sleight of hand. Natasha poured Martell’s into Lockington’s glass, pushing it toward him, winking. “You’ve been thoroughly researched, Mr. Lockington.”
The Devereaux File Page 10
