The Devereaux File

by Ross H. Spencer

  “Check.”

  “All right, stay on six-eighty like maybe ten minutes to the Canfield exit. The Canfield exit will put you on two-twenty-four headed west—got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “You’ll go a couple miles and there’ll be a big hairy-assed shopping center on your left—that’ll be Southern Park Mall and the next traffic light will be at the Market Street intersection. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Turn left on Market—you’ll be in Boardman, heading south, and Clancy’s will be out there a little better than a mile, right-hand side—small joint, big red neon sign.”

  Lockington said, “Nice place?”

  “Matter of opinion—they got women and a late license, but if you’re looking for a high you don’t have to drive clear to Clancy’s.”

  “No?”

  “There’s a couple joints out on Meridian Road, couple more down on Steel Street.”

  Lockington said, “I’ll pass.”

  The attendant shrugged, turning away to handle an incoming car.

  Lockington said, “Thanks, chief.”

  “Any time.”

  Lockington got into his Pontiac and the attendant threw him a highball with his flashlight. Lockington waved, easing out of the parking lot, liking the brusque friendliness of Youngstown people, wondering about the out-of-the-blue reference to cocaine, then shrugging. Cocaine had become a way of life in Emlenton, Pennsylvania and Anderson, Indiana. New York was up to its ears in the stuff, so was Chicago, so was Los Angeles, and there was no reason for Youngstown, Ohio, to be an exception. You could purchase it in municipal buildings, in schools, on playgrounds, in churches, and messing with it was like raising a king cobra. If it didn’t kill you today, it’d get you tomorrow—it wasn’t a matter of if, it was a matter of when. Lockington was a pragmatist—if a man was determined to commit suicide, a .38 slug through the temple was quicker and less expensive.

  He’d swung right on Mahoning Avenue and he found the 680 entrance right where the parking lot attendant had said it’d be—at the west end of the bridge.

  52

  He drove, following directions to the letter. The once bustling Youngstown downtown district loomed briefly to his left, a dreary, unlighted mile of skeletal buildings, sad sentinels awaiting a better day. It’d come, John Sebulsky had told him—fully one-third of the fifteen thousand jobs lost had been regained over the years following the crash, small industries were slipping unheralded into the green Mahoning Valley, tool-and-die shops, small plastics concerns, food distribution outfits, an automotive corporation, taking up the slack a little at a time, fifty jobs here, one hundred fifty there. Lockington was glad for this. Youngstown was a good city with good people, and it had trees. Lockington had a thing for trees.

  He thought again of relocating—he’d thought of it often, so often that his mind turned to the subject unbidden, like an old horse that knows its way home. The Chicago he’d known and loved was gone and it’d never come back. There wasn’t much in Youngstown, but there was hope, a light at the end of the tunnel. In Chicago, the fucking tunnel had collapsed.

  Clancy’s was a small white stucco building approximately four times the size of Lockington’s room at the New Delhi Motel, shabby on the outside, dim and smoky on the inside, a silent jukebox on its south wall, a dusty cigarette machine on its east wall, a sleek-black-haired Valentino-type behind its circular bar. There were a dozen barstools, four occupied by women, hard-faced, middle-aging things. Professionals look pretty much the same in Youngstown, Chicago, or Saigon—they have dollar signs stamped all over them. And the Valentino-type working the bar probably had a tongue like a whitewash brush, Lockington thought—Valentino-types usually do. There were half a dozen booths clustered along the west wall of Clancy’s and Lockington carried his double Martell’s in that direction. The young couple in the left-hand corner booth might have abided by the dictates of propriety when they’d first come in, but that was no longer the case. Their conduct failed to disturb Lacey Lockington to any great degree, but the likelihood of getting splashed did, causing him to veer sharply into the booth in the righthand corner.

  It was 9:55 according to Lockington’s Japanese wrist-watch which hadn’t been set since Central Daylight Time had arrived in Chicago better than a month earlier. It was a twenty-dollar Yamahachi and it’d always been a free soul, ticking to the beat of a different drummer, so it could have been 10:55 Youngstown time, or 10:45, or 11:05. Rarely had time been of the essence in Lockington’s life—if he was late he apologized, if he was early he waited, and he let it go at that, Greenwich be damned.

