“And that’s why you were in Chicago last Monday?”
“Yeah, and they cut us off at the pass—we had to backtrack! Y’see, Lacey, it ain’t only the money—this book just has to be published. It reveals stuff that should be known by the average working stiff! It’s high fucking time that people become aware of what goes on behind closed doors!”
Lockington winked at Devereaux. “Well, Rufe, I can see where the money would be of secondary importance to you—what the hell, you got a girlfriend who drives a sixty thousand dollar automobile.”
Rufe chuckled. “It isn’t hers yet, but it will be—I’ll sign it over to her on her birthday, next week, June tenth! She’s earned every nut and bolt of it—I couldn’t have turned a wheel without her. She’s cooked for me, she’s run my errands, she’s been a wonder.”
Lockington said, “Her talents are many—she’s also the best damned female country vocalist I’ve ever heard.”
Rufe nodded. “She’s turned down a stack of Nashville recording offers.”
“Nashville’s the Promised Land. Why would she nix Nashville?”
“Because she loves me.”
Lockington didn’t take it further—there was a sentimental tear in Rufe’s eye. After a while he said, “If they’re watching you, how did you get your manuscript to Center Court Press in the first place?”
“I didn’t—Center Court flew a guy in here. I met him out at Youngstown Municipal, we had lunch, he read the first seventy-five pages, wrote me a check for one hundred thousand on the spot—the rest comes on date of publication.”
“Why didn’t you just mail the damned thing?”
“I just finished it ten days ago, and there’s no way I’d risk the U.S. Postal Service. The CIA has access to the mails—national security, y’know.”
“Yeah, that was how they shut the Chicago police out of your ‘murder’—national security.”
Rufe said, “What do you think of the Club Crossroads?”
“Obviously a money-maker.”
“I own it, lock, stock and barrel, a steal at fifty grand!”
Lockington blinked an involuntary blink. “How—how come?”
“The price was right. I’ve always been partial to country music and when I first got here I took to hanging around the Crossroads—what the hell, it’s the only country joint in town. Peggy’s outfit auditioned and they should have signed ’em but they didn’t, so I bought the place. Now she can stay as long as she damn well pleases!”
Lockington shrugged his way free of the subject. Pecos Peggy Smith had a sugar daddy and that was none of Lacey Lockington’s business. He said, “Did you know that Bobbie Jo Pickens was killed?”
Devereaux froze. “Aw, no!”
“I thought you might know why.”
“Damn, I liked that woman! Yeah, I know why—because she told me all about LAON. LAON’s very big in my book. I got to know Bobbie Jo—she was a good person.”
“She’d broken off from the Billy Mac Davis crusade, apparently.”
“Sure, she broke off—she quit when she learned about LAON and what it was doing. Davis was the ultimate conservative, about fifteen degrees to the right of Attila the Hun—with Davis there were no grays, only black and white.”
“And he hated black.”
“It didn’t stop there—he hated liberals. LAON burned the Chicago Sentinel Building last summer, and in December it torched the Beacon Banner Building in Duluth—both were liberal newspapers. It’s arranged the assassinations of any number of pinkos—well, hell, never mind, you can read about that stuff in my book. Center Court believes it can publish before the first of the year.”
“What’s the name of the book?”
“Blueprint for Chaos. By ‘Joseph B. Tinker.’”
“Joseph B. Tinker—your nom de plume?”
“Right—why take chances? Blueprint for Chaos is dedicated to you, by the way—‘To Lacey J. Lockington, the only man I’ve ever trusted.’”
Lockington said, “Thanks, Rufe—I never thought I’d be immortalized in print.”
Rufe said, “I may do another one when I’ve killed the Copperhead—I’d have to fictionalize it, of course, but the ingredients would be kosher.”
“Why not? You could write it under a different pen name—‘John J. Evers,’ maybe.”
Rufe was staring at Lockington without a smile. “Helluva fine idea—‘John J. Evers’—gotta remember that!”
Lockington said, “Look, Rufe, how did Bobbie Jo Pickens get involved with Billy Mac Davis anyway?”
“Davis was a holy-rolling preacher, she was an impressionable kid, barely out of high school, fifteen years younger than Davis. He put her to work, singing gospel songs at his revival meetings, then more popular stuff when he went political.”
