The Judson Cafeteria’s Friday special had been fried perch, but Moose Katzenbach had gone with the salisbury steak and mushroom gravy, which had been excellent, he said, adding that Information Brown hadn’t been at his newsstand.
If Information Brown wasn’t at his newsstand, then it followed as must the night the day that he’d be at the Squirrel’s Cage. Lockington put on his hat and walked over there. Information Brown was nowhere in sight. Lockington took a seat at the bar, ordered a double Martell’s cognac, and asked about Information Brown. He’d just returned to the newsstand, Avalanche MacPherson said, but he’d be back within the hour, because Information Brown had never been known to go longer than an hour without a drink.
Lockington nodded, watching a woman slip onto the barstool next to his. She was one helluva woman—she was pert-breasted, slender-waisted, slim-hipped, she had glossy auburn hair done in a neat pixie style, she had large pale-blue eyes, a perfect, slightly uptilted nose, a full-lipped gentle mouth, and a firm jawline. Her complexion was without blemish and Lockington detected no signs of makeup. Her short, simple dark brown dress was form-fitting, her beige suede pumps and matching handbag were quality merchandise, her perfume was bewitchingly vague, her smile was sudden and appealingly off-center. Her gaze was unflinching but not brazen. She was beyond doubt the most beautiful female Lacey Lockington had ever laid eyes on. She said, “Good afternoon.” Her voice was soft, throaty.
Lockington gave her a perplexed smile, watching her put a tiny Colibri lighter to a cigarette. She ordered a shot of Smirnoff’s vodka, drinking it without benefit of a wash, raising her hand for another before returning her attention to Lockington. She said, “I know who you are.”
Lockington said, “So do I.”
“You’re Mr. Lockington.”
“By golly, you’re right.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Lockington—I’m Natasha Gorky, and we’re going to get along just fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Natasha Gorky said, “You’re a private investigator.”
Lockington nodded. “Now and then.”
“I’m a linguist at Chicago’s Polish consulate—seven languages. Eight, if you count American, which bears no resemblance to the British tongue.”
“Gorky isn’t Polish.”
“I didn’t say it was Polish.”
“That’s right, you didn’t.”
“It’s Russian, of course.”
“And there’s a gun in your handbag.”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it—a Mikoyan snubnosed thirty-two—ten-round clip, German-designed, Soviet manufactured, deadly accurate.”
“And with your Mikoyan snub-nosed thirty-two, you can shoot the eyes out of a potato at seventy-five yards.”
“No, but I’ll take a bet on fifty.” A chillingly matter-of-fact response, Lockington thought. She sucked on her cigarette, smoke drifting from slightly flared nostrils, appraising him for a few moments. Then she said, “Correct me if I’m in error, but I believe that you are interested in a matter that concerns me greatly—namely the death of Rufus Devereaux.”
She wasn’t in error so Lockington didn’t correct her. He said, “You’re KGB?”
“Yes, Mr. Lockington, I’m KGB. Can we talk?”
“About what?”
“Devereaux—what else?”
“There’s nobody stopping us.”
“Privately, and at length, please.”
“It’s important?”
“Terribly—to your country and to mine. For a change, our respective governments are trying to skin the same cat.”
“You’ll have to explain that.”
“I will, and in detail, if you’ll grant me the opportunity.”
Lockington thought it over, but not for long. He said, “All right, Ms. Gorky, my office is across the street, three-quarters of a block west.”
“I know the location of your office. My apartment is less than ten minutes from here.”
Lockington shrugged assent. There was a genuine urgency about her—she was letting it all hang out. They finished their drinks, leaving the Squirrel’s Cage to dodge traffic crossing West Randolph Street. She opened the door of a black Mercedes sedan, popping lightly into the car, her short brown skirt flashing briefly to her upper thighs. She smoothed it demurely into place. She had wonderful legs, Lockington just happened to notice. He went around the back of the Mercedes to pile in beside her. She pulled away from the curb, flicking a glance into her rearview mirror, her face expressionless. She said, “You’re being followed—I assume that you’re aware of that.”
Lockington said, “I rarely pay attention unless I’m running heroin.” He wondered what the hell he was doing riding around in a Mercedes-Benz automobile with a woman from Russia, instead of waiting at the Squirrel’s Cage for Information Brown. Actually, he shouldn’t have been doing either—he’d pulled out of the Devereaux business, hadn’t he? Sure, he had—the way old ball players pull out of baseball. It was worth a shot—she might light a candle.
Natasha Gorky was wheeling through Loop traffic with calm self-assurance and Lockington appreciated that. Most female drivers spooked him. She was saying, “There’ll be three automobiles behind us now—a black Ford Escort driven by a CIA operative, a green Pontiac Trans Am driven by a Mafia employee, and a white Cadillac driven by an elderly overweight man with crazy eyes and silver hair.”
Lockington didn’t respond and she continued. “The CIA fellow’s name is Hargan—Hargan is competent enough. The Mafia man’s name is Mercurio—he’s a heavy-handed dolt, slow-witted. The man with silver hair frightens me.”
Lockington said, “Billy Mac Davis?” It was a shot in the dark, but Davis was in Chicago, Lockington had seen him behind the wheel of a white Cadillac, and a man answering Davis’s description had barged into Mike’s Tavern to ask questions—a man driving a white Cadillac.
Natasha Gorky was nodding. “Then you do know. This Davis man—he’s been an evangelist, then a politician, and he’s always been a zealot. That’s a toxic mixture—Davis is frustrated, treacherous, utterly ruthless.”
Lockington turned slowly on the seat of the Mercedes, peering at Natasha Gorky. He said, “Now, look, isn’t this just a bit out of the ordinary—a KGB agent walking out of the closet, identifying herself, laying it on the line to a man she doesn’t know from Genghis Khan? It would seem to be carrying detente to an extreme—or does this come under the heading of glasnost?”
She shook her heard impatiently. “It’s neither—put it down as common sense. Incidentally, KGB doesn’t necessarily translate to an unshaven Bolshevik brandishing a lighted stick of dynamite—that’s a nineteen twenties’ stereotype and you Americans dredge it up every time you become alarmed. Also, I know you from Genghis Khan—I know a great deal about you. For example, I know that you don’t believe there’s a LAON.”
“Do you?”
“Most assuredly—it’s a red-baiting underground version of your infamous Ku Klux Klan. More about you, Mr. Lockington. You’re clever, you manipulate with remarkable expertise.”
Lockington frowned. “Manipulate? I don’t know that I like the word.”
“Manipulate…arrange—whatever. I refer to events of late last summer—the Denny-Elwood affair in which justice was served without trial, without error, and without mercy. What was your term for it?”
“I didn’t have one. I still don’t. Any other observations?”
“Yes. Your tenor isn’t bad, but you should brush up on ‘I Get the Blues When It Rains.’”