He drove a mile or so south on Raccoon Road before locating a cozy little restaurant—Giamotti’s, typically Italian. Red lamps, red tablecloths, red carpeting, travel posters on the walls—Venice, Rome, Naples, Genoa. He ordered a bottle of beer and a small antipasto. The beer was the way Lockington liked it, bitter cold, and the antipasto was excellent. He lit a cigarette, found a pay telephone, and rang the number of Natasha Gorky’s fifth-floor lady friend. Natasha answered on the first ring. “Lacey?”
“Yep.”
“You’re in Youngstown?”
“Yep.”
“Are you all right?”
“By the skin of my teeth.”
“What do you mean?” There was concern in her voice.
“I’ll explain later. How about you?”
“So far, so good. I haven’t seen the Mafia man in the green Trans Am since yesterday afternoon, but the CIA fellow is tagging along. I can lose him when I want to.”
“The green Trans Am is in Ohio—the Mafia eliminated Billy Mac Davis early this morning.”
“He’s dead?”
“Just a bit.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. We’ll talk about it when you get here.”
“When should I come?”
“Tomorrow, if possible.”
“All right, I’ll get clearance at the embassy in the morning. Where are you staying?”
“Room Twelve, New Delhi Motel, Mahoning Avenue, Austintown—Austintown’s the first suburb west of Youngstown.” He gave her directions. “What about the house on Onines Avenue?”
“It’s owned by a James Slagle. Apparently he’s a traveling man—he’s never at home and the neighbors know nothing about him.”
“How did you get this?”
“I sent a man out there this morning—an insurance salesman, ostensibly. Have you been to the place you mentioned—the Club Crossroads?”
“I’ll make it later this evening. Who’s the honcho at the Chicago CIA office?”
“Do you want to contact him?”
“Not yet—he’s just a kicker.”
“His name’s Carruthers—Stanley Carruthers. He’s a graduate of Cornell University, he played basketball there—he’s six-three, he weighs one-eighty, he lives in Wilmette, he’s thirty-six, brown-eyed, balding, he has a habit of tugging at his left ear, he wears tinted spectacles, he’s Missouri Synod Lutheran, he has two children, twelve and ten, Harry and Estelle, Estelle wears braces. Carruthers is a good family man, he doesn’t smoke, drink, or gamble—he drives an ’eighty-eight white Toyota Camry, Illinois license plates TK two-nine-seven-eight.”
“And you’ve been in bed with him.”
“Just once.”
Lockington said, “Oh, my God.”
“Lacey, it’s my job—can’t you understand that?”
“Well, I gotta say one thing—you’re certainly a frank bitch!”
“Why are you shouting—where are you?”
“In a restaurant—who’s shouting?”
“You’re shouting. Are you angry?”
“No, I’m in a state of fucking euphoria!”
Natasha Gorky’s silvery laugh tumbled over the line. She said, “You’re slahduhk!”
Lockington snarled, “If that means stupid, I know it!” He slammed the telephone onto its hook, turning to go back to his table. He stopped, reversed course, and called again, dropping several quarters in the process.
Natasha answered immediately. Lockington roared, “And what’s more, you be mighty goddamned careful coming through Indiana—they got a whole bunch of road repair work going on there!”
He hung up. From a corner table an elderly white-haired lady was staring apprehensively at him. This baffled Lockington. At her age she must have seen hundreds of broken-down private detectives who’d just fallen ass-over-tea-kettles in love with beautiful young KGB agents.