“Where was he preaching when they hooked up?”
“I don’t know—he worked the Bible Belt from one end to the other. Davis was out of Memphis, Tennessee.”
Lockington pushed his glass toward Rufe and Rufe filled it. He said, “Jesus, Lacey, it’s good seeing you again!”
Lockington said, “Likewise. Your Chicago trip didn’t work out worth a damn?”
Rufe exhaled loudly. “Hectic, Lacey, hectic! I had the manuscript in an attaché case. We took a cab from North Dunlap Avenue where I was living at the time. I’d seen no signs of surveillance earlier, but I spotted our tail before we got out of Mahoning County. At Hopkins I called Chicago to reserve a Jaguar V-Twelve—fast car. The Jag was waiting for us at O’Hare. So was the CIA. I outran ’em on the Kennedy.”
“But you couldn’t outrun the Mafia.”
“No, the hoods had a souped-up Pan Am.”
“The CIA was following you, but how did the Syndicate know you were coming in?”
Rufe shrugged. “An employee at Center Court Press, possibly—anyway, when I couldn’t shake the Pan Am, I stopped at a tavern at Belmont and Kimball, not far from your place. I called a cab and instructed it to pick me up in the alley. I went to another ginmill and blew about twenty dollars trying to get hold of somebody from Center Court Press so I could get rid of the manuscript. I couldn’t raise a soul, so I went back, picked up Peggy, returned the Jag, took another cab to the International Arms, and noticed CIA people in the lobby—hell, I knew one of’em personally, guy named Steve Dellick. We went up to our room and when I saw that the hallway wasn’t monitored, I called room service for a couple of sandwiches and I paid the delivery kid fifty bucks to take us down on a service elevator and smuggle us out of the building through the kitchen.”
“You figured that the CIA would muscle you during the night?”
“I knew damned well it would. There are times when the Agency takes off the gloves. It’d have strong-armed us for the location of the duplicates! If Peggy hadn’t been with me, I’d have taken my chances with the bastards, but, as matters stood, it was best that we take it on the duffy. We walked over to State Street, grabbed a cab to O’Hare, caught a red-eye to Pittsburgh, took a cab back to Youngstown. Peggy called a few realtors and I took this furnished house last Tuesday. It’s ideal—it’s isolated, and on Western Reserve Road she can tell if she’s being followed. I’ve been here ever since, peeking out of the window, keeping an eye open for the Copperhead, hoping that you received that envelope, watching for a lop-eared gumshoe from Chicago.” Devereaux got to his feet, grinning, stretching, yawning. He said, “Peggy will be picking you up in a few minutes. Let’s take a walk out back—I’ll show you the Big Dipper. We get a terrific Big Dipper in Youngstown.”
63
They were walking across the half-acre expanse of Rufe Devereaux’s backyard. Lockington’s shoes were soaked with dew. He said, “Rufe, you didn’t bring me out here to show me the fucking Big Dipper—you brought me out here to tell me something that you didn’t want to tell me in the house. What’s up—is there a chance that the placed is wired?”
Devereaux said, “Well, I gotta admit that the possibility has crossed my mind.�
��
“How could that have been accomplished? You say that you haven’t been out of the house since you moved in.”
“That’s right—damned unlikely, but one never knows, does one?”
“You’re more hep than I am—I’ve never been involved in the cloak-and-dagger racket.”
“Well, Lacey, anything’s possible, and when you start assuming that it isn’t, that’s when you get your ass burned! Now, I have to get my book to Center Court Press pronto. When do you plan on going back to Chicago?”
“Any old time. When do you want me to make delivery?”
“If you get out of Youngstown tomorrow morning—Tuesday—pretty early, like six A.M., you could be in the Loop by one in the afternoon, Central Time. That way you’ll have a little over twenty-four hours to get ready for the trip.”
“That’ll be about twenty-four more than I had when I left Chicago. Who gets the manuscript?”
“The same guy who flew in to look at it—his name’s Romanoff, Sidney Romanoff. Looks like a barn owl that’s just been confronted by a stegosaurus.”
“Okay, give me the manuscript.”
