Somewhere in or near the city of Youngstown, he’d been told, there just might be a Soviet defector, an aging Russian general who’d written a book concerning the dastardly plans of the Soviet Union. Said Russian general was in eager demand by (A): the writer of scholarly military tomes, who wanted to interview him—by (B): the Central Intelligence Agency, who wanted to get him off the streets and out of harm’s way—and by (C): the Komitet Gosudarstvennoye Bezopastnosti, better known as the KGB, who wanted to blow his ass off.
It amounted to a rather bewildering kettle of fish and Lacey Lockington was in it up to his rapidly receding hairline, but he’d made no firm guarantees, and the money was certainly welcome. What the hell, at the rate of seventy-five hundred dollars every other day, a man could become a millionaire in short order, providing he didn’t get killed on his way to the bank.
Late in the afternoon the telephone jangled its way into his musings. Gordon Kilbuck was on the line. “You told me that you might have something today.”
Lockington said, “I’m still working on it.”
“On what?”
“It’d be difficult to explain on the telephone.”
“Could you give me a clue?”
“I could if I had one.”
“But you do have prospects?”
“Several, probably—I just can’t locate the little bastards.”
There was a long silence before Kilbuck said, “Well, hang in there.”
Lockington said, “Sure.” He hung up. Not the best way to inspire client confidence, he thought, but facts are facts. He took Alexi Fedorovich’s book from its desk drawer, tucked it under his arm and walked the length of the plaza to the flower shop. He bought two roses.
The elderly lady behind the counter was tying silver ribbons on the stems when she winked at him. “You have two girl friends now?”
Lockington said, “Sometimes three or four.”
She placed the roses on the counter top. “And you don’t understand any of them.”
“Hardly ever.”
“And they all wear the same dress.”
“Right. You’re familiar with that problem?”
“Oh, yes—my husband had it for years, but he got over it last spring.”
“How did he manage to accomplish that?”
“He got run over by a Greyhound bus.”
Lockington nodded. “Well, that’s one way.”
The flower lady said, “Works every damn time. That’ll be three dollars and fifteen cents.”
Lockington paid her and went out, walking back to the Mercedes, driving to the little brown-trimmed white house on North Dunlap Avenue, looking forward to a quiet evening with Natasha. She met him at the door, giving him an abbreviated kiss, snatching The Wheels of Treachery from under his arm, flopping into the overstuffed chair, paging eagerly through the book.
Lockington poked the roses into her pixie hairdo, adjusting them as best he could. Natasha said, “Thank you” absent-mindedly. She added, “The martinis are mixed—second refrigerator shelf.” Also absent-mindedly.
He poured their martinis over ice, garnishing them with twists of lime. Natasha accepted hers without looking up, nipping at it, her attention focused on the book. Lockington said, “Maybe we should send out for a pizza.”
Natasha didn’t respond immediately—she was buried in The Wheels of Treachery, her big pale blue eyes flicking hungrily back and forth across its pages. After a while she muttered, “That’d be nice.”
Lockington said, “What’d be nice?”
Natasha flipped a page, glancing up. “No anchovies, please.”
“Who said anything about anchovies?”
Natasha was silent.
Lockington sat on the couch, cradling his martini, studying her. He said, “By God, I think I should write a book.”
Natasha turned another page. “About what?”
“Understanding women—I’m a bona fide expert on the subject.”
Natasha sighed, leaving the overstuffed chair, a forefinger marking her place in The Wheels of Treachery. She sat beside him on the couch, smiling her wonderfully lopsided smile. She leaned to kiss him on the cheek. “Yes, you are—you really are.”
Lockington said, “Hey, you better believe it!”
Natasha said, “You see, Lacey, the very first thing a man should understand about a woman is that a man cannot possibly understand a woman, and you’re aware of that.”
“Which makes me an expert—right?”
Natasha had returned to the overstuffed chair and The Wheels of Treachery. She murmured, “Right.” Absentmindedly.
22
He was sitting at their basement bar, drinking cognac, listening to ragtime piano from the tape player, missing Natasha. She was upstairs, reading The Wheels of Treachery, no more than fifteen seconds from his barstool but he missed her anyway—he liked Natasha to be where he could see her, she was a pleasure to look at. She came downstairs shortly before eleven o’clock, during “World’s Fair Rag” done by a ragtime pianist named Zimmerman. Lockington couldn’t remember Zimmerman’s first name, but he was the best in the business, first name or no first name. Natasha perched on the barstool next to Lockington’s. She said, “You didn’t order a pizza.”
“No, you were intent on your reading—I didn’t want to disturb you.”
She pinched his cheek. “That was considerate of you.”
“Did you finish the book?”
“Yes, I read rapidly. It was interesting, I thought—how thoroughly did you read it?”
“Not very.”
“It has an intriguing premise, but it’s only a premise.”
“Fill me in.”
“Well, General Fedorovich predicts nothing as a certainty—he doesn’t even get into probabilities, he considers possibilities and the possibilities stemming from possibilities, nothing more than that.”
“And the possibilities are rotten.”
