At 5:34 Natasha Gorky’s black Mercedes-Benz sedan purred through the late afternoon heat, pulling to a halt on the south side of Belmont Avenue, directly in front of Mike’s Tavern. Natasha squeezed Lockington’s arm. “Take care!”
Lockington nodded, getting out of the car, pausing briefly at Mike’s doorway to look westward. Four automobiles had stopped less than a quarter-block behind the Mercedes—a pair of black Ford Escorts, a white Cadillac, a green Pontiac Trans Am. The big parade, Lockington thought—strike up the band.
He entered Mike’s Tavern, glancing around, spotting Mike at the far end of the bar, pouring a glass of wine for an elderly man wearing a straw hat. At 5:35 Lockington took a stool near the door, availing himself of an unobstructed view of Belmont Avenue traffic. Mike Kazman sauntered over in Lockington’s direction, yawning. He said, “The cops told me that we was having one helluva fine time the other night.”
Lockington said, “It must be true—I heard the same thing.”
Kazman lowered his voice. “The TV weather guy said it was gonna hit ninety-five today, so first thing this morning I went down in the basement and turned on Nellie Carson’s heat. Let the old crocodile call the fucking police about that!”
Lockington nodded approvingly. He said, “Is your alley door unlocked?”
“Sure—hell, some of my best customers come from the alley, you know that. Why?”
“On account of I’m operating on a theory which says nobody will be expecting lightning to strike twice in the same place.”
At 5:39 a rattling old blue Pontiac Catalina approached, passing the window of Mike’s Tavern, headed east. Right on time. The Pontiac swung south on Kimball Avenue and Natasha Gorky’s Mercedes whipped away from the curb to follow it. One of the black Ford Escorts shot into view, closing fast to trail the Mercedes by no more than twenty feet. Lockington waved so-long to Mike Kazman, hustling through the rear door. Moose Katzenbach was waiting, the Pontiac parked in the beercar-cluttered single-lane alley, its motor running. Moose bailed out, leaving the door open. He said, “She’s full of ninety-two octane and your suitcase is on the backseat.” He stuffed a roll of currency into Lockington’s shirt pocket. He said, “Forty twenties.”
Lockington said, “Thanks.”
Natasha Gorky’s Mercedes had stopped in the alley close behind the Pontiac, the black Ford Escort had screeched to a tire-smoking halt behind the Mercedes, blocked. Lockington grinned at Natasha. Natasha blew Lockington a kiss. Lockington got into the Pontiac. A big man in a dark blue suit was clambering out of the Ford Escort, waving his arms frantically, shouting something at the top of his lungs. Lockington didn’t catch all of it, just the dirty-rotten-motherfucking-cunt-lapping-no-good-asshole-cocksucking-sonofabitch-bastard part. Moose said, “Luck, Lucey!”
Lockington nodded and pulled away, throwing gravel.
It’d been relatively easy.