“Not yet—I’ll spend this afternoon on it, doing some touch-up. You be in your car, waiting in front of your motel room, six o’clock in the morning—I’ll have Peggy swing around and hand it to you. Make damned sure you get out of Youngstown clean, Lacey—it’s too late in the game for a fumble. If you have to wait to see Romanoff you can read some of it. Only problem is, it has no pictures to color.”
“No matter, I left my crayons in my apartment.”
Rufe slapped him on the back. “Peggy’s here—I see her headlights in the driveway.”
They rounded the corner of the house, stepping into the white torrent of light. Lockington stopped short, snarling, “Down, Rufe, now!”
They hit the wet grass together, face down, rolling toward the building for cover as automatic weapon fire burned the night air, screaming into the darkness, chewing into a corner of the dwelling. Amid a hail of splinters Devereaux said, “I hope he doesn’t move out where he can see us!”
Lockington’s .38 police special was in his hand. He rasped, “If he does, he’s one dead sonofabitch!”
There was a moment of silence before a door slammed and tires screeched on the asphalt drive. Lockington peered around the corner of the house. A low-slung dark coupe had hurtled onto Western Reserve Road and Lockington scrambled to his knees, two-handing the .38. He squeezed off three rounds as the car rocketed away to the east, burning rubber, its rear end fish-tailing. They got to their feet, brushing themselves off. Devereaux said, “Shit! How did you know it wasn’t Peggy?”
“The headlights—the outline—it wasn’t a Porsche.” Another car went by, traveling east at high speed.
“Then what was it?”
“Damned if I know!”
“I’d have been suckered—I’d have thought it was somebody who’d pulled in to turn around.”
Lockington snapped, “If they’d pulled in to turn around, they wouldn’t have waited two minutes to do it.”
“That gun had a chugging sound and I’ve heard it before—a TEC-9, sure as hell. Thirty-six-round magazine and it’ll take a silencer.”
Lockington said, “Yeah, you can buy one in Texas for three and a quarter.”
Devereaux said, “Plus tax.”
They sat on the front stoop, smoking, not saying much, waiting for Peggy. Lockington broke a long silence. He said, “Rufe, do you know ‘I Get the Blues When it Rains?’”
Rufe grunted, “Me, too.”
“It’s a song, Rufe.”
“Is it country?”
“No, it’s an old barbershop number.”
“If it ain’t country, fuck it.”
Lockington said, “Okay, just thought I’d ask.”
After a while, Rufe said, “She’s late—shoulda been here twenty minutes ago.”
Lockington didn’t reply. The silence was uncomfortable.
Then she came, her red Porsche gliding down Western Reserve Road and into the driveway. Lockington shook hands with Rufe. He said, “See you in Chicago sometime.”
Rufe said, “Damn betcha!”
Lockington got in. Peggy blew Rufe a kiss, backing from the drive. She said, “We’ll go straight through on Western Reserve—there’s a terrible mess on Forty-six—ambulances, police cars—I had trouble getting through.
“Big wreck?”
“No, there were two men in a green Pontiac Trans Am. They were run off the road and shot—well, shot is hardly the word—they were shredded! Someone said that the police thought it was AK-47 fire. What’s an AK-47?”
“It’s a Soviet-designed, Chinese-manufactured infantry rifle. They sell ’em in Texas for four hundred bucks—four and a half if you want a seventy-five-round drum.” Lockington frowned, suddenly remembering that neither he nor Rufe Devereaux had mentioned the KGB. Or the house at 3000 North Onines Avenue. Or any number of things.
64
Rufe Devereaux had summed it up accurately enough, Lockington thought—they’d have to get the manuscripts before they got Devereaux. If they got hold of the manuscripts they’d have to eliminate Rufe because there’d be no guarantee that he wouldn’t sit down and write Blueprint for Chaos all over again. But if the book were to be published and in the stores, the cat would be out of the bag and Rufe’s death would serve no purpose other than to multiply those pressures exerted by its revelations.
