It was Wednesday, cloudy, still unseasonably warm, late May by the calendar, mid-August according to the thermometer. Edna Garson hadn’t come around on Tuesday evening, and Lockington had experienced no profound regrets on that score. Not that he didn’t think the world of Edna—she’d provided solutions to more than one of his problems, but the problem she’d solved first was the problem she’d solved with alarming frequency, and Lockington was closing in on forty-nine years of age. He’d enjoyed their passionate interludes, he’d indulged with reckless abandon, but the piper must be paid, and on mornings following such sessions he was listless and aching from stem to stern. It wasn’t one of those mornings.
Moose came in at nine. Lockington said, “You look better.”
Moose said, “Yeah? Than what?”
“Than you looked yesterday.”
“I feel better than I did yesterday—there ain’t much that fifteen hours in bed won’t cure.”
Lockington said, “If you’re sleeping, that is.” It was an unfortunate remark. Moose Katzenbach’s bed was empty now.
They sat around the office, Lockington pondering recent events, Moose struggling with the Chicago Chronicle chess problem. After a while, Moose closed the newspaper. He said, “Chess is for the fucking Bolsheviks.”
Lockington said, “It’s their game. In Russia they teach chess to third-grade kids.”
“And we don’t.”
“Of course we don’t—we don’t even teach our kids to read and write.”
“That’s true, but why don’t we?”
“Because we’d be infringing on their civil rights.”
“The Bolsheviks don’t got no civil rights.”
“Which is why their kids can read and write.”
The office door banged open and Information Brown was standing on the threshold. Lockington motioned him into the office but Brown shook him off. “No time, Lacey. So far, all I got is that Devereaux’s wake is gonna be at Olenick’s on North Clark—eight o’clock tonight. Closed casket—cremation tomorrow morning.”
“Who’s paying the freight?”
“Christ, I dunno—the Agency, I suppose.”
Lockington nodded. “Anything else?”
Brown said, “Yeah—no hoopla, no flowers, no ceremony.” He closed the door, heading up the steps to Randolph Street.
Lockington’s half-smile was tight. That’s the way Rufe would have wanted it—no hoopla, no flowers, no ceremony. Someone had said that the greatest knowledge man can hope to acquire is that life is utterly meaningless, and Lockington was certain that Rufe Devereaux had subscribed to that theory.
They drifted back into silence, Lockington welcoming the respite, considering the phone call from Sgt. Joe Delvano—wondering who was behind the shabby attempt at trickery. Had the press gotten into the Devereaux murder? Lockington didn’t think so. The press would’ve handled it differently, charging into the affair like a herd of stampeding buffalo, trampling everything in its path. Then who—the CIA? Probably not, but he had a hunch that he’d be hearing from those fellows shortly—they worked slowly but they worked thoroughly.
Lockington dredged up what little he knew of the past, looking for a link to what little he knew of the present. He found a maybe—Rufe Devereaux had seemed reasonably confident that he could take Bobbie Jo Pickens to bed. When Rufe had blended a few drinks with an attack of hot drawers, he was usually entertaining delusions of grandeur, but there was a possibility that he’d made out, and any old possibility beat hell out of no possibility at all. Lockington said, “Moose, do you know where the Club Howdy’s located?”
Moose squinted. “I’ve heard of it—northside somewhere, I think.”
“Yeah, it’s a hog trough on the east side of Milwaukee Avenue just south of Diversey.”
“Shitkickers’ joint, ain’t it?”
“Country music, yes.”
“What about it?”
“Take a run up that way—see if you can talk to a Bobbie Jo Pickens. Tall, blonde woman—she probably owns the place.”
“Okay, what should I talk about?”
“Rufe Devereaux—find out how well she knew him. Tell her he’s gone west, and that his wake will be held at Olenick’s tonight. Get her reaction, if any.”
Moose nodded, finding his hat, going out, coming right back in. He dropped an envelope on the desk. “Mail for the day.” The phone rang. Moose grabbed it and handed it to Lockington. He said, “It’s for you.”
Lockington said, “You didn’t answer the sonofabitch—how do you know it’s for me?”
Moose said, “Gotta be for you. Who’d be calling me?”
Lockington said, “You got a lousy attitude.”
Moose went out.
Hector Godwin was on the line. Hector said, “Mr. Lockington, I visited your office yesterday morning, remember?”
Lockington sighed. “Vividly.”
“Are you armed, Mr. Lockington?”
“Occasionally.”
“How quickly can you get here?”
Lockington said, “Well, that would depend on just where ‘here’ is.”
Hector said, “I live at Seven twenty-eight Laurel Lane in Batavia.”
Lockington said, “I might locate Laurel Lane if I knew how to find Batavia.”
“It’s just forty or so miles southwest of Chicago. This is of the utmost urgency, Mr. Lockington!”
“You’ll have to take that just a step further.”
“You’ll recall that I’ve been under observation by outer-galactic beings.”
“Uhh-h-h, yes, I believe you mentioned that.”
“They’re here, Mr. Lockington!”
“They are?”
“Yes, there’s a spaceship in front of my house!”
“What color?”
“Silver gray. Most of them are silver gray.”
“Most of them?”
“I haven’t seen all of them, Mr. Lockington.”
“Have you contacted the Batavia police?”
“I have, and they’ve informed me that parking on Laurel Lane is perfectly permissible!”
“Well, Hector, I don’t know exactly how to advise you on this. I’m at least an hour from Batavia—probably longer.”
“My God, they’re leaving the ship!” Hector’s voice had risen a couple of octaves. “They’re crossing my lawn—the bastards are walking on my geraniums—!” The line went dead.
Lockington never heard from Hector Godwin again.
There’d be times when he’d wonder about that.