The sugar sisters had stormed from the premises in a righteous huff, vowing to return with a battery of attorneys, and but for John Sebulsky and Lacey Lockington, the Flamingo Lounge was devoid of human presence. They talked. Sebulsky had been Youngstown-born-and-raised, he knew the territory and its history. What he didn’t know, he could damn sure find out, he said. It hadn’t been a smart-aleck statement—he had a brother in the real estate business, a cousin who was with the Mahoning County police, an uncle who was a surgeon, serving on the staff of St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, and, as a bartender, Sebulsky had become acquainted with hoodlums, bookies, drug pushers, prostitutes and pimps—what did Lockington want to know about the Youngstown area? Well, nothing that came readily to mind, Lockington told him, but he might have a couple of questions later—he figured to be in town for a few days. Sebulsky nodded, giving him a long penetrating look. Lockington knew that look—it said that John Sebulsky was trying to figure him. What was a man from Chicago doing in Youngstown, Ohio? The reaction was natural—a stranger rides into Gopher Gulch, mentions Dodge City, and the natives get inquisitive.
Youngstown was hurting, Sebulsky said. It was called the Rust Belt now—wags had gone so far as to put up white crosses here and there—Rust in Peace. He told Lockington of the steel industry collapse some ten years earlier when fifteen thousand good-paying Youngstown jobs had gone down the drain virtually overnight. He tried to put that into perspective for Lockington—what if the Chicago area lost a million jobs in the same span of time? There’d be hell to pay, wouldn’t there? Lockington said, well, there’d be concern, of course, but the effects probably wouldn’t be quite so pronounced because there was always hell to pay in Chicago over one damned thing or another, and if there wasn’t hell to pay over something, people became alarmed.
The conversation drifted to the young baseball season, leading to agreement that the Cleveland Indians were going nowhere, and so were the Chicago Cubs. Then Lockington inquired about the Club Crossroads. He’d heard mention of it, he said—what sort of place was it?
Sebulsky said, “I know the bookkeeper at the Crossroads. It’s a country music dive—big frame building, south side of Mahoning Avenue, something like four miles west in Austintown. Used to be a cattle barn—some out-of-town guy bought it a little over a year ago. He put it back on the tracks. It’s a good place to get your teeth kicked out.”
Lockington said, “Rough?”
Sebulsky nodded. “The thing is, they get the country music types out there—none of ’em ever been south of Columbus, but they wear the Stetson hats and the neckerchiefs and the fancy western shirts and the tight jeans and the cowboy boots, and when they get a few beers in ’em, they think they’re in fucking El Paso and they kick the shit out of each other.”
“Why?”
“Hell, they don’t need a reason at the Crossroads—it’s just the thing to do.”
“Who owns the joint?”
“Guy named Jack Taylor—nobody knows much about him, Ace says.”
“Ace?”
“Ace Loftus—the bookkeeper at the Crossroads. He comes in now and then. You figure on going out there?”
Lockington shrugged. “Depends on the entertainment. How is it?”
“Pretty good, if you’re into country. They don’t do that new crossover crap that’s floating around—the music is kosher.” Sebulsky rolled his dark eyes. “They got a canary that’ll blow your drawers off!”
“Worth a listen?”
“Yeah—Pecos Peggy. She got her own band, the Barnburners—piano, dobro, lead guitar, rhythm guitar, drums.”
“Where they from?”
“I dunno—deep South somewhere, I’d say, after hearing ’em talk. Peggy’s straight—sings country like it should be sung. She’s been at the Crossroads ever since Jack Taylor took over—she draws a crowd.”
“Good-looker?”
“Hey, you know it! Every stud who comes in wants to get her on her back, but she dazzles ’em with footwork—far as I know, she ain’t been scored on.”
“Ought to be a good night tonight.”
“Sure—Saturday night of a holiday weekend, I figure twenty, maybe thirty fights!”
Lockington frowned. “Jesus, I wonder if it’s worth the risk.”
“Take a table—most of the trouble’s at the bar.”
“Tell me more about Pecos Peggy.”
Sebulsky said, “She’s a full eclipse—a real class item! She got the bluest eyes in this whole fucking solar system!”
Lockington nodded, motioning for a refill. Here he was in a major league stud poker game, the blue chips were down, and he’d just caught a deuce in the hole. Not bad. Deuces were wild, dealer’s choice, and Lockington was dealing, he kept telling himself.