He emerged from the International Arms and drew back as four huge women approached, walking abreast. He pinned himself against the International’s white stone wall, watching them rumble by, one thousand pounds of bad news, resembling a southbound tidal wave. When they were gone he heaved a sigh of relief and made his way back to the corners of State and Randolph, weighing the murder of Rufe Devereaux, trying to contain the thunderbolt and minimize its damage. He was without a sense of direction and, lacking one, he had no course of action. He wasn’t certain that a course of action was called for—this was the CIA’s ball game, certainly not Lacey Lockington’s.
Information Brown wasn’t at his newsstand, which indicated that Information Brown was either dead or at the Squirrel’s Cage. Lockington took a chance on the latter, slipping unobtrusively into the shabby saloon, running a glance down the stretch of battered mahogany to spot Information Brown at its far end, hunched over, head down, staring sorrowfully into an empty shot glass. He was a graying, fragile man with bloodshot hazel eyes, thinning hair, a three-day silver stubble on his chin, and traces of egg at the right-hand corner of his thin-lipped mouth, a burnt-out case seemingly dedicated to drinking himself into the Great Hereafter. Lockington eased past the jutting rumps of the career drinkers to slide onto a rickety stool next to Brown’s. He said, “Walker’s Deluxe?”
Information Brown said, “I can think of no reason that would prompt a negative response.”
Lockington flipped a twenty onto the bar, motioning to a wide-shouldered, ham-handed barkeep named Avalanche MacPherson who claimed to have gone five with Marciano back in fifty-one. Lockington believed that he’d gone five. He’d have believed ten. Avalanche MacPherson’s face looked like the target area of a howitzer range. MacPherson located a bottle of Walker’s, and Lockington turned to Information Brown. He said, “Whatcha got on the festivities at the International Arms?”
Brown frowned, watching the amber elixir stream into his glass. He jolted it down, shoving the glass to the inner rim of the bar, nodding to Avalanche MacPherson’s questioning stare. MacPherson poured the encore and Information Brown said, “Very little at the moment, Lacey, but it’ll get here.”
Lockington said, “I want to be the first to know.”
“An Agency guy got scragged. Why the concern?”
“He was a friend of mine.”
Brown shook his head. “You were Devereaux’s friend, Devereaux wasn’t anybody’s. Devereaux used people.”
“Hell, he was CIA—he had to use people.”
Brown shrugged. “I’ve heard nothing but bad on him.”
“Maybe you listened to the wrong people.”
“They don’t come any wronger than Rufe Devereaux.”
“Whatever—just keep me in mind, will you?”
Brown nodded. “I could have something this afternoon or in the morning. A pair of his stablemates had me cornered when you went by earlier.”
“Yeah, I saw that you had company. What’d they want?”
“Anything they could get. Better leave this one alone, Lacey—it rings out of key.”
“I’ll be listening.” Lockington picked up ten dollars of his change, leaving the remainder on the bar. He said, “Drink it up.”
Information Brown said, “Sir, you are a gentleman of quality and great understanding.”
Lockington said, “I’m aware of that, but don’t let it get around.”