It was eight o’clock on that evening. The heat was still in Chicago. He sat buried in the shadows of a Shamrock Pub rear booth, nipping at a double Martell’s, looking back. Lacey Lockington spent a great deal of his time looking back, probably because he could find so few reasons for looking ahead—tomorrow had never been Lockington’s favorite day.
He was taking inventory. He was living in a city that was coming down around his ears. He had $386 in his pocket. He had $721 in the bank. He owned a blue Pontiac Catalina that was due to explode sometime during the span of its next five hundred miles. He owned a private investigation agency that didn’t have a client to its name. He’d fallen hopelessly in love with a woman who’d used him shamelessly, one he’d probably never see again. He’d cooperated in the execution of a man whose friendship he’d once valued. He was half-drunk. He needed a shave. He had a headache.
He watched a gross creature leave the Shamrock Pub bar. She lurched toward the ladies’ room, passing Lockington’s booth, stomping on his feet. Lockington groaned, gritting his teeth, seeing stars. The woman screeched, “You tried to trip me, you swine!” She belted Lockington alongside the head with a handbag that must have contained an anvil.
Lockington said, “Sorry.” He meant every word of it.
Edna Garson came in. She sat at the bar and ordered a screwdriver, watching the door. Lockington raised his hand, waving to Edna. Edna didn’t notice. Moose Katzenbach came in. He sat beside Edna at the bar. They embraced, chatting for a few minutes, laughing. Now he knew the identity of the blonde in Moose’s booth at the Roundhouse. They hadn’t wasted much time. Lockington watched them go out, holding hands. He shrugged. What the hell, he was glad for them. It felt good to be glad.