Rufe Devereaux had summed it up accurately enough, Lockington thought—they’d have to get the manuscripts before they got Devereaux. If they got hold of the manuscripts they’d have to eliminate Rufe because there’d be no guarantee that he wouldn’t sit down and write Blueprint for Chaos all over again. But if the book were to be published and in the stores, the cat would be out of the bag and Rufe’s death would serve no purpose other than to multiply those pressures exerted by its revelations.
Of the four factions involved, which had attempted the Western Reserve Road massacre? Lockington crossed the KGB from the list of eligibles. Natasha Gorky was heading up KGB efforts, her alliance with Lockington had been of her own volition, she had the rail stall and no logical reason to kick over the traces. Lockington couldn’t bring himself to associate the Central Intelligence Agency with the aborted effort—the CIA arranged murders, rarely did it commit them. And there was LAON, a squad of racist lunatics recruited by a demented Fascist zealot who’d shot at Lockington on Interstate 80. LAON’s multitudinous transgressions were listed in Devereaux’s book. One player remained—the Mafia, also eligible for dishonorable mention in Blueprint for Chaos. Every one of the four would be delighted to see the book vanish without a ripple. The most likely to throw caution out the window and go for broke would be LAON—LAON lacked the organizational self-discipline possessed by the other three. But none of them had Rufe’s manuscripts, and the manuscripts were the main ingredient of the entire stew. The outfit that would be least concerned about being lambasted in the book would be the Mafia. It was known for it what it was, it had little to lose in an expose, bad press didn’t mean diddly to the Mafia. But the car that’d left Rufe Devereaux’s driveway could have been a Pontiac Trans Am, and a Pontiac Trans Am had been shot up on Route 46, its occupants undoubtedly Vince Calabrese and Slats Mercurio, stitched by a hail of rifle fire. Why? Certainly not because of Rufe’s book—certainly not for any reason that Lockington could drum up.
“Lacey, you’re almost home.”
Lockington surfaced from his murky pool of thought, finding himself in Austintown rolling east on Mahoning Avenue. He said, “Yeah—guess I was dozing.”
Peggy said, “You’re going to take the manuscript to Chicago?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Rufe’s in danger, isn’t he?”
Lockington shrugged. “Not just yet. Rufe Devereaux’s lived with danger for a long time—he can handle it.”
“He’s such a sweet man.”
“Yeah—helluva guy.”
“And I’m such a slut.”
“Are you?”
“Oh, my God, if you only knew.” She was turning into the New Delhi Motel grounds, parking the Porsche next to Lockington’s Pontiac. “If you’ll invite me in for a drink, I’ll give you a demonstration—Pecos Peggy Smith, the easiest fuck in the state of Ohio!” She smiled a sad smile. “But the best, beyond doubt!”
Lockington said, “Honey, it’s damned near three in the morning and I’m a basket case—let’s exchange rainchecks.”
“How many can you spare?”
“How many can you use?”
“Lacey, you’d be amazed! Will you be at the Crossroads tonight?”
“We’ll see.”
“I’ll sing one for you.”
“Can you do ‘Sleepwalkin’ Mama?’”
“It’s not my kind of song—it’s horny. I’m never horny in public, only in bed. I’m world-class horny in bed. Got another?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Lockington started to get out. She caught his arm. She said, “What the hell, Lacey—the girl just can’t help it.”
She drove away and Lockington stopped to peer into his Pontiac. The back of the rear seat had been dislodged. It’d flopped forward onto the floor at an angle.
Lockington’s nod was involuntary. Somehow, the development meshed with his recent thinking.