LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1620 EDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: GODIVA?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1521 CDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: UNKNOWN/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1621 EDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: PIGEON?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1522 CDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: ENTERED POLISH CONSULTATE 1955 CDT YESTERDAY/ STILL THERE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1623 EDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: CERTAIN STILL THERE?/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1523 CDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: BLACK MERCEDES STILL PARKED CONSULATE/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1624 EDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: ADVISE CLEVELAND CONCENTRATE YOUNGSTOWN BIRD DOG/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1525 CDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: WHY YOUNGSTOWN?/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1625 EDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: LOGICAL/ TURKEY LIVED YOUNGSTOWN/ BIRD DOG WOULD START AT BEGINNING/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1527 CDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: CONTINUE PIGEON SURVEILLANCE?/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LANGLEY-CHICAGO/ ATTN CARRUTHERS/ 1628 EDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: AFFIRMATIVE/ POSSIBILITY MAY JOIN BIRD DOG/ END TEXT/ MASSEY
CHICAGO-LANGLEY/ ATTN MASSEY/ 1529 CDT/ 5/29/88
BEGIN TEXT: WILCO/ END TEXT/ CARRUTHERS
LINE CLEARED LANGLEY 1629 EDT 5/29/88
60
The Sugar Sisters were sprawled unconscious in the corner booth of the Flamingo Lounge, the hairy one snoring, the redhead drooling in her sleep. John Sebulsky shook his head. He said, “Y’know, I’ve been working here for going on five years—they come in two, three times every day, and they’ve been soused to the scuppers every goddamned time I’ve seen ’em. I think they were plastered when Washington crossed the fucking Delaware!”
Lockington threw a wary glance into the booth. He said, “Yeah, and they probably pissed in it.”
“They sleep for an hour and they get up and start all over again—it’s some kind of perpetual motion!”
Lockington said, “You dig up anything?”
Sebulsky shrugged, dipping into a shirt pocket to produce a folded white slip of paper. He said, “Well, yes and no—probably mostly no.”
Lockington tossed five twenties onto the bar. “Whadda we got?”
Sebulsky studied the paper, frowning. “That Porsche don’t belong to Pecos Peggy—it was bought a couple weeks ago at European Motors out in Trumbull County by a guy named Patrick Moran. The property at Five fifty-one North Dunlap was purchased March before last through Cosmos Realty in Boardman. A man by the name of Harry Steinfeldt took it. Moran lives in Hubbard, Ohio—Steinfeldt’s from Warren. Both deals were cash—no credit checks, no red tape.”
“You get their addresses?”
Sebulsky said, “Yeah, they’re on here.” He pushed the paper to Lockington. Lockington folded it and stuffed it into his wallet. Sebulsky said, “Does that tell you anything?”
Lockington said, “Not yet, and I still don’t have Pecos Peggy’s last name.”
“I gave you a little extra effort—I called Ace Loftus at the Crossroads half an hour ago. He doesn’t know her last name. He says that she uses Smith with customers but he thinks that’s a throwaway. He’s not even sure of her first name, but he came up with one thing. He thinks that she’s from some place called Petal—during rehearsals he’s heard the guys in her band rib her about it. You know how that goes—if you’re from Houston, you needle the guy from South Bend, and if you’re from South Bend you pour it to the guy from Murphysburg.”
Lockington nodded. Sebulsky poured a double hooker of Martell’s, opened a bottle of Michelob Dry, picked up Lockington’s five twenties, and said, “Call it square. Maybe next time.”
Lockington shrugged. He said, “Maybe this time. Where can I get hold of a road atlas?”
Sebulsky said, “I got one in my car, but it’s a couple years old.”
“Mississippi’s in it?”
“I dunno—I’ll get it and you can find out.” He ducked through the rear door, returning in a matter of moments with the atlas. He placed it on the bar. “It’s a mess—it was in the trunk.”
Lockington picked it up. It’d been issued by the All State Motor Club, its cover was torn, a streak of rust had nearly obliterated Michigan, but Mississippi was in tolerable condition and Pecos Peggy Smith was originally from Mississippi, or so she’d told him.
