He verified his directions when he paid his Ohio Turnpike fare at Exit 15. He picked up Route 11 South, departing it at the Mahoning Avenue turnoff, finding that he was in Austintown, three miles west of the Youngstown city limits. It was five minutes after three o’clock in the morning, there wasn’t a lighted beer sign in sight, so he checked into a dilapidated motel operated by a sly-eyed, silent Indian who’d probably bought the place with profits from practicing thuggee, Lockington figured. The man appeared clad in a nightgown, he took Lockington’s money, handed him a key, and vanished like a wraith. Lockington entered his damp, dingy room, opened his suitcase, found a bottle of Martell’s cognac wrapped in socks and shorts, toasted Edna Garson’s thoughtfulness with a hefty belt of the stuff, and rolled into bed.
He’d slept dreamlessly until 11:30, awakening to cloudless blue skies and silence. Excluding his military time, Lockington had spent every day of his life in the Chicago area. Silence was strange to him, and he sat on the edge of his bed, listening, fearful that he’d gone deaf during the night. He showered, shaved, and left his room to behold the green splendor of the Mahoning Valley. The New Delhi Motel was a twelve-room, L-shaped affair, eight units running parallel to Mahoning Avenue, four branching to the north, all lopsided and badly in need of paint, but the place was half-ringed by dense forest to its south—a compensating factor, in Lockington’s opinion. In Chicago trees were scarce, most likely to be found in Grant Park where a man could get mugged at high noon during a police convention, probably by a policeman.
He paid another day’s room rent, tangled with an order of sausage, eggs and hash browns at a next-door restaurant, and drove east into Youngstown, Ohio. It was time to get the lay of the land, a relatively simple task, he knew—it’d amount to no more than locating the right bartender. He wouldn’t be found in a first-class drinking establishment—the right bartender would be working the bar of a crummy blue-collar joint, the kind with a sagging beer sign, a cracked plate-glass window, a filthy men’s room with an empty towel dispenser. There’d be a busted electronic dart game in a corner, an out-of-order jukebox, a 1977 naked-cutie calendar on a wall, an ancient cash register that sounded like a head-on steam locomotive collision, a drunk sleeping in a booth, and a red-nosed, half-crocked woman at the bar.
Lockington tooled the Pontiac slowly along Mahoning Avenue, passing taverns, sorting them out. When he came to the Flamingo Lounge, he hit the brakes. Both plate-glass windows were cracked and that was good enough for Lockington. He drove to the rear of the ramshackle building, parking in a graveled lot strewn with bricks and shards of glass. He went in through the rear door to find himself in a bistro that met all of his requirements save one—there was no drunk sleeping in a booth. There were, however, two red-nosed women at the bar, sloshing down spigot beer. Lockington pulled up short, seating himself as far as possible from the pair, but one of them, a toothless redhead, said, “Hi, dearie!”
Lockington nodded to her, an ill-advised move, because her sidekick, a menacing-looking creature whose upper lip sported more hair than Lockington’s chest, took matters a step further. She said, “Say, honey—you buying or being?”
Lockington said, “I’ll need time to consider the question.”
The redhead turned to the hairy one. “He ain’t gonna buy, he’s gonna be!”
The bartender walked in Lockington’s direction, winking, grinning. Under his breath he said, “The Sugar sisters—just ignore ’em.”
Lockington mumbled, “Is that possible?”
The bartender shrugged. “Probably not.” He put out his hand and they shook. He said, “I’m John Sebulsky.” Lockington looked him over. This was the right bartender, no doubt about it—mid-thirties, alert dark eyes, obviously intelligent. He’d know exactly where the possum pooped in the petunia patch. Lockington said, “Howdy, John, I’m Lacey Lockington—can you scare me up a double Martell’s?”
Sebulsky grabbed a bottle and poured. He said, “That’ll be two dollars, Lacey.”
Lockington paid him. He said, “Bargain day—it’d be four in Chicago.”
Sebulsky said, “Hey, for four you can take an eight-year lease on the joint.”
Lockington said, “Uhh-h-h—do the Sugar sisters go with it?”
Sebulsky said, “Sure thing—we aim to please!”
The redheaded Sugar sister had lost her balance on her barstool, listing precariously to starboard, then to port, then teetering backwards, clutching desperately at the hairy one for support. They went over together in a wildly flailing flurry of arms and legs. The crash was awesome. John Sebulsky was yawning. He said, “You from Chicago, Lacey?”
Lockington nodded. “Yeah. Would you believe I used to brag about that?”
Sebulsky said, “No good anymore?”
Lockington said, “Shot in the ass, but it used to be the greatest.”
Sebulsky said, “The whole damned country’s going to hell.”
The Sugar sisters were thrashing about, trying to get up. The redhead was saying, “For Christ’s sake get offa me, I gotta pee!”
The hairy one said, “How can I get offa you? You’re on top!”
Sebulsky sighed a weary sigh. He said, “Y’know, I blew a golden opportunity to take this job. I coulda been number-one towel boy in a Pittsburgh whorehouse. He spread his hands resignedly. “Too late now.”
Lockington said, “Sure is—one of the Sugar sisters just pissed on the floor.”
Sebulsky didn’t turn his head. He stared fixedly at nothing. He said, “Which one?”
Lockington said, “Hard to tell. Does it make a difference?”
Sebulsky was squinting, thinking about it. After quite a long time he didn’t say anything at all.
There was a touch of the philosopher about John Sebulsky, Lockington thought.