The Fedorovich File Read online

  13

  He drove west on Indianola Avenue back to Glenwood, stopping at Paddy’s Bar and Grill, a run-down, grease-soaked eatery that reeked of onions, Lockington’s favorite kind of restaurant. He found a pay phone and tried to call Natasha to tell her that he’d probably be late. When there was no answer he remembered that Tuesday was Natasha’s shopping day. Come rain, come shine, come hell or high water, Natasha shopped on Tuesday, it was her inviolable custom. He had a double cheeseburger and a bottle of beer at the bar, then got involved in a baseball discussion with a truck driver from Ashtabula that carried through another forty-five minutes and two bottles of beer. It was after five o’clock when Lockington left Paddy’s Bar and Grill in the continuing rain, armed with explicit Cornersburg directions from the bartender.

  Tippecanoe Road picked up where Meridian Road left off, at the point where Route 62 ran through Cornersburg. From there Tippecanoe wound southward, and a mile or so out of Cornersburg Lockington spotted the Canterbury Arms retirement home sign on his left, a blue neon thing done in script, sputtering on a low block of concrete. He swung east to traverse a long rutted gravel trail that twisted through dense stands of pin oak and white birch. Halloween gimmicks had been placed on the grounds—jack-o’-lanterns dotted its leaf-strewn green, old bed sheets cut to resemble ghosts hung limply in the rain, Lockington saw a large wooden black cat with red reflectors for eyes, its back arched, fangs bared. There was a soggy straw-stuffed witch straddling a broom and a cardboard skeleton dangled by its neck from a birch branch.

  The Canterbury Arms retirement home was set on a hilltop, a low, sprawling gray rectangular building that covered an area of half an acre or more. Lockington left the gravel drive to pull onto the blacktop of the parking lot, departing the Mercedes with a touch of trepidation, possibly because of the atmosphere surrounding the place—the isolation, the Halloween trappings, the cold rain, the gathering darkness, the melancholy—but more than likely because he was trying to track an old man who was undoubtedly on the hit list of the most vicious secret service organization on the face of planet earth.

  The interior of the Canterbury Arms was tastefully done, its white stucco walls were crisscrossed by walnut-stained two-by-fours, it was carpeted in beige, there were a dozen or so comfortable-looking overstuffed brown leather chairs, several tables with brown-shaded bronze lamps, an enormous bookcase jammed with bright-jacketed volumes, a white-stone fireplace in which a couple of logs popped and crackled. A miniature replica of Big Ben stood on the mantel and it was bonging out six o’clock when Lockington approached the desk. A southbound wheelchair whistled in front of him, a northbound wheelchair zipped behind him, ticking a trouser leg. Both vehicles were manned by white-haired men, one wearing goggles, the other a crash helmet with a skull and crossbones decal on its front.

  The doe-eyed, dark-haired, pudgy woman at the desk wore a starchy white uniform, a maroon cardigan over her shoulders, and a discreet blue tag indentifying her as THELMA. She was shaking her head exasperatedly. She said, “It happens every damned evening—O’Rourke and Houlihan playing ‘chicken.’ Fortunately for all concerned, O’Rourke always chickens out.”

  Lockington said, “Indianapolis East.”

  Thelma said, “Precisely! Did you wish to see someone, sir?”

  “Yes, if possible, I’d like to speak to Abigail Fleugelham.”

  Thelma’s doe eyes widened perceptibly. “My God, are you sure?”

  Lockington said, “I shouldn’t be?”

  Thelma sighed resignedly. “Oh, well, so be it. I’ll tell Miss Fleugelham that you’re here.” She scooted from behind the desk, walking rapidly down a hallway to her right, then turning left and out of sight. She was back in a matter of moments. “Take a seat, sir—she’ll be with you shortly.”

  Lockington thanked her, finding a chair near the fireplace. The staccato snap of the burning logs and the leap of the flames proved to be hypnotic and Lockington dozed, awakening to a light touch on his shoulder. A woman stood beside his chair, a black cabretta leather coat over her arm, a bulky matching handbag slung over her shoulder. She said, “It’ll be cool enough for a coat, don’t you think?”

