At 551 North Dunlap Avenue, the red Porsche was in the driveway and Lockington parked behind it, leaving Natasha Gorky in the Pontiac when he went to the front door. He rang the bell, waiting. He rang it another two times. Eventually she responded, brushing sleep from her eyes, wearing an extremely low-cut short blue nightie and an untied white chenille robe. She was barefoot. She said, “Needed you last night, here you come this morning.” She stepped to one side, beckoning him in. Her breasts were two-thirds exposed and one was black and blue—the lady liked it rough.
Lockington parked himself at the end of a luxurious tufted gray sofa. He said, “Sit down, please.”
She sat in a padded wooden rocker, taking a cigarette from a pocket of her robe, lighting it, staring at him. “What is it?”
“It’s you father—he’s dead.”
Peggy didn’t blink. “I—I knew it was coming—the chemotherapy wasn’t taking—but, my God, not this soon!”
“He was shot—assailant unknown.”
She lunged forward in the rocker, burying her face in her hands, silent for a time. Then she said, “Yes, one way or the other, he was on short time. It’s probably better this way. He didn’t suffer, did he?”
Lockington shook his head. “It was sudden.”
“Do you know why?”
“Does it matter?”
“No.”
Lockington said, “Listen, I’m here to give you sound advice. You’re going to be very well off—you’ll own your own home, you have a fancy car, you’ll be the proprietress of a profitable night club, there has to be important money stashed somewhere. Get the hell out of this cocaine thing—you don’t need it, and you could wind up doing big time in a federal lockup. You have a kilo of the stuff on the property right now, don’t you?”
She raised her head. Blood trickled from a corner of her mouth. She’d bitten through her lower lip. She said, “Yes.”
Lockington snapped, “Get rid of it—dump it into a ditch!”
Peggy said, “I did what he told me to do, said what he told me to say. He said that if there was trouble, he’d absolve me and accept full responsibility. I believe that he’d have done that.”
Lockington said, “So do I.”
“You see, he knew that he was dying—he wanted the money for my mother and me. He felt that he should square up with us for all the years he wasn’t there—he meant well.”
Lockington said, “You know about your mother?”
“Yes—he told me on the phone after I got home last night. This is what they call a one-two punch, I guess. I’m an orphan.”
“The syndicate killed your mother—it was trying to locate your father and its missing cocaine. You could be next. Drop it, do you hear me?”
She was nodding, trying to absorb the shock. “Where is my father’s body?”
“I don’t know—you’ll have to check with the Austintown police.”
Her hands were shaking, her poise dissolved. She said, “Look, I’m sorry—you’ve been used—my father did the planning—I just—oh, shit!” She broke into a series of hoarse, racking sobs.
Lockington was on his feet. He crossed the room to ruffle her hair. He said, “Pull your life together, kid—you’re young, you have the world by the ass.” He went out, closing the door quietly, not looking back.
He drove south to Mahoning Avenue, then east. Natasha broke the silence. “How did she take it?”
Lockington said, “She’ll get over it—she’s tough.”
They stopped at a restaurant but they didn’t eat. They spent an hour drinking coffee, smoking, saying little, feeling each other with their eyes. Natasha smiled once. So did Lockington.
They left the restaurant and Lockington drove to the Flamingo Lounge. Natasha said, “Shall I come in?”
Lockington said, “No, I won’t take long.”
John Sebulsky was behind the bar, sniffing at a container of coffee, making a face. He said, “The Titanic didn’t really hit an iceberg, y’know.”
Lockington said, “No, I didn’t know.”
Sebulsky said, “There was a Greek in the galley, making coffee. He spilled some, and it burned a sixty-foot hole in the bow.”
Lockington said, “Well, I’ll be damned!”
Sebulsky said, “It’s too early for the Sugar sisters—they won’t be here for an hour.”
Lockington said, “Well, into each life some rain must fall.” He ordered a double hooker of Martell’s, downed it, and shook hands with Sebulsky. He said, “So long, John—it’s been a pleasure.”
Sebulsky said, “Back to Chicago?”
Lockington nodded. “For a while.”
“Pecos Peggy make out okay?”
“Real good.”
“Well, Lacey, if you’re ever in town again, be sure to drop in.”
“I’ll do that.”
Lockington left the Flamingo Lounge, turning left into Austintown, passing the Club Crossroads, swinging onto Interstate 80 a mile further on. The sun was bright, the sky was blue. Natasha Gorky lit two cigarettes, handing one to Lockington. He took it. He said, “Thanks.” Chicago was probably still there, 425 miles dead west.