When Lockington entered the Classic Investigations office, Moose Katzenbach was pacing the floor, snapping his fingers. Lockington said, “How’s about a chorus of ‘Rose of Washington Square?’”
Moose said, “Lacey, I got up late this morning and I didn’t have time for coffee. Coffee! I gotta have coffee!”
Lockington slid into the swivel chair. He said, “So go get coffee.”
Moose said, “May Allah attend your steps and grant your every lecherous desire!” He left the office as if the seat of his pants were on fire, and Lockington settled back, yawning. His mind was at ease. He’d faced the facts, which were: Rufe Devereaux was gone, he wouldn’t be back, nothing could be done to change that, and Lockington was out of it.
The door crashed open and a man came reeling into the office. His left eye was swollen shut, his prominent nose was bent out of shape, the right-hand side of his Errol Flynn mustache was missing, and there was a large bluish lump on his receding chin. He wobbled to the client’s chair, collapsing onto it to teeter precariously there. Lockington recognized him—the Colt. 45 menace from Olenick’s parking lot, Sgt. Joe Delvano. Two men had followed Delvano into the office. The first was a hulking creature in a baggy brown suit. He had an expressionless simian face, the chest of a bull gorilla, and the hairy paws of a grizzly bear. His companion was a slender man attired in a lemon-hued sharkskin leisure suit, a forest green silk shirt, and oxblood alligator-skin loafers. He had the smoky eyes of a pissed-off king cobra, and his thin-lipped smile was devoid of humor. He said, “You’re Lacey Lockington?”
Lockington said, “Well, at the moment, that would depend on factors too numerous to mention.”
The shambles in the client’s chair mumbled, “Yeah, he’s Lockington.”
The man in the lemon-colored leisure suit said, “Hi, Lockington, I’m Vince Calabrese.”
Lockington said, “Vince, I’m hanging on your every word.”
Vince Calabrese said, “My friend, today you find yourself in the presence of the dumbest cocksucker God ever put on the face of this fucked-up planet!”
Lockington’s eyes flicked between the wreck in the client’s chair and the animal in the baggy brown suit. He said, “Which one?”
Calabrese said, “The one what got trouble walking straight.”
Lockington said, “Oh, him.”
Calabrese gestured vehemently. He said, “Get him outta here, Angelo, before I blow his fucking liver out!”
The monster in the brown suit reached for the casualty in the client’s chair, hauling him to standing position, pushing him in the direction of the exit, hastening his departure with a swift kick.
Calabrese had occupied the client’s chair, shaking his head. He said, “You give a fucking imbecile a job, and you get a fucking imbecilic performance—right?”
Lockington shrugged. “I dunno—I never gave a fucking imbecile a job.”
Calabrese said, “Dom told him, ‘See what you can find out about where Devereaux went when he sneaked outta that tavern on Monday might.’ Dom told him, ‘Check with this guy Lockington—maybe he can help you.’ That’s what Dom told him.”
Lockington didn’t say anything.
Calabrese went on. “So what does this jackoff do? He makes like some kind of fucking secret agent, that’s what he does! Instead of walking in here and asking you a couple straight-up questions, the sonofabitch gets on the fucking telephone and pretends he’s a fucking Chicago police sergeant, and when that don’t work, he goes around waving a fucking cannon like a fucking banana republic revolutionary! That’s bush league, Lockington—this ain’t fucking nineteen twenty-eight no more!”
Lockington said, “What’s on your mind, Vince?”
Calabrese said, “Well, so now you see what happens to assholes who take matters into their own hands! Can I use your telephone?”
“Local call, or Sicily?”
Calabrese reached for the phone, laughing. It was a shrill cackle, the midnight laugh of a foggy river loon, Lockington thought, but he’d never heard the midnight laugh of a foggy river loon, so it was probably a lousy metaphor. Calabrese had dialed a number. In a moment he whistled into the mouthpiece and hung up, winking at Lockington. He said, “Marvelous things, them fucking cellular phones—you can talk to a guy parked right outside the door.”
Within a minute the vestibule door had opened and a man with a cane had made his way down the stairs and into the office. He was a very old man, white-haired, dressed in a dark blue suit. His shirt collar was high and stiff, his blue-striped gray necktie was perfectly knotted, his highly polished black oxfords sparkled in the dimness of the office. Calabrese strode across the room to take the old fellow’s arm, escorting him to the client’s chair, seating him there. He said, “I’ll leave you gentlemen alone.” With that he went into the vestibule to stand ramrod-straight at the bottom of the stairs, like a sentry at a castle drawbridge. The old man extended a limp hand. He said, “Mr. Lockington, this is a distinct pleasure.”
Lockington shook hands with him, just a single pump. He said, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
The old man smiled wanly, placing his cane between his knees, cupping his hands over its crook, hunching to rest his chin on them, studying Lockington with inquisitive brown eyes. His face was gnomelike, wrinkled like a bas-relief map of Tibet. He said, “Spatafora, Mr. Lockington—Dominic Spatafora.”
Lockington nodded. This was the big fish, the Don, the honcho of Mafia Midwest, a man who could have your guts ripped out by twitching a finger. Spatafora was saying, “I regret that our first meeting has been prefaced by so ugly an incident.” His voice was harsh but he controlled its abrasiveness by speaking softly. “However, every organization has its misfits, its foul balls, if you will—I’m sure that you’re aware of that.”
Lockington spread his hands, acknowledging that every organization has its misfits, its foul balls.
Dominic Spatafora said, “Unfortunately, one of my—er, associates has waxed, shall we say, overly zealous?”
Lockington said, “Yes, I suppose we could say that.”
Spatafora slipped a pale hand into a coat pocket, bringing forth an envelope, placing it on the desk at Lockington’s elbow. He said, “Where there’s a wrong, there must be a right.” He tilted his cane to a forty-five-degree angle, leaning in Lockington’s direction. “Mr. Lockington, on Monday evening, an acquaintance of yours slipped through the back door of a tavern at the corners of Belmont and Kimball avenues. He came back shortly, but it’s likely that he returned with less than he left with. Do you follow me?”
Lockington said, “Not at all, Mr. Spatafora—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Spatafora’s smile was slow and genuine—the appreciative smile of a chess enthusiast for a britches move. He said, “Well, Mr. Lockington, so be it for this time, but in the event you should come upon information or material pertinent to this matter, I would appreciate a call. You would be handsomely rewarded, I assure you. You will find my card in the envelope.” He struggled to his feet, bowing stiffly, and Vince Calabrese left the vestibule, hustling to the old man’s side, and guiding him toward the door.
They went out and Lockington opened the envelope. He found a five-hundred-dollar bill folded around a simple black-on-white business card. He studied the card. STARCREST IMPORTS & EXPORTS. Lockington’s smile was sour. Imports translated to cocaine, exports to firearms, probably. There was no name on the card, just a telephone number.
He slipped the cash and the card into a pocket, considering the difference between appearances and realities. Dominic Spatafora had seemed a friendly and courteous fellow, a gentleman by the most demanding standards—there’d been an aura of grandfatherly kindness about him. Lockington lit a cigarette. That old sidewinder had sentenced more men to death than any ten judges in the country.