  He had time to kill and he spent the vigil drinking Martell’s cognac and considering the matter of the now late Billy Mac Davis. Davis had been a fanatic, his own doctrine had branded him as such, but, Jesus H. Christ in the morning, how fanatic can one man get? He’d blazed away at Lockington in the early evening on Interstate 80, and he’d been set to stage an encore at an Ohio Turnpike rest stop scant hours later. He’d had a following—more than fifteen thousand people had poured into Chicago Stadium to hear him rant and rave, and he’d had money—religious and political lunatics can raise millions with the twitch of an eyebrow. So why hadn’t one of his disciples handled the dirty work? Among Davis’s followers there must have been dozens of crackpots who’d have taken the assignment out of sheer dedication to the white supremacy cause. Or why hadn’t the job been handed to the Copperhead, an expert with skills readily available to LAON, according to Natasha Gorky. Yes, Virginia, there was a LAON, and Billy Mac Davis had been connected with it—his views had paralleled those attributed to LAON too closely for coincidence. They’d been essentially of the same fabric, the red-baiting and the blackhating, beliefs short of reason and devoid of intelligence. LAON as a body harped on the Communist threat and the individual Billy Mac Davis had gone after the blacks—it’d been six of one, half a dozen of the other. Lockington was a staunch conservative, but conservatism without brakes proves every bit as dangerous as unbridled liberalism—give either its head and you wind up with guys in long black overcoats hammering on your door at two-thirty in the morning.

  Lockington sat in the booth at Clancy’s, shaking his head. There was a troublesome point here—Billy Mac Davis had been tagging him around the city of Chicago for days, he’d had innumerable opportunities to take a whack at Lockington, and he’d never made a move. But when Lockington had set sail for Youngstown, Ohio, Davis had jerked out all the stops. The Mafia—it could have killed Davis at its leisure, but it hadn’t. Yet, when Davis had lit out in pursuit of Lockington, the manure had hit the windmill. Lockington’s eyes narrowed—Davis had tried to keep him out of Youngstown, and the Mafia had thwarted Davis, obviously wanting Lockington to get there. Why? What the hell was in Youngstown?

  He sensed movement to his left and he shook himself free of his thoughts, glancing up to see Pecos Peggy coming his way. She stopped at his booth, peering down at him, her blue eyes dark with intensity. She said, “Lacey Lockington, what took you so goddamned long?”

  53

  Their eyes met briefly. When she averted hers, he said, “Maybe I ain’t Lockington.”

  She slid into the opposite side of the booth, smiling. She said, “There are three men in the place—a pimply-faced kid, a greaseball gigolo bartender, and you. There’s a Pontiac with Illinois plates in the parking lot.”

  “And my waitress pointed me out at the Club Crossroads.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay, I’m Lockington.”

  “How did your car come by the bullet holes?”

  “Ventilation—my windows don’t work.”

  “You don’t want to talk about them?”

  “Not really. Drink?”

  “Just one—bourbon and water.”

  Lockington went to the bar, ordering her drink and another double Martell’s for himself. The Valentino-type’s eyes were glued to Pecos Peggy in the booth. He said, “Daughter?”

  Loc
kington said, “Naw—great-grandmother—well-preserved.”

  “Remarkable! National Chatter would be interested.”

  Lockington shook his head. “National Chatter prints gross exaggerations.”

  Lockington returned to the booth, carrying the drinks. She could have been his daughter with a dozen years to spare—she wasn’t much beyond twenty, her skin was alabastrine, her dark hair fell to her shoulders in loose waves, the depths of her eyes seemed bottomless, blue, bluer, bluest, her chipper chin was slightly cleft, her hands were steady, long-fingered, the thumbs upturned. Upturned thumbs indicate self-confidence. She’d swapped her Club Crossroads attire for a gauzy gray crepe dress with a high frothy collar, she reminded Lockington of a nineteenth-century cameo—there was a simple purity about her, and he was unable to associate her with the Pecos Peggy who’d just stood the Club Crossroads on its ear. She was raising her glass to him. “Here’s to you, Lacey Lockington—I’ve heard nothing but good about you.”