He lit a cigarette and ran a forefinger down the list of Mississippi towns that had names beginning with the letter P—Pachuto, Panther Bum, Parchman, Pascagoula, Pass Christian, Pearl, Pelahatchie, Percy, Petal—Petal, by God! Petal, Mississippi, population 8,476, was on Route 42 and it was located some three or four miles east of Hattiesburg—southern part of the state, down toward the Gulf of Mexico. All right, so there was a town named Petal in southern Mississippi—what about it? Lockington wasn’t sure what about it—it’d been a flicker, flare, and fizzle thing.
John Sebulsky was staring into the corner booth, gripping the edge of the bar with white-knuckled hands. Lockington followed his gaze.
The Sugar sisters were stirring.
61
Lockington drove east, finding a small pizza parlor near Steel Street, ordering a small cheese pizza, browsing through the Youngstown area telephone book while waiting to be served. He found no listing for a Patrick Moran and none for a Harry Steinfeldt. Two and a half hours later he pulled into the New Delhi Motel parking lot, weary to the bone. Moran’s address had turned out to be a vacant lot on the north side of Hubbard, Steinfeldt’s had been a whorehouse near the railroad tracks in one of Warren’s seamier districts.
In light of the fact that a night of activity lay ahead of him, he felt that a nap was in order, and he’d have taken one had not an oversexed young couple checked into Room 11. Following a prolonged period of oohings and ahhings there’d come a merciless barrage of thumpings and bumpings, crashings and smashings, highlighted by assorted moanings and groanings and ecstatic gnashings of teeth, and Lockington, sensibilities numbed, stumbled into the twilight to seek refuge in the backseat of his Pontiac where he caught forty winks, but no more than that. Now, at 12:30 A.M., he sat on a rusty fender, feet dangling, smoking a cigarette, studying an Ohio moon twice the size of a manhole cover, waiting for Pecos Peggy Smith or Natasha Gorky, whichever showed first.
It was Pecos Peggy Smith, if that was her name. She drove up in the tomato-red Porsche that belonged to somebody else, pushing its door open, waving him in, and they left the New Delhi parking lot to turn west on Mahoning Avenue. Lockington said, “How did tonight’s show go?”
She shrugged. “As well as most, I guess—I hit a clinker on ‘I Dreamed of an Old Love Affair’ but it was during the midnight set and I think they were too drunk to notice. We had a nice turnout—you should have dropped in.”
“I meant to do that, but I dozed off. Where are we going?”
“Southwest of Canfield, not far—fifteen minutes, usually.”
“Usually—you’ve been there before?”
“Many times.” She’d wheeled the Porsche from Mahoning Avenue north on Route 46.
Lockington said, “Would you believe that some sonofabitch busted into my hotel room and ransacked it?”
“Sure, I’d believe it. There’s been a wave of that—kids looking for something to sell so they can buy crack. What’d they steal?”
“There was nothing worth stealing—I travel light.”
The Porsche’s dashlights were casting an ethereal glow on her face. She was smiling. She said, “Then they didn’t get your red tuxedo.”
“Nor my blue suede combat boots.”
“There’s nothing frilly about Lacey Lockington—t
hat was obvious from scratch.” The radio was tuned to a country music station and she reached to cut the volume to a murmer before she said, “Uhh-h-h, look—about last night—I was feeling homy—you know how it goes, I guess—sometimes we get urges.”
Lockington nodded. “I’ve had a few.”
“You see, Rufe spoke of you so often—you’ve become a legend, sort of. I’ve never gone to bed with a legend.”
“Legends are usually disappointing—in or out of bed.”
“So far, you’ve lived up to your advance billing—you’re exactly as he said you were. Taciturn, unassuming—I get the feeling that you’re dangerous. Danger excites me.”
Lockington said, “It excites me, too—you’re driving eighty-five miles an hour.”
She eased off on the accelerator. “Sorry! Anyway, I’d be grateful if you’d forget about last night—not that the offer doesn’t stand, but I’d rather you didn’t mention it tonight.”
