“Well-I-I, yes,—he was seventy-three.”
“At seventy-three he was an instructor?”
Natasha nodded. “Sergei Gasparov. Sergei Gasparov was excellent!”
Lockington said, “Sure, he was.”
Natasha winked at him. “Don’t laugh, Lacey—don’t laugh!”
Lockington didn’t laugh. He didn’t so much as smile. He said, “I think the Russians must know something that the Americans haven’t found out.”
Natasha changed the subject. “Something to eat?”
Lockington shook his head. “I had a sandwich—I’d prefer a drink.”
They went down to the basement, Natasha ignoring the couch and her open volume on American Government, choosing to sit close beside him at their bar, sipping a glass of vodka. During their second drink she said, “I called every public library and every book store in the city of Youngstown and not one of them has a copy of General Fedorovich’s book. You said that this Gordon Kilbuck gave you a copy?”
“Yeah, but it’s at the office. Want to look at it?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ll bring it home tomorrow evening.”
“Why can’t I pick it up during lunch?”
“I doubt that I’ll be around for lunch—I may be out of the office most of the day.”
“All right, tomorrow night then.”
Lockington caught a faint flicker of disappointment in her voice, and he said, “Well, look, I can run down to the office now, if it’s important to you.”
“It isn’t that it’s so earth-rattlingly important—it’s just that General Fedorovich was a countryman of mine, I’ve seen him in Moscow, I’ve known of him since I was child! Alexi Fedorovich was a big man in the Soviet Union! Imagine how it’d strike you if one of America’s Joint Chiefs-of-Staff would defect to Russia, then write a book. You’d be interested, wouldn’t you—particularly if you’d defected shortly before he did?”
Lockington nodded, seeing the parallel.
They had another drink and another before he turned on the 11:00 local news. There was nothing of consequence happening in Youngstown, but Lockington was amused by the report that there’d been another in an irritating chain of false fire alarms at the Youngstown Board of Education. Television crews had arrived on the scene and a portion of the pandemonium had been filmed. Firemen were shown hacking through doors with axes, breaking into storage bins, turning the place upside down, finding neither smoke nor fire. He wondered which of the firemen was Kevin O’Malley, the guy who’d answered the Board of Education telephone that afternoon.
On their way up the stairs Natasha stopped, turning to face Lockington. “General Fedorovich’s book—what does it look like?”
“It’s just a book—fatter than most—damned near eight hundred pages.”
“I mean the dust jacket—is there a picture?”
“Well, yeah, there’s a drawing of a bunch of people pushing a platform that has a big hairy-assed horse mounted on it. Kilbuck told me that Fedorovich insisted on designing the dust jacket.”
“This platform—it’s on wheels?”
“Sure—how the hell could they push it if it wasn’t? This is one helluva horse!”
“What kind of wheels?”
“Round, I believe.”
“Seriously, Lacey—what do the wheels look like?”
“They’re made of wood, apparently—it’s a sketch, not a photograph.”
“All right, go on.”
“That’s all—they’re wooden wheels.”
“Solid wooden wheels?”
“No, they have spokes.”
“How many spokes per wheel?”
Lockington tried to visualize the wheels on the dust jacket of Fedorovich’s book. He said, “Eight, probably. What’s the big interest in wheels?”
She nudged him, setting him in motion up the stairs. “Nothing—just curious.” They turned toward the bedroom and she gripped his hand, her nails digging into his palm. They were undressing when she placed her hands on the bed, leaning in Lockington’s direction, her pale blue eyes wide. She said, “Lacey, do me a favor?”
“Name it.”
“Be rough with me tonight.”
“I can’t be rough with you—I don’t feel that way about you.”
She nodded, standing erect, stripping quickly. “All right, then I’ll be rough with you!”
She was. Her gloss was gone, she snarled, she bit, she kicked and clawed—she was a tigress, a creamy ball of sexual ferocity, and her orgasms were great, grinding, groaning things. Just before he fell asleep he held her in the darkness, stroking her buttocks, feeling the steady throb of her heart, realizing that a man can’t possibly know a woman until he’s lived with her, and that when he’s lived with her he can’t possibly know her half as well as he did before he lived with her. It was a highly confusing state of affairs.
