Lockington’s final hour with Rufe Devereaux had come in early ’87 during the vacuum between Julie Masters and Edna Garson. It’d been a cold, wet evening, the kind that penetrates to the marrow, a good night to have gone home and stayed there. Instead, Lockington had stopped at the Shamrock Pub on West Diversey Avenue to stretch his legs and try to forget a long and unproductive afternoon spent trying to run down a chop shop reported to be operating in the Jefferson Park neighborhood. He’d put away a few belts of Martell’s before deciding that it was high time he found Rufe Devereaux and established once and for all the ’27 Yankees’ superiority over the ’06 Cubs. When Devereaux attempted to locate Lockington he’d usually find him at the Shamrock Pub. When Lockington looked for Devereaux he’d start at the Club Howdy on Milwaukee Avenue. These hadn’t been certain points of contact, but they’d been good three times in four.
It’d been six weeks since Lockington had been in the Club Howdy. There’d been no changes for the better—the lights were still dim, the barstools ripped, the booths and tables lopsided, the paint peeling from the walls, the tiles peeling from the floor. Lockington had wondered if the men’s washroom was the same. Not possessed of a strong stomach, he’d opted not to find out. Cockroaches had been conducting a track-and-field meet along the footrail of the bar, the pungent odor of urine had been held to a draw by the generous application of sweet-smelling disinfectant, the old status quo had prevailed, and Lockington had spotted Rufe Devereaux sitting in a rear booth, talking to a blonde woman. There’d been something vaguely familiar about her but Lockington hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. Devereaux had observed Lockington’s entrance, waving to him, motioning him to take a seat at the bar, then holding up a be-with-you-in-a-moment finger.
Club Howdy attendance had been sparse—a few scruffy-looking characters had been clustered in a dark corner of the place, there’d been a pair of elderly men at the end of the bar, but the tables had been deserted, and Lockington had discounted threat of being crushed in a rush. A four-piece string band had been mauling “Clayton’s Ridge” when Lockington had seated himself. “Clayton’s Ridge” came under the heading of bluegrass, and Lockington had never been convinced that bluegrass came under the heading of music. Bluegrass had always reminded Lockington of a midnight cat fight in a trash heap, but he’d ordered a Martell’s and waited. The musical mayhem had subsided before Rufe Devereaux had occupied the barstool next to Lockington’s, growling, “Lacey, where the hell you been? I was at the Shamrock last week and somebody said that you’d joined the fucking Foreign Legion.”
Lockington had said, “I tried, but they’ve stopped taking misfits.”
Devereaux had slapped him on the shoulder. “Hang on, Lacey—you’ll get over this!” He was referring, of course, to the death of Julie Masters. Lockington had shrugged, saying nothing, watching Rufe Devereaux’s booth companion mount the steps to the tiny elevated stage behind the bar. Devereaux had grinned at Lockington. “Recognize her?”
Lockington had nodded. “Sure—she’s the gal who sang with that Billy Mac Davis political carnival a few years back—Bobbie Jo Pickens.”
“Right! She bought the joint a month ago—she thinks that she can make something of it.”
Lockington had frowned. “If she’s gonna make something of this place, she’d better start with fifty gallons of gasoline and a match.”
Three men had followed Bobbie Jo Pickens onto the stage, one seating himself at the drums, the others plugging guitars into amplifiers. Bobbie Jo Pickens waited, a commanding on-stage presence, a hard-faced woman probably in her mid- to upper-forties, with long, wavy peroxide-blonde hair, wary brown eyes, a slim-bridged nose, flaring nostrils, a full-lipped sensuous mouth. There’d been no gold lamé gown this time around. Approximately one hundred twenty pounds of Bobbie Jo Pickens had been stuffed into a faded denim outfit that’d been geared for one-oh-five, and every important crease in her well-preserved body had shown to excellent advantage. When her musicians were ready, she’d plucked a microphone from a stand, smiling into a smattering of applause and murmuring, “Hello, there, you good ole boys an’ good ole gals—partickellary you good ole boys!” She’d flashed white bridgework when one of the good ole boys had howled like a brokenhearted timber wolf. Then she’d nodded to the band and lit into “Stand On It,” snapping and jerking to the rapid boogie background. When she’d lowered the mike, the small turnout had sent up a roar that could have been heard in Highland Park. She’d winked, gasping, “Whew-e-e-e—why, my gracious, that was almos’ as tirin’ as somethin’ else I enjoy doin’, only nowheres near as much fun!” That’d prompted another roar. Then her smile had faded, the stage lights had dimmed, a blue spotlight had clicked on, and Bobbie Jo Pickens had sung “Too Many Rivers to Cross,” “Send Me the Pillow that You Dream On,” and “When the Echo of Your Footsteps Died Away.” On these selections she’d been very good—she’d known how to handle her big, throaty voice, how to milk the last tear from a song concerning love lost, stolen or abandoned.
Lockington had given Devereaux a sidelong glance, noting that the big Cajun had been mesmerized. Bobbie Jo had closed out her set with “Fool Number One” and she’d bowed, waving a temporary bye-bye before stepping down to sit at the bar with a cork-tipped cigarette and a double hooker of Chivas Regal, flicking a few glances in Devereaux’s direction. The lights had come up, the bluegrass group had piled noisily onto the stage, shattering the spell, cutting loose with “Black Mountain Rag.” Lockington had turned to Devereaux. “Sounds like brain surgery with no anesthetic.”
Rufe had said, “Yeah, but can’t that Pickens woman sing up a storm?”
“She can, and that ain’t all. She’s giving you the eye.”
Devereaux had nodded. “I just struck up an acquaintance with her. She’s friendly people.”
“Maybe you can score.”
Rufe’s smile had been enigmatic. “A man doesn’t know if a man doesn’t try.”
Lockington had said, “Well, far be it from me to foul the wheels of progress.”
They’d shaken hands and Lockington had driven back to the Shamrock Pub, feeling slightly brushed off. Baseball hadn’t been mentioned.
That’d been how they’d closed out.
When Lockington had entered the Shamrock Pub, there’d been a fat woman in a bright yellow coat parked at the bar. She’d borne a strong resemblance to a school bus. Lockington had taken a seat a dozen barstools to her north. She’d glared at him. She’d snarled, “Get away from me, you slavering beast!”
Lockington had said, “Ma’am, if I get any further away from you, I’ll be out in the parking lot.”
The fat woman had said, “Oh, dear God, is there no peace?” She’d stormed out of the Shamrock Pub, slamming the door. Vic Zileski had been working the bar. Vic hadn’t said anything.
Neither had Lockington.