“Not particularly good, as seen through Fedorovich’s eyes. He considers the likelihood of mid-European Communism coming apart at the seams within the next couple of years.”
“He sees it as a likelihood?”
“Not exactly, but he says it could happen—which it could, of course—he writes from a hypothetical point of view, seeing the potential of the Soviet Union losing its grip on Central Europe. He thinks that Mikhail Gorbachev could be ousted from power as a result, replaced by hard-liners, who might fabricate a cause for invasion of NATO territories, thereby reclaiming those areas lost to Russia.”
“And kicking off a third world war.”
Natasha said, “If it reaches that point, certainly—it would be all or nothing for Moscow.”
“Could Fedorovich be right?”
Natasha shrugged. “He knows the factors involved.”
Lockington killed the tape player, snapping on Youngstown’s eleven o’clock news. Local school authorities were making dire predictions regarding consequences should its 14.5 mill tax levy fail at the polls in November—a hundred assistant-assistant student counselors would be laid off and Chinese gong-bonging would have to be eliminated from the curriculum. Youngstown had an outside chance of becoming a regular stop on Amtrak’s New York to Chicago run. Mayor Patrick Ungaro would speak at a Crime Watch meeting at the Italian-American Veterans’ Hall on South Meridian Road. An elderly woman, one Abigail Fleugelham, had just been found dead in a room of the Belfry Motel on Route 224, strangled with a forty-foot length of plastic clothesline. The weather for Thursday would be clear with temperatures ranging from the upper sixties to the lower seventies.
Lockington left his barstool to turn off the news and reactivate the tape player. Zimmerman was playing “Teddy in the Jungle” and Lockington still couldn’t remember Zimmerman’s first name. Natasha was peering at him. She said, “Abigail Fleugelham—wasn’t that the name of the woman you met at the Canterbury Arms retirement home?”
Lockington nodded. Zimmerman had finished playing “Teddy in the Jungle
,” lighting into “Sleepy Hollow Rag.” Natasha said, “Are you hungry?”
“For pizza, no—are you?”
“Yes, but not for pizza.”
“For what, then?”
“What do you have in mind?”
Lockington spun her barstool, undoing the buttons at the back of her white blouse. He said, “It ain’t pizza.” He unsnapped the clasp of her brassiere.
She turned the barstool, facing him, shrugging free of her blouse and brassiere, tucking them into her lap. Her nipples were taut. “To hell with pizza.”
They went upstairs. The Wheels of Treachery lay on the kitchen table. Natasha hadn’t spent all of her time reading. He saw several sheets of unlined paper on which a great many eight-spoked wheels had been drawn. Numerals had been jotted around the rims of the wheels, letters in the gaps between the spokes. Lockington paused to study these and Natasha pushed him into the living room, turning out the lamp on the table. She took his hand, turning toward the bedroom. Lockington said, “What’s up?”
“My slacks. They should be down.”
“I might be of assistance on that score.”
They were in the bedroom. Natasha said, “I don’t believe that I’ll require assistance.” Lockington heard faint rustling sounds. “See?”
Lockington said, “Not particularly well—it’s dark in here.” Natasha Gorky came swiftly around the foot of the bed, naked as a jay-bird, gluing herself to him, her arms encircling his neck. Her scent of spice wafted into Lockington’s adoration-befogged brain. She whispered, “Lacey, if you can’t see, try Braille—try Braille!”
Over breakfast coffee he told her about the woman in the blue Chevette, the altercation at the post office, Barney Kozlowski and Cayuse Bresnahan. He’d intended to do that earlier but circumstances alter cases—there’d been the book.
And the Braille.
23
Thursday morning was warm and blue, studded with little fleecy-white clouds. Lockington reached the Mahoning Plaza office at exactly nine o’clock. So did Barney Kozlowski. He was a clean-cut, pugnaciously handsome youngster, every bit as large as Lockington had thought him to be, which was very large indeed. He was neatly dressed—dark blue cardigan, powder blue shirt, gray trousers, black loafers. They shook hands and Barney sat in the straight-backed wooden chair to Lockington’s right. He said, “Mr. Lockington, I’m afraid I have an apology to make—I ain’t got no gun.”
Lockington said, “That’s all right—you probably won’t be needing a gun today. Come to think of it, you probably won’t be needing a gun tomorrow.”
“Well, maybe not, but I was hoping that you might have something dangerous for starters.”
“Such as?”
Barney thought it over briefly. “Oh, like maybe a big cocaine bust.”
“That stuff doesn’t concern us—coke busts are for local law enforcement and the feds.”
“Okay, but what’re the chances of recovering some stolen jewels?”
“Not real good—insurance gumshoes work that side of the alley—they usually operate on a percentage of recovery basis.”
“Well, what about serial killers—any of them running around loose?”
“Who knows? These days you can’t tell a serial killer from your postman.”
“Hey, I’ll bet you read Span of Terror by Ralph Collingsworth!”
“Can’t say that I did. What about Span of Terror by Ralph Collingsworth?”