  Lockington nodded.

  The woman stooped to smooth an imaginary wrinkle at the knee of her gold lamé dress. She said, “Then I’m ready.”

  Lockington blinked. “For what?”

  Her smile was mysterious. “That would depend, I suppose. Perhaps we should hoist a few on Route 224—after that, who can say?”

  “Route 224?”

  “The highway just south of here.” She handed her coat and bag to him. He held the coat as she slipped into it. She took her bag, walking in the direction of the exit, Lockington toddling bewilderedly in her wake. Abigail Fleugelham was probably seventy-seven, all right. She’d have to be if she’d taught school in 1933, but she’d have passed for a sprightly sixty. Her hair was shoulder-length, blonde and wavy, her hazel eyes were clear, her face was lined but not withered—face-lifts and skillful makeup application had all but obliterated the deep creases. Her nose was uptilted and unveined, her smile was chipper, her voice light without the gruff texture of age. She was tall, slender, had excellent legs, and walked like a show horse on parade, her gait gracefully mincing.

  He helped her into the Mercedes and she smiled her thanks. When they turned south on Tippecanoe Road, she said, “You surprised me—I didn’t know that you’d be dropping by. I mean, we’d set up nothing definite.”

  Lockington said, “Sorry—I should have called.”

  Abigail turned to stare at him. Her perfume was expensive, vaguely provocative. She said, “You didn’t?”

  Lockington returned her stare. “No.”

  “You aren’t Mr. Mawson?”

  Lockington scowled. “No, and probably neither is Mr. Mawson.”

  “What do you mean—then who called?”

  “I don’t know—when was the call?”

  “Perhaps an hour ago. He told me that his name was Mawson—he was inquiring about one of my former students.”

  “Alexi Fedorovich?”

  “Yes—how did you know?”

  “Just a guess.”

  Abigail Fleugelham said, “Just a guess, my ass!”

  Lockington shrugged. In the darkness of the car he could feel her inquisitive hazel gaze. After a while she said, “Well, I’ll be diddledy-damned—what’s going on?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” It wasn’t, but Abigail didn’t know that.

  She was lighting a cigarette. “Is Alexi in some kind of trouble?”

  “Not with me.”

  They’d come to Route 224 and she motioned for him to turn left. She said, “He was such a good boy—mischievous, but a good boy.”

  Lockington said, “Where are we going?”

  “Let’s start at Fritzi’s.”

  “Let’s start at Fritzi’s?”

  “The night is young—what’s your name?”

  “Lacey Lockington—I’m an insurance investigator from Chicago.”

  “Chicago—I’ve been there—it’s a swinging town.” Lockington nodded. “Of course, Youngstown isn’t all that bad—you can swing in Youngstown.” She placed a hand on his knee. It was a warm hand. “If this is an insurance matter, then Mr. Mawson is probably an investigator from another company. What’s the name of yours?”

  Lockington said, “Mutual of Slippery Rock.”

  Her hand tightened on his knee. She said, “Anything I can do for you—anything at all.”

  Lockington was to wonder about that, but not for long.

  14

  Route 224 was a fast-traffic four-lane highway skirting the southern rim of Youngstown, and Fritzi’s was no more than a quarter-mile from Tippecanoe Road. Fritzi’s was a snappy little cove, all red leatherette and chrome, dimly lighted with frosted blue mirrors and a subdued jukebox. They took a booth to the rear and when the waitress showed up Lockington ordered a double Martell’s cognac, no wash. The waitress ma
de a note of Lockington’s choice before glancing quizzically at Abigail Fleugelham. Abigail was giving the matter some thought. After a while she said, “Do you have tall glasses—I mean tall glasses?”

  The waitress said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then I’ll have vodka, blackberry brandy, sloe gin, light rum, and a triple tequila over ice—easy on the ice.”

  The waitress scribbled furiously on her pad. She said, “Stirred or blended, ma’am?”

  Lockington said, “Stir it, gently, for God’s sake—you could level the joint!”

