The Devereaux File

by Ross H. Spencer

  “That’s a line from Edward Young.”

  “Who was Edward Young?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Then why did you bring him up?”

  “I didn’t bring him up—you brought him up.”

  Natasha said, “I regret that. Are you coming down here?”

  Lockington came down there. He said. “This time, let’s try it in English.”

  71

  Natasha’s skirt was down, Lockington’s pants were up, but they stayed there until they ran out of cigarettes. Then it was twilight and birds were returning to the trees around them. They listened to the flutter of descending wings and Natasha murmured, “It’s been a long and risky flight—I should come down to earth and make a nest.”

  Lockington said, “Where?”

  “Wherever.” There was a wistfulness about her, the vulnerability that Lockington had detected in Chicago. He said, “When?”

  “Soon—very soon. I’m tired.”

  “How soon is very soon?”

  “I wish it could be tonight—or tomorrow—but there’s this matter to be attended to.”

  Lockington blew the ash from his last cigarette. He said, “You don’t quit the KGB easily, do you? I mean, you just don’t walk in and say, ‘See you later?’”

  She was sprawled on her belly, her toes hooked over the hollow log, plucking meditatively at stray blades of grass. “No, normally that isn’t how it’s done, but I just might get away with it.”

  “The KGB would make an exception in your case?”

  “The KGB makes exceptions only for exceptional reasons.”

  “And you have an exceptional reason?”

  “No, but perhaps I can convince the KGB that I do. Are you taking me to dinner?”

  “I am.”

  They walked back to the motel and Natasha turned off in the direction of Room 5. “I’ll be with you in half an hour.”

  Lockington nodded, noticing the silhouette of a beer can on the windowsill of Room 8. He knocked on the door and it opened instantly. Steve Dellick said, “Lockington, it’s good to see you again—this is Kevin Mahoney.”

  Lockington waved to an angular, lantern-jawed young fellow, spotting a pair of flak jackets draped over the back of a chair. He said, “Boys, will you accompany me for just a few minutes?”

  72

  The feeling had come back to him—cold, creeping dread in the swirling mists before dawn in Vietnam.

  They’d rolled out at four-thirty in pitch blackness and the first words out of Lockington’s mouth had been, “No lights!”

  They’d showered in the dark, dressed in the dark, sat on the edge of their badly rumpled bed in the dark, smoking, conversing subduedly, waiting—waiting. Natasha had said, “You’re certain of this?”

  Lockington had said, “As certain as I’ve been of anything.” He’d considered the statement. “Which isn’t saying much.”

  At five-thirty he said, “Okay, let’s have some light—I’m out of bed now, getting ready to grab the manuscript and start the run to Chicago.”

  Natasha reached to switch on the nightstand lamp, squinting against its sudden glare. Lockington studied her—she was unruffled. With a few more like her, he could have ruled the world, he thought.

  It was five-forty. Dawn was graying the Ohio sky, leaking into the room through the tattered paper window blinds.

  The silence was dense. Lockington stared at his twenty-dollar Japanese wristwatch. By that unpredictable timepiece it was five fifty-two when they heard it—a faraway rattle of gunfire sounding like a string of tiny firecrackers. Lockington slammed the mattress with his fist. “Sonofabitch, what are they doing? It sounds like the fucking Battle of the Marne!”

  Natasha made no response—she was on her feet, heading for the door. Lockington grabbed her arm, spinning her heavily onto the bed. He said, “Not yet, for Christ’s sake!” Natasha kissed him. Upwards of fifty shots, he figured. Too many. He rasped, “Something’s wrong out there!”

  Another thirty seconds and they went out, dog-trotting across the graveled expanse of the New Delhi Motel parking area. The manager was in his nightshirt, standing wide-eyed in his office doorway. He said, “Mr. Lockington, Your Excellency, what is it, sir?”

  Lockington snapped, “Take cover—a Sikh regiment has penetrated our southwestern perimeter!”

  The manager wailed, “Aaa—iii—eeeee!” He scooted into the office, slamming its door.

