Moose Katzenbach was slumped in the client’s chair, hat tilted to the back of his head, elbows on the desk, face buried between his forearms. His snoring rattled the picture of Wrigley Field on the wall. Lockington dropped into the swivel chair and Moose grunted, raising his head. “Back so soon?”
Lockington said, “Rufe Devereaux got shot in the head.”
Moose yawned. “Well, in Rufe Devereaux’s racket, you gotta expect getting shot in the head every once in a while.” Like Lockington, Moose Katzenbach was no stranger to violence.
Lockington said, “In Rufe’s case it ain’t gonna happen every once in a while.”
“Dead?”
Lockington nodded.
Moose said, “Sorry to hear that. Devereaux cut a few corners, I’ve been told.”
Lockington shrugged. “I suppose he did—in a dirty game you gotta shoot dirty pool. Go on home, Moose, and catch up on your sleep.”
Moose lurched to his feet, straightened his hat, and said, “Thanks, Lacey—I think it just caught up with me. See you in the morning.”
Lockington watched his friend go out, a big man who’d been chewed up in an emotional meat-grinder for years.
He leaned back in the spavined swivel chair, smoking, feeling the pressure of the mounting afternoon heat, attempting to martial his thoughts. According to Webb Pritchard, Rufe had been last seen in the company of a good-looking female. Given the man and his lecherous leanings, that figured. According to Pritchard, he’d been last seen carrying an attaché case. Depending on what Rufe had been up to, maybe that figured. Both the woman and the attaché case had vanished, also according to Pritchard, which underlined the possibility that the woman had blown Devereaux’s brains out and made off with the attaché case. That didn’t figure. A woman in Devereaux’s good graces would have had countless opportunities to steal an attaché case without firing a shot. The telephone was ringing and Lockington clambered from the depths of his brown study to grab it. He said, “Classic Investigations.”
The voice was coarse, grating against Lockington’s raw nerve ends. “You’re Lockington.”
Lockington said, “I know it.”
“I have a few questions for you.”
Lockington said, “If nominated, I will not run.”
The caller chuckled, sounding like a four-cylinder engine firing on three. He said, “Sergeant Joe Delvano here, Lockington—Chicago Police Superintendent’s office calling.”
Lockington said, “Delvano, Delvano—I don’t recognize the name.”
“Well, hell, you’ve been gone nine months—there’ve been changes.”
“My God, I hope so.”
“You were at the International Arms a couple hours ago.” It was a statement, not a query.
Lockington said, “Yeah, I was gonna buy the joint but I came up thirty-seven dollars short.”
“You were a friend of Rufe Devereaux’s.” Again, no question mark.
“True. We sang together at the Met—Barber of Seville.”
“Spare me the cute lines, Lockington—this is a serious matter.”
“Okay, Joe, sorry. By the way, how’s Terry Scott doing? I heard he had surgery.”
“Scott’s fine.”
“Harry Jamieson—he take the pension yet?”
“He’s thinking about it. I’m just back from vacation, Lockington—I’m not quite up to date. Now, about Devereaux—we’re trying to track his activities after he reached Chicago last night. Did he contact you when he got in?”
“No. Tell me, is it true that Buck Sarno bought a race horse?”
“I’ve heard nothing of it. Devereaux had a woman with him and there was a rental Jaguar waiting for him at O’Hare. He outran a Ford on the Kennedy but our guys kept him in sight. He was a foxy bastard—he stopped at Mike’s Tavern at Belmont and Kimball, called a cab, instructed that it wait in the alley, left the broad at the bar, and ducked out the back door. He was gone before we got the drift.”
“I see. Is there anything to the story that Rip Tilman may get married? That’d make four times for Rip.”
“I don’t see much of Tilman. We figure that Devereaux was gone from Mike’s Tavern over a couple hours. Since Mike’s is just a few blocks from your apartment, we wondered if he might have dropped in for a visit, seeing as how you were such a good friend of his.”
“Never laid eyes on him. How’s Ace Hopkins—did he ever get cleared on that rape case?”
“I think he got a postponement on that. When Devereaux got back, he picked up the quiff, returned the Jag to the agency in Rosemont, called another cab, and went to the International Arms Hotel. Our problem is with those couple hours he was missing. They’re critical.”
“Yes, well, my understanding of this thing is that the Chicago police are locked out of it, and if that’s the case, how come you’re digging into it?”
“We’re just nibbling around the edges, Lockington, finding out what we can. It’s going to spill into the open eventually, and we want to be ready.”
“Your people were tagging Devereaux from the time he got to O’Hare?”
“You got it.”
“How did you know he was coming in, and why the surveillance—was he on a wanted list?”
“Uhh-h-h, look, Lockington, that’s police business and I can’t discuss it with you. You aren’t a cop now.”
Lockington said, “No, and you never were! There ain’t no Terry Scott, there ain’t no Harry Jamieson, Buck Sarno’s been dead for ten years, Rip Tilman quit the force in ’sixty-three, and Ace Hopkins is a gay piano player at Mario’s Lounge in Arlington Heights. You’re tying up my phone line.”
There was a short intermission while Delvano regrouped. Then he said, “Hey, tell me about Devereaux’s attaché case and you get a pass. I’m trying to save your ass.”
“From what?”
“From getting it blown off.”
“By whom?”
“You’ll never know—not in this world.”
“Joe, you’re boring me.”
“Don’t get in over your head, asshole! You’ll be hearing from me!”
Lockington hung up, no more puzzled than before the call. Certainly no less.