  Lockington shrugged and they drank. He said, “You expected me earlier?”

  She was lighting a cigarette. Through the smoke she said, “Yes, no later than Thursday. I mailed the envelope late Monday night.”

  “When Rufe realized he was being followed.”

  “No, after that—I mailed it from the International Arms. Rufe knew that we were being followed before we reached Cleveland. At Hopkins Airport he told me that they’d be waiting for us at O’Hare. From then on, it was cats and mice.” She was remembering that night, her blue-eyed gaze was a faraway thing. She said, “Rufe was clever.”

  “You’d figured to get into Chicago clean, evidently.”

  “Rufe saw it as a possibility—we’d been there before without incident. When he realized that we’d failed, he planned to double back to Youngstown and lie low. He wanted you to come here—he said that you were a good man in the clutch. Rufe needed help.”

  “Why—what was he involved in?”

  “Later on that, please—later on the whole story.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because this is neither the time or place.” There was unswerving finality in the reply. Pecos Peggy was quietly in command, she knew it, so did Lockington. He said, “Where were you when he was killed?”

  “At the mailchute—it was on the far side of the building. When I came back…” Her voice trailed off.

  Lockington nodded. “When can we talk about it? I’m not here to intrude, I’m here to be helpful.”

  “I know—I didn’t mean to be abrupt. You’ll learn all there is to learn tomorrow night, when I’m through working.”

  Lockington said, “There’s a discrepancy here—according to one source of information, Rufe was killed somewhere around nine-thirty in the morning. You say that it happened nine or ten hours earlier.”

  “Look, let’s drop it for now. You’ll see it through a different window tomorrow night. Can you take me home?”

  “You aren’t driving?”

  “No, Marty Davis dropped me off.”

  “Marty—your lead guitarist?”

  “Uh-huh—you’re observant. It was on Marty’s way—he lives out in Columbiana.”

  Lockington was studying her. After a silence, she smiled. “You’re undressing me—I hope.”

  He let it go by. “You’re one helluva singer.”

  She didn’t say yes, she didn’t say no, but she thanked him. “I have roots in the field—that helps a bit, I suppose.”

  Lockington said, “Pecos Peggy—Pecos Peggy who? I don’t know your last name.”

  “Nor my first, for that matter. Let’s try Smith—I’ll be one of the Smith girls.”

  Lockington frowned. He said, “If all the Smiths got laid end to end, there just ain’t no telling what might happen.”

  She grinned an engaging white-toothed grin. “If all the Smiths got laid, there’d be a lot more Smiths, don’t you think?”

  He offered her another drink. She said, “Not tonight, but we’ll tie one on one of these evenings—I’ll do backflips and you can make droll remarks.”

  Lockington said, “What part of the country do you hail from, Smitty?”

  She was extinguishing her cigarette, her eyes focused on the ashtray. She said, “Mississippi—originally, that is. I just happened to wind up in Youngstown.”

  Originally, that is hadn’t told him much. Adolf Hitler had been from Austria. Originally, that was. He’d just happened to wind up in Berlin.

  54

  When they were leaving Clancy’s parking lot, pulling onto Market Street, Peggy said, “How did you come out here—Route Six-eighty?”

  “Yeah—I got directions from a guy in the parking lot.”

  “We’ll go back another way. Take Market straight through to Indianola Avenue, then turn left. Where are you staying?”

  “Room Twelve, New Delhi Motel on Mahoning. How will I know Indianola Avenue?”

  “I’ll tell you—Good Lord, why don’t you trade this car in? It’s going to disintegrate before we get to Indianola!”

  Lockington nodded, saying nothing, and when they’d turned left on Indianola, she said, “Take a right at the bottom of the hill—that’ll be Glenwood Avenue. Be careful on Glenwood, it’s a tough street—one little fender-bender and we could get lynched. I’ve never heard an engine howl like this!”

  “That isn’t the engine, it’s the transmission.”