“To whom?”
“To whomever.”
“Guaranteed.”
She slapped him on the knee, one of those affectionate, younger-woman-older-man, attaboy-Pops slaps. She said, “Thanks, Lacey.”
They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Lockington said, “Incidentally, what part of Mississippi do you hail from?”
“Do you know Mississippi—ever been there?”
“No, but I had an uncle who did some time at Camp Shelby just before the war. He liked the area.” She didn’t respond and Lockington went on. “He said that Camp Shelby was near Hattiesburg—he talked a lot about Hattiesburg. Is it a big town?”
“Hattiesburg? Oh, forty thousand, give or take.” She turned right, leaving the subject on Route 46. The sign at the junction had said Western Reserve Road. Peggy said, “We’re nearly there. I’ll drop you off and pick you up in a couple of hours—let’s make it two-thirty sharp.”
Lockington said, “Hold it! What the hell am I getting into?”
Her smile was back. “Lacey, you’ve wanted an explanation and you’ve deserved one. After tonight you can go back to Chicago and live happily until the cows come home.”
“No hurry. I like Youngstown.”
“So do I—it’s served its purpose.”
“There’s a cryptic remark if I’ve ever heard one.”
“No, not cryptic—just slightly veiled.”
Western Reserve Road was heavily wooded on both sides. They’d passed residences set back in clearings, but they’d been few and Lockington was beginning to experience an unfamiliar isolated feeling—he’d nearly forgotten that there were places where a man could watch cloud formations, smell clover, hear songbirds. Peggy turned left, pulling into a long blacktopped driveway, rolling to within a few feet of a long, low ranch house.
Lockington said, “What happens now—does a sorcerer appear?”
Peggy said, “Damned right! Just ring the bell!”
Lockington got out and she dropped the Porsche into reverse to back from the drive and head east on Western Reserve Road with a short beep of the horn. He stood for a moment, staring upward, awed by a limitless star-spangled sky, stunned by Mahoning Valley silence. He shook free of the spell, stepping onto the carpeted stoop of the dwelling, locating the doorbell button, pressing it, listening to muffled chimes from within the house. The door swung open immediately. A man stood in the door-way, silhouetted against the dim glow of a table lamp, waving him in. Lockington opened the storm door, entering, extending his hand.
He said, “Hello, Rufe.”
62
They stood in the half-light of the living room, shaking hands, grinning, Devereaux squinting at Lockington. He said, “Lacey, are you gonna stand there and tell me that you ain’t surprised?”
Lockington shook his head. “Not like I would have been five days ago.”
“Why not?”
Lockington shrugged. “It’s been dawning on me that there’s one helluva lotta attention being paid to a dead man. By the way, thanks for the thousand dollars.”
“Expense account money—don’t mention it.” Devereaux was locking the door, taking Lockington by the elbow to guide him into the kitchen. It was a pleasant room with a huge braided rug and an old-fashioned ceiling fan and a wood-framed clock on the wall. It had a small maple table and captain’s chairs. The table held a red-shaded brass lamp, an oblong ceramic ashtray, a pair of martini glasses, a bottle of Shady Valley peppermint schnapps, and a fifth of Martell’s cognac. Devereaux said, “There just ain’t no place like a cozy kitchen for down-to-earth drinking.”
They sat at the table, staring at each other, trying to bridge the dusty gap between their old days and their moment at hand. Rufe had lost weight—some fifteen pounds, Lockington figured—and his hairline had receded a trifle but he was pretty much the same old Devereaux, a twinkle in his hard eyes, his hand steady as Gibraltar when he poured schnapps and cognac. Lockington said, “You on some kind of diet?”
Devereaux grinned. “Yeah, all the pussy I can eat.”
Lockington said, “All right, Rufe, what the hell’s happening? What am I doing here—what’s the problem?”
Devereaux was smiling. He said, “Lacey, the Agency pulled a swifty—it buried an empty box. Nothing original about that, you understand, it’s an old gimmick, it’s been worked a half-dozen times with people the Agency was trying to protect. In my case it was different—I was being isolated from other elements that wanted me.”
