The morning had ground into early afternoon with all the speed of a glacier. The phone had been silent, nothing of consequence had happened, and this was just fine with Lockington—it was too damned hot for telephones and happenings of consequence. He’d have closed shop and gone to the ball game but the Cubs and Sox were playing an exhibition thing, and exhibition stuff held no appeal for Lockington. Like all-star games, playoffs, and the World Series, they proved absolutely nothing. Lockington liked regular season play when pitching wore thin and injuries piled up and slumps came and went, that was baseball, that was when they separated the men from the boys.
Moose had gone out for hamburgers and he stood in the vestibule, chewing thoughtfully on his fourth, staring into West Randolph Street. Lockington was polishing off his second burger at the desk, mopping sweat with a blue bandanna. In the unseasonable heat time was without meaning. He dug the Yellow Pages out of a desk drawer. He leafed through it briefly before calling Apex Heating and Cooling on West Madison Street. A gruff voice answered. Lockington said, “I’m looking for an estimate on an air-conditioning job.”
“Where you located?”
“West Randolph between State and LaSalle.”
“What floor?”
“It makes a difference what floor?”
“Sure it makes a difference what floor. If it didn’t make a difference what floor, why would I be asking you what floor?”
“Basement.”
“Maybe you’ll need a window unit.”
“We don’t got no windows.”
“No problem. We’ll just knock a hole in your wall.”
“You’ll just knock a hole in my wall? You just knock a hole in my wall and my landlord will blow your ass clear to fucking Brazil!”
“You serious?”
“Damn right, I’m serious. He’s a gun dealer.”
The line went dead. Lockington called back. He said, “You got fans.”
“What kind of fans?”
“Big fans.”
“Hey, we got a fan that’ll blow the balls off a buzzard. Cost you two eighty-six with tax.”
“Okay, I’ll send a guy over.” Lockington hung up, gesturing Moose into the office. He said, “Go over to Apex at Four-oh-eight West Madison and buy a fan.”
“How big?”
“They’ll have one waiting. They say it’ll blow the—it’s a big one, Moose.”
“Okay. Hey, Lacey, I just saw a real jim-dandy fistfight!”
“Where?”
“Right outside the door.”
“There’ll be a lot of those today—it’s the heat.”
“It was over a parking space—Slats Mercurio and some fat white-haired character.”
“Slats Mercurio?”
“Second-rate syndicate hood.”
“Mercurio—he got a scar on his cheek?”
“Yeah. You know Slats?”
“I arrested him a couple times.”
“Hey, for a fat man with a Jesus Saves bumper sticker, that old guy could really wing it! He decked Mercurio twice.”
“Who got the parking space?”
“A little red-headed broad with a black Mercedes.”
Lockington yawned, placing money on the desk top. He said, “Go get the fan.”