They were walking across the half-acre expanse of Rufe Devereaux’s backyard. Lockington’s shoes were soaked with dew. He said, “Rufe, you didn’t bring me out here to show me the fucking Big Dipper—you brought me out here to tell me something that you didn’t want to tell me in the house. What’s up—is there a chance that the placed is wired?”
Devereaux said, “Well, I gotta admit that the possibility has crossed my mind.”
“How could that have been accomplished? You say that you haven’t been out of the house since you moved in.”
“That’s right—damned unlikely, but one never knows, does one?”
“You’re more hep than I am—I’ve never been involved in the cloak-and-dagger racket.”
“Well, Lacey, anything’s possible, and when you start assuming that it isn’t, that’s when you get your ass burned! Now, I have to get my book to Center Court Press pronto. When do you plan on going back to Chicago?”
“Any old time. When do you want me to make delivery?”
“If you get out of Youngstown tomorrow morning—Tuesday—pretty early, like six A.M., you could be in the Loop by one in the afternoon, Central Time. That way you’ll have a little over twenty-four hours to get ready for the trip.”
“That’ll be about twenty-four more than I had when I left Chicago. Who gets the manuscript?”
“The same guy who flew in to look at it—his name’s Romanoff, Sidney Romanoff. Looks like a barn owl that’s just been confronted by a stegosaurus.”
“Okay, give me the manuscript.”
“Not yet—I’ll spend this afternoon on it, doing some touch-up. You be in your car, waiting in front of your motel room, six o’clock in the morning—I’ll have Peggy swing around and hand it to you. Make damned sure you get out of Youngstown clean, Lacey—it’s too late in the game for a fumble. If you have to wait to see Romanoff you can read some of it. Only problem is, it has no pictures to color.”
“No matter, I left my crayons in my apartment.”
Rufe slapped him on the back. “Peggy’s here—I see her headlights in the driveway.”
They rounded the corner of the house, stepping into the white torrent of light. Lockington stopped short, snarling, “Down, Rufe, now!”
They hit the wet grass together, face down, rolling toward the building for cover as automatic weapon fire burned the night air, screaming into the darkness, chewing into a corner of the dwelling. Amid a hail of splinters Devereaux said, “I hope he doesn’t move out where he can see us!”
Lockington’s .38 police special was in his hand. He rasped, “If he does, he’s one dead sonofabitch!”
There was a moment of silence before a door slammed and tires screeched on the asphalt drive. Lockington peered around the corner of the house. A low-slung dark coupe had hurtled onto Western Reserve Road and Lockington scrambled to his knees, two-handing the .38. He squeezed off three rounds as the car rocketed away to the east, burning rubber, its rear end fish-tailing. They got to their feet, brushing themselves off. Devereaux said, “Shit! How did you know it wasn’t Peggy?”
“The headlights—the outline—it wasn’t a Porsche.” Another car went by, traveling east at high speed.
“Then what was it?”
“Damned if I know!”
“I’d have been suckered—I’d have thought it was somebody who’d pulled in to turn around.”
Lockington snapped, “If they’d pulled in to turn around, they wouldn’t have waited two minutes to do it.”
“That gun had a chugging sound and I’ve heard it before—a TEC-9, sure as hell. Thirty-six-round magazine and it’ll take a silencer.”
Lockington said, “Yeah, you can buy one in Texas for three and a quarter.”
Devereaux said, “Plus tax.”
They sat on the front stoop, smoking, not saying much, waiting for Peggy. Lockington broke a long silence. He said, “Rufe, do you know ‘I Get the Blues When it Rains?’”
Rufe grunted, “Me, too.”
“It’s a song, Rufe.”
“Is it country?”
“No, it’s an old barbershop number.”
“If it ain’t country, fuck it.”
Lockington said, “Okay, just thought I’d ask.”
After a while, Rufe said, “She’s late—shoulda been here twenty minutes ago.”
Lockington didn’t reply. The silence was uncomfortable.
Then she came, her red Porsche gliding down Western Reserve Road and into the driveway. Lockington shook hands with Rufe. He said, “See you in Chicago sometime.”
Rufe said, “Damn betcha!”
Lockington got in. Peggy blew Rufe a kiss, backing from the drive. She said, “We’ll go straight through on Western Reserve—there’s a terrible mess on Forty-six—ambulances, police cars—I had trouble getting through.
“Big wreck?”
“No, there were two men in a green Pontiac Trans Am. They were run off the road and shot—well, shot is hardly the word—they were shredded! Someone said that the police thought it was AK-47 fire. What’s an AK-47?”
“It’s a Soviet-designed, Chinese-manufactured infantry rifle. They sell ’em in Texas for four hundred bucks—four and a half if you want a seventy-five-round drum.” Lockington frowned, suddenly remembering that neither he nor Rufe Devereaux had mentioned the KGB. Or the house at 3000 North Onines Avenue. Or any number of things.