Chicago, Illinois is a city of gross excesses, its weather not excluded. On that May Thursday morning the heat was stifling, coiling around the throat boa constrictor-style, boiling from the blistered asphalt of Kimball Avenue to cascade into Reindorff’s Gift and Flower Shop with Lockington’s entrance. He closed the door behind him hurriedly, luxuriating in the coolness of the place. The woman at the counter was rather attractive for her probable fifty years, Lockington thought—she had neatly groomed, slightly wavy, gray-streaked dark hair, a pug nose, a soft mouth, and she wore a loose, open brown smock over a starchy white blouse and sharply pressed beige slacks. She was arranging red silk tulips in a white ceramic vase and she glanced up, her green eyes sparkling inquisitively behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. “Yes, sir—may I be of assistance?” This puzzled Lockington. In Chicago they hardly ever ask.
He said, “I hope so, ma’am.” He took out his billfold to flash the tarnished badge he’d neglected to turn in. There were times when it came in handy. “Chicago Police, ma’am—we’re backtracking a floral piece sent yesterday from Reindorff’s to Olenick’s Funeral Home on North Clark Street. The name of the deceased was Devereaux—Rufus Devereaux.”
The lady in the brown smock squinted, reaching for a thick blue ledger on the countertop, pulling it to her, then pushing it away. “No need for that. I remember it now—our Imperial grouping. Lovely thing. You’ve seen it?”
“Yes, ma’am, yesterday evening—exquisite. Who was the sender, do you recall?”
“Certainly—a woman named Pickens. She’s well known in the Logan Square neighborhood. She operates a country music tavern on Milwaukee Avenue, just around the corner, practically.” She jammed red silk tulips into the vase with savage thrusts. “Oh, I could tell you a few things about that one, if you’re interested.”
She was hopeful that he’d be interested, Lockington could tell. He said, “Every bit of information helps, ma’am. Are you acquainted with Miss Pickens on a personal basis?”
“I wouldn’t be caught on the same side of the street with her! I’m aware of the things she does!”
Lockington lit a cigarette, saying nothing but nodding a green light.
She was in high gear now, gathering momentum. “You know about the country music element, I suppose.”
“Not really. What about the country music element?”
“Why, these people have sex indiscriminately—like animals!”
“Is that a fact?”
“It most assuredly is, and they say that this Pickens creature has—er-r-r—would obliged be the word I’m looking for?”
“Probably, if you want to use more than four letters.”
“No, let’s make it accommodated—accommodated conveys my meaning clearly enough, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’ll do just dandy, ma’am.”
“All right, she’s accommodated as many as four of those scruffy guitar players in the same bed at the same time! Now isn’t that downright revolting?”
“Not if you’re a scruffy guitar player.”
“Her first name’s Bobbie, but they call her Easy—Easy Pickens. You grasp the significance, I’m certain.”
Lockington shrugged comprehension of the significance, studying the ash of his cigarette.
She said, “What’s she done? Nothing will shock me, I guarantee!”
“It’s a police matter, ma’am—I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“But it’ll be in the newspapers, won’t it—I mean eventually?”
“Eventually is a long word, ma’am.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she giggled. “My, but you’re interesting! I’ve always labored under the impression that policemen were—were—oh, damn, what is the word?”
“Scruffy, ma’am?”
“No, doltish—I’ve already used scruffy and I simply detest repetition!”
Lockington said, “‘Use not vain repetitions as the heathen do, for they think they shall be heard for their much speaking.’”
She clapped her hands. “Oh, that’s excellent! Who said it?”
“My father—he used it twenty times a day.”
“It sounds almost biblical.”
“It is biblical—it’s the only verse my old man ever memorized.”
“I could tell you more about this Pickens female, if it’ll aid in your investigation.”
“I believe I have all I’ll need at this time. You’ve been extremely helpful, ma’am—I want to thank you for your cooperation.”
“You’re entirely welcome! You’re much nicer than Sergeant Delvano—Sergeant Delvano was—well, scruffy.”
“Joe? When was Joe in?”
“Yesterday afternoon, three or so. I’m a widow—my name’s Martha Merriam. I don’t believe I caught yours.”
Lockington said, “Voltaire—Sergeant Voltaire.”
“Any relation to the French playwright?”
Lockington turned to go. “No, but my cousin pitched for the Toledo Mudhens.” He went out. The heat was clamping down on Chicago, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He crossed the street to his car and a gray Buick missed running him down by three-quarters of an inch. There was a heavy-set woman at the wheel. Lockington shrugged. Some things never change.