They stood in the half-light of the living room, shaking hands, grinning, Devereaux squinting at Lockington. He said, “Lacey, are you gonna stand there and tell me that you ain’t surprised?”
Lockington shook his head. “Not like I would have been five days ago.”
“Why not?”
Lockington shrugged. “It’s been dawning on me that there’s one helluva lotta attention being paid to a dead man. By the way, thanks for the thousand dollars.”
“Expense account money—don’t mention it.” Devereaux was locking the door, taking Lockington by the elbow to guide him into the kitchen. It was a pleasant room with a huge braided rug and an old-fashioned ceiling fan and a wood-framed clock on the wall. It had a small maple table and captain’s chairs. The table held a red-shaded brass lamp, an oblong ceramic ashtray, a pair of martini glasses, a bottle of Shady Valley peppermint schnapps, and a fifth of Martell’s cognac. Devereaux said, “There just ain’t no place like a cozy kitchen for down-to-earth drinking.”
They sat at the table, staring at each other, trying to bridge the dusty gap between their old days and their moment at hand. Rufe had lost weight—some fifteen pounds, Lockington figured—and his hairline had receded a trifle but he was pretty much the same old Devereaux, a twinkle in his hard eyes, his hand steady as Gibraltar when he poured schnapps and cognac. Lockington said, “You on some kind of diet?”
Devereaux grinned. “Yeah, all the pussy I can eat.”
Lockington said, “All right, Rufe, what the hell’s happening? What am I doing here—what’s the problem?”
Devereaux was smiling. He said, “Lacey, the Agency pulled a swifty—it buried an empty box. Nothing original about that, you understand, it’s an old gimmick, it’s been worked a half-dozen times with people the Agency was trying to protect. In my case it was different—I was being isolated from other elements that wanted me.”
“Why?”
“Because the Agency wanted me for itself.”
“Again, why?”
“We’ll get to that shortly.”
“Shortly, shmortly! When I headed for Youngstown, a guy named Billy Mac Davis tried to blow me away on Interstate Eighty! You’ll remember Billy Mac Davis.”
“Yeah, the loony who wanted to be president. He’s the founder of an outfit called LAON—Law and Order Now—a spooky bunch of fanatics!”
“Uh-huh—well, Davis knew my destination, and he didn’t want me to reach it. He knew that you’re in Youngstown and he figured that I was coming here to help you. You’re probably on LAON’s list. You’d better watch out for a guy named the Copperhead—he works for LAON.”
“I know that. The Copperhead better see me before I see him—I’ve been trailing that bastard for over a year.”
“On CIA assignment or on your own?”
“On my own. That’s the way I close it out, Lacey—by killing the Copperhead. The final feather in my cap!”
“What do you know about him—what’s he look like?”
“No idea what he looks like, but I know the approximate location of his lair—I’m closing on him and he knows it!”
“Where does he work from?”
“I have him narrowed down to being somewhere in Mercer County, Pennsylvania, just over the Ohio line—I’ll get the bastard!”
“It was intimated that the Copperhead nailed you at the International Arms.”
Rufe nodded. “Oh, sure, that’s CIA style. Throw up a smoke screen—bumfoozle the opposition.”
“Well, Rufe, do me a favor and get him in a hurry—he may be on my track.”
“On your track—what the hell for?”
“It’s simple enough—Davis is dead, LAON thinks that I killed him, and the Copperhead works for LAON.”
Rufe’s mouth had dropped open. “Davis is dead?”
“As a doornail. He missed me the first time around and he was going to take another whack at it. The Mafia killed his ass while he was waiting to kill mine—it happened early Friday morning at an I-80 rest stop about fifty miles from here.”
“LAON and the Mafia are in different leagues—there’s no competition there. Why would the Mafia kill Davis?”
“Because Davis was trying to kill me.”
“All right, why should the Mafia protect you?”
“Probably because it thinks that I’ll show the way to Rufe Devereaux.”
Rufe buried his head in his hands. He groaned, “Sonofabitch! Have you been followed?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge, but somebody went through my motel room with a fine-tooth comb. I doubt that we were tailed tonight—your lady friend has a sharp eye and a heavy foot. Rufe, why would the Mafia want you?”