  They plunged into the forest, Lockington leading the way, making for the little clearing they’d found. They reached it, scrambling through dewy thickets. Steve Dellick and Kevin Mahoney stood over the bullet-mangled body of a big man clad in blood-splotched black. He lay face down on the damp leafy floor of the clearing. There was a long brown leather case at his side. Lockington snarled, “This is murder—you were instructed to take him alive!”

  Steve Dellick said, “Jesus Christ, Lockington, we didn’t fire a shot! He came from the south through the woods—we were waiting for him to open his case before we accosted him! He’d just unsnapped it when the fusillade decked him—AK-47’s, sure as hell!”

  Lockington said, “From where?”

  “Two locations!” Dellick pointed into the trees behind them. “We were there, completely out of sight! The shots came from there and there!” He was indicating positions considerably to the left and right of the area they’d occupied. “The first couple of rounds took him out, but they kept blazing away—he’s gotta have five pounds of lead in him!”

  Lockington said, “Did you see them?”

  Dellick shook his head. “Not so much as a shadow—top-drawer talent!” He was peering at Natasha Gorky. “Lockington, who the hell is this woman?”

  Lockington snapped, “Lieutenant Yulebell, Salvation Army—she’s on our side.” He turned to the dead man’s leather case, raising its lid with the toe of his shoe, kneeling to study its contents. After a while he said, “Swiss—Mannerhorst Three-oh-three—telescopic sight—tripod—all the gingerbread.”

  Kevin Mahoney said, “He had an excellent field of fire—he’d have nailed you the moment you opened your motel room door!”

  Natasha Gorky had dropped to her haunches beside Lockington. She said, “He was good—very good—but you were better. Devereaux ran second.”

  Lockington’s stare would have withered fifty acres of ragweed. “No, Devereaux ran third—I ran second—a scheming little Russian minx won it going away!”

  She spread her hands helplessly. In a small voice she said, “That was her job.”

  73

  They’d returned to the New Delhi parking lot and Steve Dellick was standing at the side of an Austintown police car, talking to a man who wore a sharply pressed blue uniform. Dellick was saying, “Whistle up an ambulance—we have a casualty back in the woods. You can wrap it up when they’ve gotten the body out of here.”

  The uniformed man had a lot of gold braid on his cap, indicating that he was a general or an admiral or whatever they were in Austintown. He said, “I’ve been here since four this morning—no one has driven in.”

  Kevin Mahoney said, “Anybody go out?”

  The field marshal said, “Yeah, two men in a blue T-bird, Illinois plates.”

  Steve Dellick said, When?”

  “Ten, twelve minutes ago—you said to keep everybody out, not in.”

  Lockington said, “It’s all right—forget it.”

  Dellick said, “Now, wait just a minute!”

  Lockington said, “Forget it, Dellick. Don’t make waves—this is a national security matter, isn’t it?”

  Dellick said, “But who were they?”

  Lockington said, “They were staying in Room 5—I saw ’em. Probably a couple fags on their way to New York—no connection.”

  Dellick said, “All right, so much for that, but where’s Devereaux’s manuscript?”

  Lockington said, “Damn, I should have mentioned that—there ain’t no manuscript.”

  Dellick said
, “Aw, c’mon, Lockington!”

  Lockington said, “There never was a manuscript—Rufe Devereaux couldn’t have written a grocery list.” He turned, walking away, Natasha Gorky following, catching up to grab his arm.

  Dellick said, “That’s all there is?”

  Lockington paused. Over his shoulder he said, “That’s all unless you’re interested in three K’s of coke in a closet at 3,000 North Onines in Leyden Township.”

  Natasha whispered. “Thank you.”

  Lockington said, “Now that your T-bird’s gone, you may want a lift to Chicago.”

  “I’d be grateful for that! I’ll throw my things into your car, then I’ll help you with your packing.”

