A man may mute his words and tether his actions but his mind remains free to do as it pleases. Lockington had withdrawn his physical capabilities from the Devereaux affair, but his thoughts swarmed to it like bees to a clover patch. The mysterious attaché case constituted the eye of this particular hurricane. He ticked off the sequence of events as he’d understood them—Rufe Devereaux renting a high-performance automobile at O’Hare, barreling down the Kennedy Expressway, peeling off at the Kimball Avenue exit to enter Mike’s Tavern with his female companion, leaving the lady at Mike’s, scooting through the rear door to a waiting taxi, coming back better than two hours later with the attaché case, obviously, because it’d been in his possession when he’d reached the International Arms. Old Dominic Spatafora had seemed convinced that the contents of the attaché case had been disposed of during Devereaux’s brief absence. Beyond that, Spatafora was harboring a notion that Lockington had been the recipient thereof, a theory apparently shared by just about everybody.
There was a woman to be accounted for—a lovely, dark-haired, blue-eyed young thing. Where the hell did she figure—had Rufe known her in Ohio, had he met her during the Cleveland-to-Chicago flight, had she been an O’Hare field hustler, one of those five-hundred-dollar overnight conveniences—what was her role? Rufe had never been particular as to where and how he’d gotten his women. If the big Cajun had owned an Achilles heel, it’d worn sheer black lingerie. Such were the meanderings of Lockington’s mind when Moose Katzenbach came in to plunk a large white styrofoam cup on the desk top. He said, “Coffee, sahib.”
Lockington scowled. He said, “Sahib ain’t bad, but in the future you will address me as Your Omnipotence.”
Moose said, “Say, I’m feeling better! You still in the market for ‘Rose of Washington Square?’”
Lockington said, “That urge has flown.”
Moose seated himself, crossing his legs, lighting a cigarette. “That’s good—I forgot the fucking words anyway.”
Lockington took a noisy slurp of his coffee. He said, “My God, this is awful stuff! The Greek joint across the street?”
Moose said, “Yes, Your Omnipotence.”
They drifted into a comfortable silence, a sense of normalcy pervading the little office—no place to go, and nothing to do when they got there. Disinvolvement brought a feeling of tranquility, Lockington thought, wondering if there was such a word as disinvolvement, deciding that there probably wasn’t, but that there ought to be.
The telephone was ringing. Lockington reached lethargically for it. Edna Garson said, “What time you gonna get home this evening?”
Lockington said, “Same time as usual—when I get there.”
Edna said, “Okay.” She hung up.
Normalcy indeed.