  They rumbled north on Glenwood Avenue, passing seedy taverns with soul music cascading through open doors. Peggy said, “Left at the next traffic signal—Falls Avenue.” Following the turn they swung into a tight left-hand curve to plunge down a long, twisting hill. She said, “You’re in Mill Creek Park now. Biggest city-limits park in the United States—Youngstown’s Chamber of Commerce stresses that.”

  On either side, tall pines were silhouetted against a starlit sky, towering over the Pontiac, dwarfing the worn-out vehicle. The area was probably in constant shade, Lockington thought. He said, “This’d make one helluva bobsled run.”

  They careened down the hill and she was gesturing for him to slow down. “Right at the bottom, cross the bridge, then right again.”

  Lockington said, “Why the circuitous route?”

  “It saves time, really. Also, we’ll learn if we’re being followed.” She spun on the seat, peering through the rear window. “My God, we’re trailing smoke—I think we’re on fire!”

  “Naw, she burns a little oil. Why should we be followed?”

  She shrugged noncommitally. They were skirting a narrow body of placid water. She said, “This is Lake Glacier—it’s beautiful.” She’d continued to look back, squinting into the darkness. “Still no sign of a tail.”

  “If we’re being followed, they could be driving with their lights out.”

  “Uh-huh, well, they’ll turn ’em on when they’re enveloped by smoke.”

  “Who?”

  “Maybe nobody, maybe the CIA, maybe the Mafia—in Chicago, Rufe said that if we got one, we’d get both.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. Take the left-hand fork to the top of the hill. That’ll be Belle Vista Avenue. Go right on Belle Vista to the traffic light, turn left, and you’ll be on Mahoning Avenue, headed back to the New Delhi Motel.”

  “Where do you get out?”

  “Should I?”

  “Should you what?”

  “Should I get out?”

  “Shouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t think so, but it’s a matter of opinion.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Try me.”

  “It wouldn’t work.”

  “You’re Mr. Clean?”

  “No, but I’m forty-eight—you’d eat me alive.”

  “Only in little bites.” They were on Mahoning Avenue, heading west. “For your information, I prefer older men.”

  “Apparently you do—I’m a dinosaur, and Rufe was older than I am.”

  “Don’t get off on the wrong foot—I never spent on
e moment in bed with Rufe! We were close friends, no more than that!”

  “Uh-huh. Wanna buy a unicorn?”

  “All right, have it your way. At any rate, the older man is gentler, more considerate.”

  “Depends on the older man, I’d say.”

  “I speak only from my own experience. Oh, well, it’s off to the nearest convent—Novitiate Peggy Smith who doesn’t even know ‘Ave Maria.’” She sounded pensive. They were passing the Flamingo Lounge, lair of the Sugar sisters. Its lights were out. She said, “Turn right at the next corner.”

  Lockington said, “All these turns—I feel like a cross-eyed corkscrew.”

  “This is the last of them—North Dunlap Avenue. Take it to the end of the line—I live on the cul-de-sac.”

  “Alone?”

  “Why—does it matter?”

  “It might.”

  “Alone since Rufe, yes.”

  “He lived with you?”

  “I did his laundry.”

  “For how long?”

  “Not long enough.”

  It was a neat white ranch-style house with dark brown trim and silver gray hip roof. There was a trellised white fence along the south side of its front yard and there were pink roses. She motioned him into the driveway. He stopped behind a red Porsche. A fifty-thousand-dollar house and a sixty-thousand-dollar automobile. Odd. He said, “Your car?”

  She nodded and got out. “One more try—nightcap?”

  Lockington shook his head. “It’s been a long day.”

  Pecos Peggy said, “Tomorrow night, then. Just a bit after twelve-thirty—I’ll blow my last set. I’ll pick you up at your room. Can you find your way back to the motel?”

  “I’ll get there.”

  “Wait just a moment.” She slammed her door, coming around the front of the Pontiac into the critical glare of the headlights, taking her time. Lockington could see through her gray crepe dress like it was that much thin air and she knew it. Her lines were exquisite and she knew that too. She opened the door on the driver’s side. She said, “Rufe talked about you incessantly, but he omitted one highly pertinent fact.”