16
The rain had moved east overnight and if it wasn’t the most beautiful October morning in history, it was certainly in the top ten. And if Lacey Lockington wasn’t in the world’s smallest parking lot, he was probably in the busiest. At 7:45 he’d backed the Mercedes against a parking block on the south side of the cramped blacktopped area, smackdab in front of Youngstown’s West Side Post Office. He’d taken out a small notebook and he’d sat there, windows open, soaking up his share of what he knew might be the last decent weather of 1988. In October you never can tell.
The notebook was for the license plate numbers of post-office visitors, a precaution taken against the possibility of losing his quarry in traffic.
John Sebulsky, the bartender at the Flamingo Lounge on Mahoning Avenue, had a brother on the Mahoning County police force. Back in May, during the Devereaux goings-on, John had been of considerable assistance in the matter of linking license plates to their owners. For fifty bucks, of course—twenty-five for John, twenty-five for his brother on the county force. It’d been a bargain.
Nearly two hours had crawled by and the lot had been hyperactive, never a dull moment. Now it was 9:40 and Lockington was working on his second page of license plate numbers, jotting them down as the vehicles arrived, crossing them out if his bright red envelope wasn’t in evidence when they departed. It was a task that’d kept him busy because it appeared that Youngstown’s West Side Post Office was patronized by every female in the state of Ohio. Then, at 9:48, an old blue Chevette whisked into the parking lot, stopping in front of the delicatessen that shared the post office location. The Chevette was driven by a sturdily built woman wearing a floppy white gardening hat, large-lensed sunglasses, blue sweatshirt, blue slacks, and white jogging shoes. She left her car to head for the post office and Lockington entered the Chevette’s license number in his notebook, his eyes narrowing. Olga Karelinko would be an older woman, somewhere in her mid-sixties, and this one was getting up in years, although the broad brim of her hat and her oversize sunglasses made her features difficult to make out. She entered the post office and within a minute she came out, carrying a large bright red mailing envelope. Lockington jammed his notebook into his jacket pocket. Tallyho!
He kicked the Mercedes to life, watching the woman climb into the blue Chevette and back out of her parking slot. A rusty white Dodge van came barreling into the lot, screeching to a halt directly in front of the Mercedes. Lockington hit the horn, indicating with frantic motions that he wanted to leave. The driver of the van, a formidable-looking bushy-faced man, thumbed his nose. Lockington piled out of the Mercedes, watching the blue Chevette roll out of the parking lot onto Millet Avenue, then west on Mahoning. The bushy-faced man had departed his van but with prompt action there’d still be a chance of catching the Chevette. Lockington hollered, “Hey, buddy, would you move ’er up just a few feet? It’s urgent!”
The bushy-faced man spat tobacco juice, growling, “Urgent, schmurgent.” He turned his back, starting for the post office.
Lockington kicked the left front tire of the Mercedes. He said, “
Asshole!”
The bushy-faced fellow stopped in his tracks, wheeling to make for Lockington, waving to somebody in the rear of the van. The van door banged open and a man got out. So did another. Both of them were bigger than the bushy-faced character. They advanced on Lockington and to make bad matters worse, one more monster had bailed out of a sagging green Mustang parked on Millet Avenue, sprinting to bring up the rear of the procession. He was half the size of a Diesel locomotive, he wore a gray cardigan, determination was etched on his bulldog face, and he moved like a mountain cat. If Lockington had been in worse jams he couldn’t remember them.
The bushy-faced man led the way to Lockington, grabbing the lapel of his jacket, cocking a fist. Interpreting this as a possibly hostile move, Lockington busted him flush on his beard, sending him reeling across the Mahoning Avenue sidewalk and onto the parkway where his knees gave out. Lockington spun to face the remaining three. One was on his feet, two weren’t—they were flat on their faces, unconscious. The man in the gray cardigan got into the white van, then backed it into the middle of Millet Avenue, leaving it there parked sideways. He returned at a dogtrot, carrying the van’s keys, dropping them through a parking lot grating, waiting for the splash. When it came, he grinned. It was the grin of a Siberian tiger in a bratwurst shop. He threw back his head, studying the cloudless blue October sky. He said, “One helluva morning, ain’t it, Mr. Lockington?”