“There was this serial killer down in Montgomery, Alabama. He murdered over a dozen baldheaded women—busted ’em with a four-pound sledgehammer. It had something to do with his grandmother being bald.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, a Montgomery P.I. nailed him and, just like you said, it was a postman! He could tell they were bald because he could see through their windows when he delivered the morning mail—they hadn’t gotten around to putting their wigs on, you see.”
“Not exactly.”
“He carried the sledgehammer in his mailbag, just in case he ran into a baldheaded woman. When he spotted one, he’d ring her doorbell. She’d run and put her wig on before she answered the door, of course, but he already knew she was bald, and he’d tell her that he had a registered letter for her, could he step in for a moment, and when she let him in, zonko, he’d let her have it! The Montgomery cops couldn’t do anything with it, but this P.I. got him. Wanta know how?”
“Uhh-h-h, not just yet, Barney—it’s a bit early in the morning.”
Barney studied Lockington. “You’re working on something big, I can tell! I know the signs!”
“You do?”
“Sure! Yesterday morning those three guys ganged up on you at the post office because they were trying to scare you off the case!”
Lockington said, “No, that was started by a disagreement over them blocking my car in the parking lot.”
“Well, all right, but that guy in the black Stetson hat—he was following you, and he was a syndicate enforcer if I’ve ever seen one!”
“Not really. He caught up with me later in the day—he offered me a job.”
“Cracking a blackmail case?”
“No, selling Kirby vacuum cleaners.”
Barney’s disappointment was obvious. “Well, doggone, Mr. Lockington, there must be something going on!”
Lockington spread his hands the way you do when you’re about to attempt to explain something you’ve never quite understood. “Look, Barney, the private detective racket is no different than the newspaper business, for instance—you have to be copy boy before you can become a reporter.”
“You mean I got to serve an apprenticeship?”
“Yeah, something on that order.”
“Okay, where do I start?”
“Right here at my desk, answering the telephone. I should be back by noon.”
“All right, but how do I answer the phone—what do I say?”
“Just say, ‘Confidential Investigations, Kozlowski speaking.’ Try to sound gruff—you’re giving the right impression when you sound gruff.”
“The macho thing?”
“Right.”
“Like this?” Barney lowered his voice, growling “Confidential Investigations, Kozlowski speaking.” He sounded like an idling Diesel locomotive. “Like that?”
Lockington said, “That’s it—right on the money!”
“Then I’ll probably have to make a lot of notes.”
“If they’re still on the line, yes.”
“But what if somebody comes in—then what?”
“Find out what he wants, get his telephone number, tell him that I’ll get back to him shortly.”
“And if it’s a woman?”
“Same applies.”
“Yes, of course, but what if she starts taking off her clothes?”
“Then you’re on your own—why in God’s name would she start taking off her clothes?”
“To distract me—that very thing happened to Joe Pilgrim in Death Watch!”
“By Ralph Collingsworth?”
“Yes, Collingsworth is one of my favorites—terse, hard-hitting.”
Lockington left the desk, motioning Barney into the swivel chair. “Hold the fort, kid.”
Barney seated himself, an aura of importance blossoming above his crew cut. He said, “Do you think we stand a chance of getting into a big international case one of these days?”
Lockington was putting on his hat. “International case—what sort of international case?”
“Well, you know—double agents, assassins, lots of intrigue—the kind that’s got the CIA and the KGB all mixed up in it.”
Lockington shrugged. “Extremely doubtful, but in this business you never can tell.”
He went out, piling into the Mercedes to drive west to Meridian Road, then south toward Cornersburg and the Canterbury Arms retirement home, wondering if Barney Kozlowski represented an asset or a liability, deciding that he’d probably be both, but not a great deal of either. What the hell,
he owed the boy something.
24
Thelma was at the desk of the Canterbury Arms retirement home, working on a drawer of filing cards. Lockington said, “Working a different shift?”
Thelma glanced up. She said, “No, just filling in for Martha—she’ll be in at noon. Her aunt died.” She shoved the filing card drawer into its cabinet. “Y’know, you remind me of someone.”
“Who might that be?”
“A fella who said he’d try to come back the other evening.”
“And didn’t.”
“And didn’t. Underline didn’t!”
“Sorry, I got hung up.”
“That’s okay, I worked out a rain check for you—I’m off on Sundays, and Saturday night’s my night to howl.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Do that! I was just discussing you.”
“With whom?”
“There was a policeman here—a man named Addison—plainclothes detective—he left just a few minutes ago.”
“How did I get into the conversation?”
“He asked if Abigail had been seeing men, so I told him about you and Mr. Mawson—I had to—he was a cop.”
“Mr. Mawson—when was Abigail with a Mr. Mawson?”
“Last night, I guess—at least, when she went out she told me that he’d be waiting in the parking lot.”
“You didn’t get a look at him?”
“No, I didn’t bother. Why should I?”
“Or his car?”
Thelma shook her head. “Our residents are in and out all the time—relatives pick ’em up, take ’em home for dinner or to a movie or something—they’re free to go and come as they please. Besides, it was after seven—it’s beginning to get dark by that time.”
“Would it be possible that someone else might have seen him—an employee, maybe?”
The Fedorovich File Page 9