Rufe sighed a disconsolate sigh. “For the same goddam reason the CIA wants me. How many guesses you want?”
“Just one. You’ve written a book—you’ve blown the whistle.”
Rufe was grinning. “Lacey, you’re good!”
Lockington shook his head slowly. “Jesus Christ, Rufe, you’re messing with people that shouldn’t be messed with. It could get you killed—I mean for real.”
Devereaux banged the table with the flat of his hand. “Not a chance! They won’t hurt me, Lacey, they wouldn’t dare! I’ve taken precautions, there’s a dozen copies of that manuscript stashed all over this area—they’re insurance policies! They won’t lay a hand on me until they’ve squelched the book—when it’s been published, it’ll be too damned late to hit me. The possum will be out of the pot! I got ’em by the short hair—they’re fucked if they do and they’re fucked if they don’t!”
Lockington said, “Tell me about your book.”
“Lacey, it’s a scorcher, and there ain’t one word of it that I can’t back up! When it hits the market, there’s gonna be royal hell to pay, the press is gonna have a field day, there’ll be congressional investigations, heads will roll—you’re gonna see a three-ring circus!”
“How do these people know that you’ve written a book?”
“I’ve contacted a few publishers—word gets around in the publishing industry.”
“Any nibbles?”
“Nibbles? There were three companies kissing my ass! I signed with Center Court Press in Chicago—two hundred grand advance, twelve percent royalties! That’s why you’re here, Lacey—to deliver the manuscript to Center Court. It’s on West Monroe near the Chicago River bridge.”
“And that’s why you were in Chicago last Monday?”
“Yeah, and they cut us off at the pass—we had to backtrack! Y’see, Lacey, it ain’t only the money—this book just has to be published. It reveals stuff that should be known by the average working stiff! It’s high fucking time that people become aware of what goes on behind closed doors!”
Lockington winked at Devereaux. “Well, Rufe, I can see where the money would be of secondary importance to you—what the hell, you got a girlfriend who drives a sixty thousand dollar automobile.”
Rufe chuckled. “It isn’t hers yet, but it will be—I’ll sign it over to her on her birthday, next week, June tenth! She’s earned every nut and bolt of it—I couldn’t have turned a wheel without her. She’s cooked for me, she’s run my errands, she’s been a wonder.”
Lockington said, “Her talents are many—she’s also the best damned female country vocalist I’ve ever heard.”
Rufe nodded. “She’s turned down a stack of Nashville recording offers.”
“Nashville’s the Promised Land. Why would she nix Nashville?”
“Because she loves me.”
Lockington didn’t take it further—there was a sentimental tear in Rufe’s eye. After a while he said, “If they’re watching you, how did you get your manuscript to Center Court Press in the first place?”
“I didn’t—Center Court flew a guy in here. I met him out at Youngstown Municipal, we had lunch, he read the first seventy-five pages, wrote me a check for one hundred thousand on the spot—the rest comes on date of publication.”
“Why didn’t you just mail the damned thing?”
“I just finished it ten days ago, and there’s no way I’d risk the U.S. Postal Service. The CIA has access to the mails—national security, y’know.”
“Yeah, that was how they shut the Chicago police out of your ‘murder’—national security.”
Rufe said, “What do you think of the Club Crossroads?”
“Obviously a money-maker.”
“I own it, lock, stock and barrel, a steal at fifty grand!”
Lockington blinked an involuntary blink. “How—how come?”
“The price was right. I’ve always been partial to country music and when I first got here I took to hanging around the Crossroads—what the hell, it’s the only country joint in town. Peggy’s outfit auditioned and they should have signed ’em but they didn’t, so I bought the place. Now she can stay as long as she damn well pleases!”
Lockington shrugged his way free of the subject. Pecos Peggy Smith had a sugar daddy and that was none of Lacey Lockington’s business. He said, “Did you know that Bobbie Jo Pickens was killed?”
Devereaux froze. “Aw, no!”
“I thought you might know why.”
“Damn, I liked that woman! Yeah, I know why—because she told me all about LAON. LAON’s very big in my book. I got to know Bobbie Jo—she was a good person.”
“She’d broken off from the Billy Mac Davis crusade, apparently.”
