Lockington came into the kitchen, yawning, buttoning his shirt, squinting into an eight o’clock sun that blazed through the window like a Viet Cong rocket attack. Edna Garson was buttering toast. She was wearing yesterday’s white blouse and navy blue skirt. There was a small grease splotch on the front of the skirt—from the pork chops, Lockington figured. On Edna it looked good. He seated himself at the table as she poured coffee. He said, “Your hair’s a mess.”
Edna nodded. “A passion perm—you’ve seen a few.” She sat across from him, sipping at her coffee. “Say, could I hustle you for a lift downtown?”
“Sure, if we can get out of here in twenty minutes. I’ll be going it alone today. Moose won’t be in.”
“He’s sick?”
“No, he has a bunch of loose ends to attend to—insurance, funeral expenses, grave maintainence—that sort of thing.”
Edna frowned into her coffee. “I’m barely acquainted with Moose, but I can feel for him—he’s had a rough row to hoe. You knew his wife well?”
Lockington nodded. “She was like a sister—Helen baked apple pies for me when Moose was my partner on the force.”
“Well, you’re partners again, sort of.”
Lockington nodded, munching toast.
Edna said, “You were at the funeral?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How was it?”
“How was it? You ever been to a happy funeral?”
“Yes, a couple.”
“So have I, come to think of it.” Lockington slurped coffee and lit a cigarette. “What’s going on downtown?”
“I’m gonna buy a sheer teddy with sequins.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“What color?”
“What color do you prefer?”
Lockington gave the question some thought. “Black, I guess. Where are you gonna wear this thing?”
Edna winked. Edna had the most provocative wink in all of Cook County, Lockington thought—it promised a great many things, every one of which Edna was capable of delivering in abundance. She said, “Oh, hither and thither, I suppose.”
Lockington said, “Hither and thither are okay, but stay the hell out of yon—you could get arrested in yon.”
Edna stuck out the tip of her tongue, wiggling it.
Lockington didn’t say anything. Neither did Edna until they were on Belmont Avenue, thumping toward the Outer Drive. Then she wanted to know about Rufe Devereaux. Who was he?
Lockington said, “CIA—Cajun guy from the Baton Rouge area—worked out of the Chicago office until winter before last.”
“How did you ever manage to get hooked up with a CIA man?”
“I was a Chicago cop. You don’t remember that?”
“Oh, God, who doesn’t? You just got to be in the Guinness Book of Records!”
“Well, the Chicago police force has cooperated with the CIA on occasion.”
“On what—looking for Russian spies?”
“Not really. Anyway, I drank a lot of beer with Rufe Devereaux.”
“And chased a lot of pussy.”
“No, I watched Devereaux chase pussy.” Which was one-half wrong.
Edna said, “Horse manure.” Which was one-half right.
Lockington said, “Hey, Rufe Devereaux got around! He had his first heart attack when he was in the hay with a Clark Street hooker—he was fifty-three at the time.”
“He’s had more than one?”
“Hookers? Oh, sure, dozens!”
“Heart attacks!”
“Two that I know of. His second came with a Wilson Avenue pro.”
“How old was he then?”
“Fifty-four.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
“He recovered, obviously.”
“I mean, where did he go?”
“Up to Sheridan Road. Sheridan Road got hundreds of hookers.”
Edna was glaring at him.
Lockington shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know—CIA people won’t tell you where they’re going—you’re lucky if they tell you where they’ve been. With that bum ticker, maybe he retired.”
On the southbound Outer Drive Edna said, “What did you two talk about?”
“Baseball, mostly—Rufe was a walking baseball encyclopedia.”
“So are you.”
“I know some baseball but I wasn’t in Rufe’s league—he knew baseball history. He claimed that the nineteen-oh-six Chicago Cubs were the greatest team ever.”
“Were they?”
“Not a chance! The ’twenty-seven Yankees were the best. We’d argue about that.”
“Maybe that’s why you got along—because you could argue about baseball.”
“I suppose so.”
“You said baseball mostly. What else—pussy?” Edna Garson had the unflagging curiosity of a kitten when it came to matters having to do with Lacey Lockington, and once she’d gotten onto a subject, getting her off it was extremely difficult.
Lockington said, “Men talk about things other than baseball and pussy.”
“Okay, name one.”
“Football.”
“Football’s a sport!”
“So is pussy.”
“Oh shit!”
“Well, there was one other thing—we listened to country music.”
“Where?”
“Honky-tonks—joints on Milwaukee Avenue, usually.”
“The Club Howdy?”
“Yeah, there, and that dive a couple of doors south.”
“Nashville Corners. I’ve been in both of ’em—badass places. You like country music?”
“Not as well as Rufe liked it—he was crazy about it—what the hell, he was from Louisiana. I prefer ragtime.” This was better—he’d managed to get her switched from his private life to music.
They’d turned into Michigan Avenue, then swung west to the Randolph Street parking lot. Edna walked east with him, holding his hand. They paused at the entrance to the vestibule housing the steps leading down to the Classic Investigations office. Lockington said, “Luck on your teddy.”
Edna said, “I have a few other things to do—I’ll pop for lunch. How’s eleven-thirty?”
Lockington shook his head. “I gotta meet Rufe Devereaux.”
“Oh, damn, that’s right! Well, I’ll see you around, stud.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. Then she headed for State Street. Lockington watched her until she’d vanished into the 9:00 Randolph Street maelstrom. Edna Garson’s walk would have busted up a eunuchs’ convention.