  The waitress said, “Is there a name for this drink, ma’am?”

  “Why certainly,” Abigail said. “It’s a Moon Rocket.”

  The waitress said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a Moon Rocket.”

  Abigail said, “Of course, you haven’t—until now, neither have I.”

  The waitress retreated to the bar, conferring with the white-jacketed bartender, going over the mixture’s ingredients with him. Lockington said, “Miss Fleugelham, tell me about Alexi Fedorovich.”

  “‘Abby’—call me ‘Abby’.”

  “All right, Abby—now, about Alexi Fedorovich.”

  “What about him?”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “Alexi—recently? Oh, heavens, no! Alexi went to Russia when he was about fifteen—his mother died—his father was originally from Russia.”

  “Did you know any of his junior high school associates, the kids he hung around with—those with whom he might have maintained contact?”

  Their drinks came. Lockington watched Abby lift her Moon Rocket, killing half of the fearsome concoction in two gulps. The remaining half went in two more. She said, “Delicious! I believe I’ll have another!” She waved to the waitress, pointing to her glass. The waitress’s mouth dropped open, but she nodded.

  Lockington said, “We were talking about Alexi Fedorovich, I believe.”

  “Yes, he was a clean-cut youngster, well-behaved, respectful, highly intelligent, mature for his years—excellent student.”

  “His close friends?”

  “Male or female?”

  “Either.”

  Abigail’s hazel eyes were slightly blurred. She said, “Well, there was Olga Karelinko—Olga got his cherry, I’m certain of it.”

  “Olga Karelinko?”

  “Yes, but if I’d been ten years younger, I’d have given her a run for it!”

  “Uhh-h-h, what can you tell me of Olga Karelinko?”

  “Pretty little thing, blonde, heavy-chested—Alexi walked her to school and back every day—I believe that they lived on the same street, West Dewey Avenue, possibly. Olga had the hots for Alexi, that was obvious. I caught them in the cloakroom once—Alexi had a finger in her—I looked the other way—what the hell, boys will be boys, that’s what I always say. What do you always say, Mr. Lockingwrench?”

  Lockington said, “The wrong thing at the wrong time. Olga Karelinko was of Russian descent?”

  “That’s right—she was the lusty, busty type.”

  “Have you seen Olga since her junior high school days?”

  “Yes, a couple of times—once at Southern Park Mall, once on West Federal Street downtown. This was a few years back and I don’t believe she recognized me. Olga left Princeton Junior High shortly after Alexi’s father took him to Russia.”

  “She quit school?”

  “No, Olga was a good student. The Karelinko family moved to another district, I’d imagine.”

  Abby’s second Moon Rocket was on their table and Lockington watched transfixed as it disappeared as rapidly as her first. Abby signaled for another. She did this by standing on the seat of the booth and waving both arms in the fashion of an Alamo sentry who has just detected the approach of forty thousand Mexicans.

  Lockington assisted in returning her to a sitting position. He said, “Any others come to mind?”

  “Any other whats?” The blur was gone from Abby’s eyes, replaced by a crystalline glaze.

  Lockington said, “School pals—he must have had a few buddies.”

  Abby peered at him through the gloom of the booth. “How come you ash these quesshuns, Mr. Lockingburg?”

  “It’s Lockington, ma’am. There’s an insurance settlement on the line—Alexi Fedorovich is the benificiary. If he’s in the United States, I have to find him.”

  “But he not in Unite Stays—he in Russia.”

  “He was in Russia, but isn’t it possible that he returned to this country?”

  “Also possbul went to Tibet.” The Moon Rocket arrived and Abby took a slurp. “Well, there wash Nicholas Corpulungo—Nicholas Corpulungo eighth grade stud—shoot, I could have screw Nicholas Corpulungo into grounn.”

  “And others?”

  “An’ others? Hell, took on five football coaches, teachers’ seminar Clevelunn, 1940!”

  “I meant, did Alexi have other male friends?”

  “Howard Kramer—Howard Kramer killed in war.”

  “Whatever happened to Corpulungo?”

  “Had automobile aguncy Minneapolis or someplace.”