  When she came into Room 12, Lockington was sitting in the overstuffed chair. He took her by the hand, pulling her to him. He flipped her face-down over his knee. He hoisted her skirt, noting with approval that the lady from Odessa wore no panties. He tanned her tawny fanny, swatting it as rapidly and with as much force as he could muster. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t squirm, she didn’t cry out, she took it like a soldier. When he was worn out, she slipped to the floor on her knees, facing him, smiling, tears streaming down her cheeks. She said, “Did you enjoy that?”

  Lockington said, “Every goddamned moment of it!”

  Natasha Gorky threw her arms around him, squeezing him hard. She said, “Oh, Lacey Lockington, so did I, so did I!”

  There were times when Lockington realized that he had a lot to learn about women.

  This was one of those times.

  74

  At 551 North Dunlap Avenue, the red Porsche was in the driveway and Lockington parked behind it, leaving Natasha Gorky in the Pontiac when he went to the front door. He rang the bell, waiting. He rang it another two times. Eventually she responded, brushing sleep from her eyes, wearing an extremely low-cut short blue nightie and an untied white chenille robe. She was barefoot. She said, “Needed you last night, here you come this morning.” She stepped to one side, beckoning him in. Her breasts were two-thirds exposed and one was black and blue—the lady liked it rough.

  Lockington parked himself at the end of a luxurious tufted gray sofa. He said, “Sit down, please.”

  She sat in a padded wooden rocker, taking a cigarette from a pocket of her robe, lighting it, staring at him. “What is it?”

  “It’s you father—he’s dead.”

  Peggy didn’t blink. “I—I knew it was coming—the chemotherapy wasn’t taking—but, my God, not this soon!”

  “He was shot—assailant unknown.”

  She lunged forward in the rocker, burying her face in her hands, silent for a time. Then she said, “Yes, one way or the other, he was on short time. It’s probably better this way. He didn’t suffer, did he?”

  Lockington shook his head. “It was sudden.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No.”

  Lockington said, “Listen, I’m here to give you sound advice. You’re going to be very well off—you’ll own your own home, you have a fancy car, you’ll be the proprietress of a profitable night club, there has to be important money stashed somewhere. Get the hell out of this cocaine thing—you don’t need it, and you could wind up doing big time in a federal lockup. You have a kilo of the stuff on the property right now, don’t you?”

  She raised her head. Blood trickled from a corner of her mouth. She’d bitten through her lower lip. She said, “Yes.”

  Lockington snapped, “Get rid of it—dump it into a ditch!”

  Peggy said, “I did what he told me to do, said what he told me to say. He said that if there was trouble, he’d absolve me and accept full responsibility. I believe that he’d have done that.”

  Lockington said, “So do I.”

  “You see, he knew that he was dying—he wanted the money for my mother and me. He felt that he should square up with us for all the years he wasn’t there—he meant well.”

  Lockington said, “You know about your mother?”

  “Yes—he told me on the phone after I got home last night. This is what they call a one-two punch, I guess. I’m an orphan.”

  “The syndicate killed your mother—it was trying to locate your father and its missing cocaine. You could be next. Drop it, do you hear me?”

  She was nodding, trying to absorb the shock. “Where is my father’s body?”

  “I don’t know—you’ll have to check with the Austintown police.”

  Her hands were shaking, her poise dissolved. She said, “Look, I’m sorry—you’ve been used—my father did the planning—I just—oh, shit!” She broke into a series of hoarse, racking sobs.

  Lockington was on his feet. He crossed the room to ruffle her hair. He said, “Pull your life together, kid—you’re young, you have the world by the ass.” He went out, closing the door quietly, not looking back.

  He drove south to Mahoning Avenue, then east. Natasha broke the silence. “How did she take it?”

  Lockington said, “She’ll get over it—she’s tough.”

  They stopped at a restaurant but they didn’t eat. They spent an hour drinking coffee, smoking, saying little, feeling each other with their eyes. Natasha smiled once. So did Lockington.

  They left the restaurant and Lockington drove to the Flamingo Lounge. Natasha said, “Shall I come in?”

  Lockington said, “No, I won’t take long.”

  John Sebulsky was behind the bar, sniffing at a container of coffee, making a face. He said, “The Titanic didn’t really hit an iceberg, y’know.”

