Sunday’s early afternoon sky was sapphire, cloudless but for a few tiny white puffs scudding high along a soft breeze out of the west. John Sebulsky sat on a teetery wooden stool behind the battered bar of the Flamingo Lounge, his jaded vacant stare returning to focus with Lockington’s arrival. Sebulsky said, “Hello, Lacey—you just missed it.”
Lockington said, “I’m glad. What did I just miss?”
“The Sugar sisters kicked the living shit out of Burt Soltis.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t buy them a drink.”
“Who’s Burt Soltis?”
“Burt used to be middle linebacker for the Steelers.”
“Soltis—he was all-league few years ago?”
“Yep.”
“Where are the Sugar sisters now?”
“Down at Bailey’s Bar, I think. I heard sirens in that area half an hour ago.”
“Where’s Soltis now?”
“Southside Hospital—that redhead got a lethal left hook.”
Lockington squeezed onto a barstool and Sebulsky said, “Martell’s?”
Lockington nodded. He appreciated bartenders who remembered. He said, “Have one with me.”
Sebulsky nodded, pouring the Martell’s and popping the top on a bottle of Michelob Dry. He said, “Thanks.”
Lockington said, “I went out to the Club Crossroads last night. Interesting joint.”
“See Pecos Peggy?”
“Sure did.”
“Whaddaya think?”
Lockington whistled.
Sebulsky said, “Damned wonder she ain’t been discovered.”
Lockington said, “Getting discovered is one-quarter luck, three-quarters fuck. What’s her last name?”
Sebulsky frowned. “Don’t believe I’ve ever heard it. Why?”
Lockington shrugged. “In case she makes it big, I’ll be able to say I saw her before she got there. Like I saw Belinda Darkhorse back in ’eighty-two at some carnival.”
“Belinda Darkhorse?”
“Yeah—she juggled half a dozen grapefruits and took off her clothes at the same time. Belinda ain’t got there yet.”
Sebulsky didn’t say anything for a while. He sat on the edge of the wooden stool, hunched forward, peering through the open door, watching Mahoning Avenue traffic and the afternoon roll by. Then he said, “Y’know, I’ve been thinking about you. You’re some kind of Chicago cop, ain’t you?”
Lockington shook his head. “Nothing official—just another private investigator. I’m looking into an insurance matter.”
“Uh-huh. How come the interest in Pecos Peggy?”
“Inheritance thing, maybe—no point in getting people all shook up until identities are established.”
“She’s in line for money?”
“Possibly, if her name’s Gagliano.”
“Gagliano doesn’t ring a bell. A bundle?”
“If eighty grand’s a bundle.”
“In Youngstown, eighty grand’s a bundle.”
“Didn’t you say something about knowing a bookkeeper at the Crossroads?”
“Ace Loftus—I went to high school with Ace.”
“Could you ask him how Pecos Peggy signs her paychecks? It’d help.”
“I already know the answer to that one. There ain’t no checks—it’s cash only. He got no idea how much she gets—guess that’s been worked out with the owner.”
“Out-of-town man, you said—Jack Taylor?”
“Yeah—you got a good memory.”
Lockington said, “The IRS takes a dim view of those cash-only transactions.”
Sebulsky grinned. “What the IRS doesn’t know about cash-only deals would make one helluva big book.”
“Okay, the check angle’s out. Pecos Peggy drives an ’eighty-eight red Porsche—Ohio plates nine-eight-oh PRK. Her name’ll be on the title registration. You said that you have a cousin with the county cops.”
Sebulsky snapped his fingers. “Damn right—he could run it through as a check on an abandoned vehicle!”
“It’s worth fifty.”
“I think I could have that in an hour or so. Anything else?”
“How do I find out who owns the property at Five fifty-one North Dunlap Avenue?”
“Is it worth fifty?”
“Right.”
“Well, like I told you, my brother’s into real estate—it’s a holiday, but he’s a beaver, he knows all the wrinkles. I’ll give him a jingle. You talking cash on the barrelhead?”
“Yep. There’s one other thing—you know anybody who speaks Russian?”
“Hell, yes—my grandfather. He was born in Russia—Sebulsky’s a Russian name. What’s the problem?”
“There’s a word I want to get translated.”
“That might be tough—Russian got a bunch of languages and dialects. What’s the word?”
“Slahduhk—I can’t spell it, but that’s the way it sounds—slahduhk.”
Sebulsky chuckled. “Slahduhk? I’ve heard it all my life! Slahduhk means sweet.”
Lockington said, “I’ll be back in an hour.” He left a twenty on the bar. Cooperation in a strange town is hard to come by. There was bounce in his step when he headed for the door. The Sugar sisters were coming in. The redhead said, “Hello, there, you living doll!”
Lockington said, “Hi, gorgeous!” He returned to the bar with a five-dollar bill. He said, “John, give these lovely young things a drink, please.” Then he said, “Helen, thy beauty is to me like those Nicean barks of yore!”
The hairy one said, “Helen my ass—I’m Alice, she’s Leona!”
Lockington’s voice was mellifluous. His hands were clasped to his chest. He said, “They walk in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies!”
The redhead groaned, “Oh, my God, whaddaya want? Take me, TAKE me!”
The hairy one said, “Jeez, ain’t it a pleasure to meet a real, genuine, honest-to-God gentleman?”
The redhead said, “You’re fucking A!”