  “What kind of agency?”

  “Automobile—you doan hear well, Missur Lockingstrap?”

  “Ford agency, Chevy, Dodge—what make of car?”

  “No idea, but Missur Wilmer nailed me in backseat Packard Clipper.”

  “Mr. Wilmer?”

  “Taught algebra South High. Three times, by golly!”

  “Three times—where was Mr. Wilmer between jobs?”

  “Well, once he had to piss—other time we juss sit arounn till he ready. Mill Creek Park, 1941—full moon, hot pants.” Abby gargled another slug of her Moon Rocket. “Like you always say, ‘boys will be boys’.”

  “I don’t always say that, you always say that.”

  Abby tilted her Moon Rocket glass, draining it. She said, “Looky, Lockingcock, there motel east of here—The Belfry—X-rated movies, water bed, whole nine yards. Whatcha shay, kid?”

  Lockington said, “I’d better get you back to the Canterbury—I have an important nine o’clock appointment.”

  Abby leered at him. “Hey, Lockingfish, I not sevenny-seven years ole for nothing—I know my way arounn a mattress!”

  Lockington stood, helping Abby to her feet. The waitress came to the booth. She said, “That’ll be twenty-four dollars.” Lockington handed her a twenty and a ten. He muttered, “Keep the change, and for Christ’s sake help me get her out of here!”

  Abby was saying, “Lissen, Lockingdick, I’ll ride you till you’re crosseyed!” The waitress was holding the door for Lockington and he dragged Abigail Fleugelham into the parking lot, stuffing her into the Mercedes. As they turned west on 224 she said, “Hey, Lockingcrotch, I’m got forty feet clothes line in bag—how you like be tied spread-eagle? Wow, you think you died an’ gone Heaven!”

  Lockington said, “Just take it easy, Abby—you’ll be home shortly.”

  There was no sound from the passenger’s side of the Mercedes, Abby was sleeping. Lockington pulled up just short of the Canterbury Arms entrance, allowing an ambulance to roll onto Tippecanoe Road. It turned north, fading into the distance at high speed, lights flashing, siren screaming. He parked close to the Canterbury entrance, going in. Thelma was at the desk. He said, “I have a basket case in my car.”

  Thelma said, “Blessed Jesus, what the hell next?”

  Lockington said, “I saw an ambulance.”

  “O’Rourke didn’t chicken-out—they must have heard the crash in Cincinnati! Houlihan has a concussion and O’Rourke busted his upper plate—they think he swallowed most of it!” She left the desk. “All right, bring her in.”

  Lockington went out, returning with Abigail Fleugelham over his shoulder. Thelma led the way to a room and Lockington deposited Abby on a bed. Thelma threw a blanket over her, exhaling audibly. She said, “What a helluva night this has been!”

  “Thelma, you don’t know the half of it.”

  “I
didn’t catch your name, but if it isn’t Attila the Hun, I live alone and I get off at midnight, providing the joint doesn’t go up in flames before then.”

  Lockington said, “I have to meet a guy.” That was a lie. “But I’ll try to get back by midnight.” So was that.

  15

  He didn’t get back to the house on Dunlap Avenue until well after eight o’clock and he didn’t have a rose when he arrived, but Natasha hung a kiss on him anyway, a real bellringer. Then she stepped back, holding him at arm’s length, looking him over. She said, “Busy afternoon, wasn’t it?”

  Lockington said, “Sure was—I spent it running in circles.”

  “Big circles?”

  “Little circles—the kind that never get you there.”

  “Anything on General Fedorovich?”

  “Nothing current—I just nibbled at his past. I might have something tomorrow. Then again I might not.” He told her of his visit to Princeton Junior High School and of Abigail Fleugelham.

  Natasha’s silvery laugh rippled through the living room. “A flattering offer, I must say.”

  Lockington said, “At seventy-seven, sex is wishful thinking.”

  “Lacey, don’t you believe it! At the Academy one of our best sex technique teachers was a woman of seventy-five. She simply loved to give demonstrations!”

  “With a younger man, of course.”