  Lockington said, “No, I didn’t know.”

  Sebulsky said, “There was a Greek in the galley, making coffee. He spilled some, and it burned a sixty-foot hole in the bow.”

  Lockington said, “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  Sebulsky said, “It’s too early for the Sugar sisters—they won’t be here for an hour.”

  Lockington said, “Well, into each life some rain must fall.” He ordered a double hooker of Martell’s, downed it, and shook hands with Sebulsky. He said, “So long, John—it’s been a pleasure.”

  Sebulsky said, “Back to Chicago?”

  Lockington nodded. “For a while.”

  “Pecos Peggy make out okay?”

  “Real good.”

  “Well, Lacey, if you’re ever in town again, be sure to drop in.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Lockington left the Flamingo Lounge, turning left into Austintown, passing the Club Crossroads, swinging onto Interstate 80 a mile further on. The sun was bright, the sky was blue. Natasha Gorky lit two cigarettes, handing one to Lockington. He took it. He said, “Thanks.” Chicago was probably still there, 425 miles dead west.

  75

  They were passing the rest stop just east of Akron on Interstate 80. Lockington jerked his head to his left. He said, “That’s where Vince Calabrese shot Billy Mac Davis.”

  Natasha said, “Probably the only decent thing he ever accomplished. Lacey, let’s get back to the beginning of this thing—I’ll have explanations to make.”

  Lockington said, “The beginning was probably in the state of Mississippi, in late ’sixty-six—you said that Rufe was working that area then. That’d be when he got Bobbie Jo Pickens pregnant.”

  “He walked out on her?”

  “I doubt that he knew that she was up the creek.”

  “If he didn’t know, when did he find out?”

  “About four years ago when he ran into Bobbie Jo at the Chicago Stadium where she was singing with Billy Mac Davis’s political campaign. He recognized her, he made contact, and he learned that he was the father of a bouncing seventeen-year-old daughter. That may have bumped Rufe off the tracks.”

  “Conscience? I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, there’s so much good in the worst of us—Rufe had a conscience. It was calloused, but he had one. He became determined to make amends to the Pickens woman and to the daughter he’d never seen—it probably develo
ped into an obsession.”

  “Where was the girl at that time?”

  “Possibly in Mississippi with relatives, growing up, trying to emulate her mother, practicing to become a country singer. I’m not sure of that—I didn’t ask her.”

  “It was Bobbie Jo who got Devereaux involved with LAON?”

  “Yes, but I don’t believe it was intentional—she probably introduced Rufe to Billy Mac Davis, and I’d imagine that they hit it off like a pair of cattle thieves. They were southern boys with similar leanings. In addition to that, Rufe needed money to set things right and Davis had a ton of it. Eventually they struck a deal—fifty grand a hit. Then, somewhere along the line, Rufe found out that he had cancer and from that point on it was Katie, bar the door—Rufe didn’t give a damn. He knew his way around the shady fringes, he had a man to kill in Miami, and he decided to cut a fat hog in the ass. After he’d knocked off Wallace Vernon he drove across town and wasted a Mafia drug supplier named Juarez. He helped himself to a few kilos of cocaine. He owned a house in Leyden Township, a pop-off valve, good for any number of reasons including cooperative ladies—you know about that, of course.”

  “Stop it, Lacey—you’re rubbing it in.”

  “Rufe drove the coke through from Miami and when he’d dumped it at the place on North Onines Avenue, he was sitting on a potential of something in the vicinity of two million dollars.”

  “And he was running it to Youngstown a kilo at a time.”

  “Right. He’d fly to Chicago and come back with an attaché case full of cocaine. There’s a ready market for it in the Youngstown area.”

  “And the Mafia was furious.”

  “To put it mildly—somebody was stealing their thunder, invading their marketplace, and selling Mafia cocaine. They went to work on it and they learned that the slug killing Juarez matched ballistically with the one killing Wallace Vernon.”

  “But how did the Mafia learn this?”

  “How did the KGB get it?”

  “Through a leak in the Miami police department.”