“Why?”
“Because the Agency wanted me for itself.”
“Again, why?”
“We’ll get to that shortly.”
“Shortly, shmortly! When I headed for Youngstown, a guy named Billy Mac Davis tried to blow me away on Interstate Eighty! You’ll remember Billy Mac Davis.”
“Yeah, the loony who wanted to be president. He’s the founder of an outfit called LAON—Law and Order Now—a spooky bunch of fanatics!”
“Uh-huh—well, Davis knew my destination, and he didn’t want me to reach it. He knew that you’re in Youngstown and he figured that I was coming here to help you. You’re probably on LAON’s list. You’d better watch out for a guy named the Copperhead—he works for LAON.”
“I know that. The Copperhead better see me before I see him—I’ve been trailing that bastard for over a year.”
“On CIA assignment or on your own?”
“On my own. That’s the way I close it out, Lacey—by killing the Copperhead. The final feather in my cap!”
“What do you know about him—what’s he look like?”
“No idea what he looks like, but I know the approximate location of his lair—I’m closing on him and he knows it!”
“Where does he work from?”
“I have him narrowed down to being somewhere in Mercer County, Pennsylvania, just over the Ohio line—I’ll get the bastard!”
“It was intimated that the Copperhead nailed you at the International Arms.”
Rufe nodded. “Oh, sure, that’s CIA style. Throw up a smoke screen—bumfoozle the opposition.”
“Well, Rufe, do me a favor and get him in a hurry—he may be on my track.”
“On your track—what the hell for?”
“It’s simple enough—Davis is dead, LAON thinks that I killed him, and the Copperhead works for LAON.”
Rufe’s mouth had dropped open. “Davis is dead?”
“As a doornail. He missed me the first time around and he was going to take another whack at it. The Mafia killed his ass while he was waiting to kill mine—it happened early Friday morning at an I-80 rest stop about fifty miles from here.”
“LAON and the Mafia are in different leagues—there’s no competition there. Why would the Mafia kill Davis?”
“Because Davis was trying to kill me.”
“All right, why should the Mafia protect you?”
“Probably because it thinks that I’ll show the way to Rufe Devereaux.”
Rufe buried his head in his hands. He groaned, “Sonofabit
ch! Have you been followed?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge, but somebody went through my motel room with a fine-tooth comb. I doubt that we were tailed tonight—your lady friend has a sharp eye and a heavy foot. Rufe, why would the Mafia want you?”
Rufe sighed a disconsolate sigh. “For the same goddam reason the CIA wants me. How many guesses you want?”
“Just one. You’ve written a book—you’ve blown the whistle.”
Rufe was grinning. “Lacey, you’re good!”
Lockington shook his head slowly. “Jesus Christ, Rufe, you’re messing with people that shouldn’t be messed with. It could get you killed—I mean for real.”
Devereaux banged the table with the flat of his hand. “Not a chance! They won’t hurt me, Lacey, they wouldn’t dare! I’ve taken precautions, there’s a dozen copies of that manuscript stashed all over this area—they’re insurance policies! They won’t lay a hand on me until they’ve squelched the book—when it’s been published, it’ll be too damned late to hit me. The possum will be out of the pot! I got ’em by the short hair—they’re fucked if they do and they’re fucked if they don’t!”
Lockington said, “Tell me about your book.”
“Lacey, it’s a scorcher, and there ain’t one word of it that I can’t back up! When it hits the market, there’s gonna be royal hell to pay, the press is gonna have a field day, there’ll be congressional investigations, heads will roll—you’re gonna see a three-ring circus!”
“How do these people know that you’ve written a book?”
“I’ve contacted a few publishers—word gets around in the publishing industry.”
“Any nibbles?”
“Nibbles? There were three companies kissing my ass! I signed with Center Court Press in Chicago—two hundred grand advance, twelve percent royalties! That’s why you’re here, Lacey—to deliver the manuscript to Center Court. It’s on West Monroe near the Chicago River bridge.”
The Devereaux File Page 17
