At 9:15 on that Tuesday morning the temperature in Chicago’s Loop was a flat eighty degrees, this promising an early afternoon peak of low to mid-nineties. By 11:00 it was ninety and climbing.
When Moose Katzenbach came down the stairs and into the Classic Investigations office, he found Lacey Lockington dozing in the creaky swivel chair behind the desk. Moose Katzenbach was a big man, six-five plus a fraction, weighing upwards of 260, and although he walked with a splay-footed gait, it was a virtually silent splay-footed gait. He eased the office door shut behind him and he reached Lockington’s desk undetected, an unholy smile creasing his hound-dog features. He stepped back and delivered a swift kick to the base of the swivel chair. Lockington’s head snapped up. Moose said, “Wake up and piss, the world’s on fire!”
Lockington wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He said, “For lesser offenses I have torn men to shreds and fed them to whippoorwills.”
Around a yawn, Moose said, “You wouldn’t know a whippoorwill from a fucking ostrich.”
Lockington said, “The hell I wouldn’t. Ostriches don’t go ‘tweet-tweet.’”
Moose said, “Neither do whippoorwills—whippoorwills go ‘too-wit-too-woo.’”
Lockington said, “Any whippoorwill that goes ‘too-wittoo-woo’ got to be a fag whippoorwill. What color are whippoorwills?”
Moose lowered his bulk onto the client’s chair at the side of the desk, inserting a cigarette in a corner of his mouth and giving one to Lockington. He said, “Why should I tell you?”
Lockington held a match for them. “You’re the fucking bird expert, ain’t you?”
“Well, sure, but us bird experts can’t go around passing out free information.” Moose sucked on his cigarette, speaking through a swirling gray veil of smoke. “What’s happening?”
Lockington shrugged. “Our ten o’clock appointment was on time. Name’s Hector—Hector Godwin.”
“What’s Hector’s problem?”
“Hector’s under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
“Who’s watching him?”
“Creatures from another galaxy.”
Moose thought about it. He said, “What galaxy? That’s important, what galaxy.”
“Hector ain’t sure—he wants us to find out.”
“We better get on that first thing in the morning.”
Lockington glanced at his watch. “Eleven-fifteen—I thought you were gonna be tied up all day.”
“So did I, but the insurance company paid up quick and it took that fucking undertaker less than ten minutes to screw me out of an extra three hundred dollars. I already had lunch, so if there’s something you want to attend to, go ahead.”
“Nothing really pressing, but now that you’re here, I’m gonna ankle over to the International Arms a bit earlier than I planned.”
“What’s the attraction at the International?”
“I’m supposed to have lunch with Rufe Devereaux—he’s back in town.”
“Never knew he left. You’re talking about the CIA cat you used to get soused with?”
“Yeah, he phoned Edna yesterday afternoon.”
“Edna? How come Edna—why didn’t he phone you?”
“I wasn’t home yet, so he got Edna.”
“Uh-huh—so Edna moved in.”
“No, but she’s working on it—using the gradual approach. She doesn’t want me to panic.”
Moose nodded, making the sign of the cross. “What’s with Devereaux?”
“No idea. I haven’t seen him in a blue moon.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you better call him before you hike clear the hell to South Michigan Avenue. It’s hotter than a virgin’s crotch out there.”
“I’ve already called three times. The desk tells me he isn’t registered, but you know these fucking computerized systems.”
“Maybe he’s there under another name.”
“If he’s working on something, that’s likely. I’ll find him—probably in the lounge, drinking peppermint schnapps.”
“Lacey, you shoulda been a detective.”
“I know it, Moose, but it’s too late now.”
Lockington located his hat and went out, thinking about the old Greek philosophers. They too had indulged in profound dialogues.