Lockington nodded. “Now that you mention it, it’s had its moments.”
The man in the gray cardigan put out his hand. “I’m Barney Kozlowski—my old man spoke to you the other day about you maybe teaching me the ropes of the P.I. business.”
Lockington sized him up as they shook hands. Barney was bigger than his father, something like six-seven, probably two-sixty. He was a good-looking youngster with a blond crew cut, alert blue eyes, and a resolute jaw. Lockington said, “Yes, I remember.”
“Dad told me that you thought you might be able to use me if something came up, so I’ve been tailing you now and then, just practicing.”
Lockington nodded. He said, “Uh-huh.”
“You see, I want to stay sharp because you’ll probably want me to follow a bunch of people.”
Lockington said, “Yeah, well, looky, kid, why don’t you swing around by the office tomorrow morning, say nine-thirty or so. We’ll see what can be worked out.”
17
At ten o’clock that morning the Flamingo Lounge door was wide open, and but for John Sebulsky, the place was deserted. Lockington followed a stray sunbeam to the bar where Sebulsky sat on a stool, elbows on his knees, chin cupped in his hands, studying a Racing Form. Lockington said, “Late scratch.”
Sebulsky looked up, his eyes widening. He said, “Well, Jesus Christ!”
Lockington slid onto a barstool. “Mistaken identity—the name’s Lockington.”
“Lacey, where the hell you been?”
“I went back to Chicago for a time.” He didn’t add that it’d been a very short time—approximately thirty-six hours—just long enough to learn about his former partner Moose Katzenbach and former girlfriend Edna Garson.
“You still working that Pecos Peggy insurance case?”
Lockington shook his head. He didn’t care to rehash old business and Sebulsky didn’t pursue the subject. He popped a double shot glass onto the bar, splashing Martell’s cognac into it, slapping the bar with flat of his hand, the universal signal that the house is buying.
Lockington said, “Much obliged—say, John, is your brother still with the county cops?”
Sebulsky said, “Yeah, he’ll die there. Do we have something?”
“Yeah—this.” Lockington grabbed a cardboard beer coaster, writing the blue Chevette’s license number on its border, sliding it across the bar along with five ten dollar bills.
Sebulsky glanced at it, nodding, stuffing the tens into a shirt pocket. He said, “Should be easy—he’s off today so I’ll call him at his poker game.”
“Little bit early for poker.”
“Little bit late—they’ve been playing since nine o’clock last night.” He went to the phone, punched numbers, spoke briefly, and returned. “Ten minutes, maybe less.” He poured more cognac, opened a bottle of Michelob Dry for himself, and they sat in the sunlight streaming through the open door, making small talk, Sebulsky remarking that the Chicago Cubs had improved in ’88. He said, “I give ’em a shot next year.”
Lockington shook his head. “Not in ’89—maybe ’90 or ’91.”
“They got good kids on the farm, Walton and Smith, plus this guy Grace figures to mature next season.” The phone rang. Sebulsky picked up a pad and pencil, answered it, making rapid notes. He said, “Thanks,” hung up, ripping the page from the pad and passing it to Lockington. “Woman by the name of Candice Hoffman, 24 North Brockway.”
Lockington said, “Okay, but where the hell is North Brockway?”
“East, six, seven blocks—big red-brick Methodist church on the corner.”
The phone rang again and Sebulsky took the call. He said, “Hang on, I’ll see.” He arched his eyebrows, pointing to Lockington.
Lockington nodded, shrugging.
Sebulsky handed the phone to Lockington, stretching the cord to its limit. Lockington said, “Yes?”
A male voice said, “Mr. Lockington?”
“That would depend on what you’re selling.”
“Mr. Lockington, this is Barney Kozlowski.”
“All right, what’s up?”
“I thought you should know that a brown ’87 Ford Escort followed you when you left the post office.”
“Still practicing, Barney?”
“Well, yeah, just a little bit.”
“Did you get a squint at the driver?”
“Oh, sure, from up close—guy in a black Stetson hat, black suit, cowboy shirt, shoestring tie. When you went into the Flamingo, he parked headed north, just south of the Flamingo lot where he could keep an eye on your car.”