“Sure, she broke off—she quit when she learned about LAON and what it was doing. Davis was the ultimate conservative, about fifteen degrees to the right of Attila the Hun—with Davis there were no grays, only black and white.”
“And he hated black.”
“It didn’t stop there—he hated liberals. LAON burned the Chicago Sentinel Building last summer, and in December it torched the Beacon Banner Building in Duluth—both were liberal newspapers. It’s arranged the assassinations of any number of pinkos—well, hell, never mind, you can read about that stuff in my book. Center Court believes it can publish before the first of the year.”
“What’s the name of the book?”
“Blueprint for Chaos. By ‘Joseph B. Tinker.’”
“Joseph B. Tinker—your nom de plume?”
“Right—why take chances? Blueprint for Chaos is dedicated to you, by the way—‘To Lacey J. Lockington, the only man I’ve ever trusted.’”
Lockington said, “Thanks, Rufe—I never thought I’d be immortalized in print.”
Rufe said, “I may do another one when I’ve killed the Copperhead—I’d have to fictionalize it, of course, but the ingredients would be kosher.”
“Why not? You could write it under a different pen name—‘John J. Evers,’ maybe.”
Rufe was staring at Lockington without a smile. “Helluva fine idea—‘John J. Evers’—gotta remember that!”
Lockington said, “Look, Rufe, how did Bobbie Jo Pickens get involved with Billy Mac Davis anyway?”
“Davis was a holy-rolling preacher, she was an impressionable kid, barely out of high school, fifteen years younger than Davis. He put her to work, singing gospel songs at his revival meetings, then more popular stuff when he went political.”
“Where was he preaching when they hooked up?”
“I don’t know—he worked the Bible Belt from one end to the other. Davis was out of Memphis, Tennessee.”
Lockington pushed his glass toward Rufe and Rufe filled it. He said, “Jesus, Lacey, it’s good seeing you again!”
Lockington said, “Likewise. Your Chicago trip didn’t work out worth a damn?”
Rufe exhaled loudly. “Hectic, Lacey, hectic! I had the manuscript in an attaché case. We took a cab from North Dunlap Avenue where I was living at the time. I’d seen no signs of surveillance earlier, but I spotted our tail before we got out of Mahoning County. At Hopkins I called Chicago to reserve a Jaguar V-Twelve—fast car. The Jag was waiting for us at O’Hare. So was the CIA. I outran ’em on the Kennedy.”
“But you couldn’t outrun the Mafia.”
“No, the hoods had a souped-up Pan Am.”
“The CIA was following you, but how did the Syndicate know you were coming in?”
Rufe shrugged. “An employee at Center Court Press, possibly—anyway, when I couldn’t shake the Pan Am, I stopped at a tavern at Belmont and Kimball, not far from your place. I called a cab and instructed it to pick me up in the alley. I went to another ginmill and blew about twenty dollars trying to get hold of somebody from Center Court Press so I could get rid of the manuscript. I couldn’t raise a soul, so I went back, picked up Peggy, returned the Jag, took another cab to the International Arms, and noticed CIA people in the lobby—hell, I knew one of’em personally, guy named Steve Dellick. We went up to our room and when I saw that the hallway wasn’t monitored, I called room service for a couple of sandwiches and I paid the delivery kid fifty bucks to take us down on a service elevator and smuggle us out of the building through the kitchen.”
“You figured that the CIA would muscle you during the night?”
“I knew damned well it would. There are times when the Agency takes off the gloves. It’d have strong-armed us for the location of the duplicates! If Peggy hadn’t been with me, I’d have taken my chances with the bastards, but, as matters stood, it was best that we take it on the duffy. We walked over to State Street, grabbed a cab to O’Hare, caught a red-eye to Pittsburgh, took a cab back to Youngstown. Peggy called a few realtors and I took this furnished house last Tuesday. It’s ideal—it’s isolated, and on Western Reserve Road she can tell if she’s being followed. I’ve been here ever since, peeking out of the window, keeping an eye open for the Copperhead, hoping that you received that envelope, watching for a lop-eared gumshoe from Chicago.” Devereaux got to his feet, grinning, stretching, yawning. He said, “Peggy will be picking you up in a few minutes. Let’s take a walk out back—I’ll show you the Big Dipper. We get a terrific Big Dipper in Youngstown.”