He parked the Pontiac in front of Room 12, getting out. The manager was standing in the office doorway, waving to him, smiling a white-toothed smile. He said, “Good morning, Mr. Lockington, Your Excellency!”
Lockington waved back. The door to Room 12 was partially ajar and Lockington went in, closing it behind him. Natasha Gorky had the telephone to her ear, waving him to silence, motioning for him to sit down, listening intently, nodding, saying, “All right, thank you—well done!” She hung up, turning her attention to Lockington. “How did you do?”
“Very well. You?”
She lit a cigarette before she said, “I put it into the network with instructions that I be contacted here. It came through just now.”
“And?”
“And you’ve turned a corner—On June 10th, 1967, a girl was born in Hattiesburg, Mississippi—Margaret Beth Pickens. Seven pounds even, no birthmarks. The mother was a Bobbie Jo Pickens of Petal, Mississippi.”
“The father?”
“Blank.”
“Uh-huh.”
Natasha said, “We can’t leave him blank—let’s color him Billy Mac Davis.”
Lockington shrugged.
Natasha said, “She’s the girl who was with Devereaux in Chicago?”
“Twice, possibly more—Pecos Peggy Smith, the singer at the Crossroads, the one who took me to Rufe’s place last night.”
Natasha said, “She’s Devereaux’s mistress?”
“So it would appear—he’s spent a pile of money on her.”
Natasha squinted, shaking her head. “Ironic—she sleeps with Devereaux and Billy Mac Davis hires the Copperhead to kill him. Talk about strong parental objections!”
Lockington was silent.
Natasha was having trouble getting it adjusted. She said, “A girl of twenty-one and a man in his late fifties—intellectual rhythms, possibly, but a physical mismatch, wouldn’t you say?”
“I wouldn’t say.” Lockington corralled the bottle of Martell’s, uncapping it, offering it to Natasha.
She shook her head. “I brought Martell’s and Smirnoff’s—it’s over in Room Five. I’ll bring it when I change clothes—I look like a train wreck.”
Lockington took a slug of the Martell’s before he produced his dime-store pad to riffle through it, find a page, and hand it to Natasha. He said, “Any of these names familiar to you?”
She studied the page, her facial expression locked at zero. Lockington would have hated to sit across a poker table from her. After a while she said, “Who are these people?”
Lockington said, “American baseball players from more than eighty years ago.”
She closed the pad, returning it to Lockington. “Explain, if you will.”
Lockington said, “Would you like to go for a walk in the woods?”
She smiled her off-center smile. She said, “Why—do you want to get my ass in the grass?”
Lockington said, “Well-l-l, yes, that’s part of it.”