Of the four factions involved, which had attempted the Western Reserve Road massacre? Lockington crossed the KGB from the list of eligibles. Natasha Gorky was heading up KGB efforts, her alliance with Lockington had been of her own volition, she had the rail stall and no logical reason to kick over the traces. Lockington couldn’t bring himself to associate the Central Intelligence Agency with the aborted effort—the CIA arranged murders, rarely did it commit them. And there was LAON, a squad of racist lunatics recruited by a demented Fascist zealot who’d shot at Lockington on Interstate 80. LAON’s multitudinous transgressions were listed in Devereaux’s book. One player remained—the Mafia, also eligible for dishonorable mention in Blueprint for Chaos. Every one of the four would be delighted to see the book vanish without a ripple. The most likely to throw caution out the window and go for broke would be LAON—LAON lacked the organizational self-discipline possessed by the other three. But none of them had Rufe’s manuscripts, and the manuscripts were the main ingredient of the entire stew. The outfit that would be least concerned about being lambasted in the book would be the Mafia. It was known for it what it was, it had little to lose in an expose, bad press didn’t mean diddly to the Mafia. But the car that’d left Rufe Devereaux’s driveway could have been a Pontiac Trans Am, and a Pontiac Trans Am had been shot up on Route 46, its occupants undoubtedly Vince Calabrese and Slats Mercurio, stitched by a hail of rifle fire. Why? Certainly not because of Rufe’s book—certainly not for any reason that Lockington could drum up.
“Lacey, you’re almost home.”
Lockington surfaced from his murky pool of thought, finding himself in Austintown rolling east on Mahoning Avenue. He said, “Yeah—guess I was dozing.”
Peggy said, “You’re going to take the manuscript to Chicago?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Rufe’s in danger, isn’t he?”
Lockington shrugged. “Not just yet. Rufe Devereaux’s lived with danger for a long time—he can handle it.”
“He’s such a sweet man.”
“Yeah—helluva guy.”
“And I’m such a slut.”
“Are you?”
“Oh, my God, if you only knew.” She was turning into the New Delhi Motel grounds, parking the Porsche next to Lockington’s Pontiac. “If you’ll invite me in for a drink, I’ll give you a demonstration—Pecos Peggy Smith, the easiest fuck in the state of Ohio!” She smiled a sad smile. “But the best, beyond doubt!”
Lockington said, “Honey, it’s damned near three in the mornin
g and I’m a basket case—let’s exchange rainchecks.”
“How many can you spare?”
“How many can you use?”
“Lacey, you’d be amazed! Will you be at the Crossroads tonight?”
“We’ll see.”
“I’ll sing one for you.”
“Can you do ‘Sleepwalkin’ Mama?’”
“It’s not my kind of song—it’s horny. I’m never horny in public, only in bed. I’m world-class horny in bed. Got another?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Lockington started to get out. She caught his arm. She said, “What the hell, Lacey—the girl just can’t help it.”
She drove away and Lockington stopped to peer into his Pontiac. The back of the rear seat had been dislodged. It’d flopped forward onto the floor at an angle.
Lockington’s nod was involuntary. Somehow, the development meshed with his recent thinking.
65
A long-haired brown-and-white dog came padding out of the early morning darkness, nose to the ground, passing within ten feet of Lockington. Lockington growled. The dog paid no attention. Somewhere in the distance a cat yowled. It was that time of year. A truck came out of Youngstown, pounding westward on Mahoning Avenue, its rumble dimming in the distance. That was all. Lockington unlocked his door, wondering about Natasha Gorky’s whereabouts and learning quickly. He found her sitting on the edge of his bed, naked as a jaybird, smiling her wonderfully lopsided smile. She crooked an inviting forefinger. She said, “Come here, please.”
Lockington said, “Breaking and entering really isn’t nice.”
Natasha’s pale-blue eyes sparkled. She said, “Neither is sex out of wedlock.” She dropped back on the bed, spreading her legs, running her hands across her flat, smooth belly. She said, “The hell it isn’t!”
Lockington sat on the overstuffed chair, lighting a cigarette. He said, “There are things we should talk about.”
She said, “They won’t keep until breakfast?”
Lockington’s eyes were riveted to the succulent center of Natasha Gorky. He left the overstuffed chair, extinguishing his cigarette. He said, “Yeah, they’ll keep until breakfast.”
The Devereaux File Page 18