“He’s there now?”
“No, he’s been gone for a few minutes.”
“Where did he go—any idea?”
“No, but he was in one helluva hurry to get there.”
“Okay, thanks, kid.” Lockington returned the phone to Sebulsky. Sebulsky said, “Bad news?”
Lockington said, “Did you ever get good news at ten-fucking-fifteen in the morning?”
Sebulsky scratched his head, taking the question under consideration. After a while he said, “Yeah—once. My car wouldn’t start and the garage called and told me I needed a new ignition switch.”
“That’s good news?”
Sebulsky said, “Why, hell, yes—it could have been the timing-chain!”
18
He drove east on Mahoning Avenue, immersed in thought, his eyes flicking from the traffic ahead of him to his rear-view mirror, back and forth. The coffee wasn’t perking but the water was beginning to bubble around the edges. Another party, supposedly a Mr. Mawson, was looking for Gen. Alexi Fedorovich, and if Mawson wasn’t thinking along Lockington’s lines and employing Lockington’s methods, then he was permitting Lockington to act as his coon hound, leading the way to Fedorovich.
Mawson couldn’t have located Abigail Fleugelham by following Lockington because he’d phoned Abby before Lockington had reached the Canterbury Arms retirement home. If he’d preceded Lockington to Princeton Junior High School, asking essentially the same questions asked by Lockington, certainly Maria Garcia or James Lofton would have made mention of the fact. But he might have arrived at Princeton shortly following Lockington’s departure, receiving the identical information given to Lockington, calling Abby when Lockington was discussing baseball at Paddy’s Bar and Grill. Well, no matter how he’d found her, he hadn’t learned anything from Abby, but he’d learn a few things if he took her out for an evening. Lockington grinned at the thought.
So, had Mawson followed him to the West Side Post Office, and had Barney Kozlowski spotted him when Lo
ckington had pulled away? If that was the case, he still hadn’t gained valuable information, providing he hadn’t known about the red envelope—and he hadn’t, obviously, because if he’d known about it, he’d have followed the woman in the blue Chevette, not Lockington. At Hazelwood Avenue Lockington tensed at the wheel. His rear-view mirror showed a brown Ford Escort, buzzing out of trailing traffic, slipping behind the Mercedes, then dropping back a quarter-block or so, hanging there.
Lockington passed North Brockway Avenue and the big red-brick Methodist church mentioned by John Sebulsky a few minutes earlier. He continued east, past the post office to Belle Vista Avenue and turned left. The Escort stayed with him. He spun left on Connecticut Avenue, left again on Richview, right on Mahoning. The brown Escort was still on his trail.
He drove west to Schenley Avenue, wheeling the Mercedes north on Schenley, then into a lumpy little parking lot on his right. He left the car, locked it, and went into the Valencia Cafe through the rear door, sauntering as nonchalantly as he knew how. He waved to the barmaid, an elderly lady he’d never seen before who watched bewilderedly as he hiked along the long row of barstools to exit onto Mahoning Avenue through the front door.
He turned the corner onto Schenley Avenue, heading north. The brown Ford Escort was parked ahead of him on the east side of the street. Lockington stepped from the sidewalk, rapidly skirting the trunk of the little car, jerking open the door, inserting the muzzle of his .38 police special in the driver’s ear. He said, “Hi, there—would you care for a drink?” The hammer of the .38 clicked back.
The man in the black Stetson hat said, “I was beginning to think you’d never ask.”
Lockington said, “You’d better leave your howitzer in the car.”
The man said, “Why, sure—what the hell, there ain’t nobody here but us chickens.” He slipped a Colt .45 automatic pistol from his shoulder holster, sliding it barrel-first under the front seat of the Escort, and Lockington sheathed his .38, stepping back, watching him get out of the car. He was a gray-haired, hooknosed, stockily built fellow, probably in his mid-fifties. A lapel had been ripped from his Western-cut black suit jacket, and the front of his brown cowboy shirt was missing. Lockington gestured toward Mahoning Avenue and they moved in that direction, Lockington walking to the left, slightly to the rear. Lockington said, “Mr. Mawson, I presume.”
The Fedorovich File Page 7
