60

The Sugar Sisters were sprawled unconscious in the corner booth of the Flamingo Lounge, the hairy one snoring, the redhead drooling in her sleep. John Sebulsky shook his head. He said, “Y’know, I’ve been working here for going on five years—they come in two, three times every day, and they’ve been soused to the scuppers every goddamned time I’ve seen ’em. I think they were plastered when Washington crossed the fucking Delaware!”

Lockington threw a wary glance into the booth. He said, “Yeah, and they probably pissed in it.”

“They sleep for an hour and they get up and start all over again—it’s some kind of perpetual motion!”

Lockington said, “You dig up anything?”

Sebulsky shrugged, dipping into a shirt pocket to produce a folded white slip of paper. He said, “Well, yes and no—probably mostly no.”

Lockington tossed five twenties onto the bar. “Whadda we got?”

Sebulsky studied the paper, frowning. “That Porsche don’t belong to Pecos Peggy—it was bought a couple weeks ago at European Motors out in Trumbull County by a guy named Patrick Moran. The property at Five fifty-one North Dunlap was purchased March before last through Cosmos Realty in Boardman. A man by the name of Harry Steinfeldt took it. Moran lives in Hubbard, Ohio—Steinfeldt’s from Warren. Both deals were cash—no credit checks, no red tape.”

“You get their addresses?”

Sebulsky said, “Yeah, they’re on here.” He pushed the paper to Lockington. Lockington folded it and stuffed it into his wallet. Sebulsky said, “Does that tell you anything?”

Lockington said, “Not yet, and I still don’t have Pecos Peggy’s last name.”

“I gave you a little extra effort—I called Ace Loftus at the Crossroads half an hour ago. He doesn’t know her last name. He says that she uses Smith with customers but he thinks that’s a throwaway. He’s not even sure of her first name, but he came up with one thing. He thinks that she’s from some place called Petal—during rehearsals he’s heard the guys in her band rib her about it. You know how that goes—if you’re from Houston, you needle the guy from South Bend, and if you’re from South Bend you pour it to the guy from Murphysburg.”

Lockington nodded. Sebulsky poured a double hooker of Martell’s, opened a bottle of Michelob Dry, picked up Lockington’s five twenties, and said, “Call it square. Maybe next time.”

Lockington shrugged. He said, “Maybe this time. Where can I get hold of a road atlas?”

Sebulsky said, “I got one in my car, but it’s a couple years old.”

“Mississippi’s in it?”

“I dunno—I’ll get it and you can find out.” He ducked through the rear door, returning in a matter of moments with the atlas. He placed it on the bar. “It’s a mess—it was in the trunk.”

Lockington picked it up. It’d been issued by the All State Motor Club, its cover was torn, a streak of rust had nearly obliterated Michigan, but Mississippi was in tolerable condition and Pecos Peggy Smith was originally from Mississippi, or so she’d told him.

He lit a cigarette and ran a forefinger down the list of Mississippi towns that had names beginning with the letter P—Pachuto, Panther Bum, Parchman, Pascagoula, Pass Christian, Pearl, Pelahatchie, Percy, Petal—Petal, by God! Petal, Mississippi, population 8,476, was on Route 42 and it was located some three or four miles east of Hattiesburg—southern part of the state, down toward the Gulf of Mexico. All right, so there was a town named Petal in southern Mississippi—what about it? Lockington wasn’t sure what about it—it’d been a flicker, flare, and fizzle thing.

John Sebulsky was staring into the corner booth, gripping the edge of the bar with white-knuckled hands. Lockington followed his gaze.

The Sugar sisters were stirring.