Lockington drove east, finding a small pizza parlor near Steel Street, ordering a small cheese pizza, browsing through the Youngstown area telephone book while waiting to be served. He found no listing for a Patrick Moran and none for a Harry Steinfeldt. Two and a half hours later he pulled into the New Delhi Motel parking lot, weary to the bone. Moran’s address had turned out to be a vacant lot on the north side of Hubbard, Steinfeldt’s had been a whorehouse near the railroad tracks in one of Warren’s seamier districts.
In light of the fact that a night of activity lay ahead of him, he felt that a nap was in order, and he’d have taken one had not an oversexed young couple checked into Room 11. Following a prolonged period of oohings and ahhings there’d come a merciless barrage of thumpings and bumpings, crashings and smashings, highlighted by assorted moanings and groanings and ecstatic gnashings of teeth, and Lockington, sensibilities numbed, stumbled into the twilight to seek refuge in the backseat of his Pontiac where he caught forty winks, but no more than that. Now, at 12:30 A.M., he sat on a rusty fender, feet dangling, smoking a cigarette, studying an Ohio moon twice the size of a manhole cover, waiting for Pecos Peggy Smith or Natasha Gorky, whichever showed first.
It was Pecos Peggy Smith, if that was her name. She drove up in the tomato-red Porsche that belonged to somebody else, pushing its door open, waving him in, and they left the New Delhi parking lot to turn west on Mahoning Avenue. Lockington said, “How did tonight’s show go?”
She shrugged. “As well as most, I guess—I hit a clinker on ‘I Dreamed of an Old Love Affair’ but it was during the midnight set and I think they were too drunk to notice. We had a nice turnout—you should have dropped in.”
“I meant to do that, but I dozed off. Where are we going?”
“Southwest of Canfield, not far—fifteen minutes, usually.”
“Usually—you’ve been there before?”
“Many times.” She’d wheeled the Porsche from Mahoning Avenue north on Route 46.
Lockington said, “Would you believe that some sonofabitch busted into my hotel room and ransacked it?”
“Sure, I’d believe it. There’s been a wave of that—kids looking for something to sell so they can buy crack. What’d they steal?”
“There was nothing worth stealing—I travel light.”
The Porsche’s dashlights were casting an ethereal glow on her face. She was smiling. She said, “Then they didn’t get your red tuxedo.”
“Nor my blue suede combat boots.”
“There’s nothing frilly about Lacey Lockington—that was obvious from scratch.” The radio was tuned to a country music station and she reached to cut the volume to a murmer before she said, “Uhh-h-h, look—about last night—I was feeling homy—you know how it goes, I guess—sometimes we get urges.”
Lockington nodded. “I’ve had a few.”
“You see, Rufe spoke of you so often—you’ve become a legend, sort of. I’ve never gone to bed with a legend.”
“Legends are usually disappointing—in or out of bed.”
“So far, you’ve lived up to your advance billing—you’re exactly as he said you were. Taciturn, unassuming—I get the feeling that you’re dangerous. Danger excites me.”
Lockington said, “It excites me, too—you’re driving eighty-five miles an hour.”
She eased off on the accelerator. “Sorry! Anyway, I’d be grateful if you’d forget about last night—not that the offer doesn’t stand, but I’d rather you didn’t mention it tonight.”
“To whom?”
“To whomever.”
“Guaranteed.”
She slapped him on the knee, one of those affectionate, younger-woman-older-man, attaboy-Pops slaps. She said, “Thanks, Lacey.”
They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Lockington said, “Incidentally, what part of Mississippi do you hail from?”
“Do you know Mississippi—ever been there?”
“No, but I had an uncle who did some time at Camp Shelby just before the war. He liked the area.” She didn’t respond and Lockington went on. “He said that Camp Shelby was near Hattiesburg—he talked a lot about Hattiesburg. Is it a big town?”
“Hattiesburg? Oh, forty thousand, give or take.” She turned right, leaving the subject on Route 46. The sign at the junction had said Western Reserve Road. Peggy said, “We’re nearly there. I’ll drop you off and pick you up in a couple of hours—let’s make it two-thirty sharp.”
Lockington said, “Hold it! What the hell am I getting into?”
Her smile was back. “Lacey, you’ve wanted an explanation and you’ve deserved one. After tonight you can go back to Chicago and live happily until the cows come home.”
“No hurry. I like Youngstown.”
“So do I—it’s served its purpose.”
“There’s a cryptic remark if I’ve ever heard one.”
“No, not cryptic—just slightly veiled.”
Western Reserve Road was heavily wooded on both sides. They’d passed residences set back in clearings, but they’d been few and Lockington was beginning to experience an unfamiliar isolated feeling—he’d nearly forgotten that there were places where a man could watch cloud formations, smell clover, hear songbirds. Peggy turned left, pulling into a long blacktopped driveway, rolling to within a few feet of a long, low ranch house.
Lockington said, “What happens now—does a sorcerer appear?”
Peggy said, “Damned right! Just ring the bell!”
Lockington got out and she dropped the Porsche into reverse to back from the drive and head east on Western Reserve Road with a short beep of the horn. He stood for a moment, staring upward, awed by a limitless star-spangled sky, stunned by Mahoning Valley silence. He shook free of the spell, stepping onto the carpeted stoop of the dwelling, locating the doorbell button, pressing it, listening to muffled chimes from within the house. The door swung open immediately. A man stood in the door-way, silhouetted against the dim glow of a table lamp, waving him in. Lockington opened the storm door, entering, extending his hand.
He said, “Hello, Rufe.”