The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One (8 page)

Nice, Lockington thought, knowing each other’s names.

Late that afternoon, the Pepper Valley Crickets took two of three from the Scorpion City Stingers with Nick Noonan going 5 for 15 in the series, and Lacey Lockington was in a much-improved frame of mind when he returned the Cider Press Federation to its cardboard box and drove west to River Road, swinging north on River toward Irving Park. Northbound traffic moved at a snail’s pace, River Road being heavily littered with flood debris and reduced to single-lane flow at several spots, but he reached the Ristoranté Italia without incident, parking his road-weary Pontiac Catalina in the large black-topped lot precisely at seven-thirty. He didn’t see Duke Denny’s black Cadillac convertible.

The Ristoranté Italia’s lounge was dim, cozy, beautifully-appointed, and silent as a tomb. After vainly scanning the cavernous dining area for Denny, Lockington parked himself on a high-backed leatherette barstool, alone with the bartender, an oversize, beetle-browed glowering man wearing a New England Patriots sweatshirt, a tough-looking customer who looked like he could have gone bear hunting with a broomstick. He reminded Lockington of a B movie Foreign Legion top-kick, and he peered at the newcomer over the sheaf of invoices he’d been checking. He said, “Hey, would your name be Lockingworth?” He had a voice like a New Hampshire foghorn.

Lockington shook his head. “Nope, it’d be Lockington—been Lockington ever since I was born.”

The bartender said, “Yeah, well, whatever it is, Duke Denny just called—said I should tell you that he’ll be a few minutes late, but that he’ll be here for sure, so you should stick around. Okay?”

Lockington nodded, ordering a bottle of Old Washensachs beer. He preferred hard liquor but, after the Old Anchor Chain, beer would be a welcome change of pace. He said, “Come to think of it, we got quite a few Lockingtons in my family.”

The bartender dug a bottle of Old Washensachs out of the cooler, poured, pushed Lockington’s money away, and said, “Your money’s no good—Duke gave me instructions.”

Lockington said, “My brother’s name is Lockington, too—Casey Lockington.”

The bartender said, “I’ve known Duke Denny since I started working here—gonna be four years come the middle of November, just before Thanksgiving—great guy, Duke is.”

Lockington took a gulp of his beer. He said, “It probably got something to do with my father’s name being Lockington.”

Duke Denny was sliding onto the barstool to Lockington’s right, chuckling, waving hello to the bartender. He said, “Don’t let this guy throw you, Pete—sometimes he has a one-track mind.”

Pete said, “Aw, Lockingworth ain’t so bad—I’ve run into worse.”

Denny nudged Lockington. “Finish your beer and we’ll go into the mess hall.”

Pete was yawning, rubbing his eyes with hairy bricklayer fists. “Off night tonight—must of been all that rain.” He went back to the stack of invoices.

They ambled into the dining room. It was deserted save for a waitress who sat at a table, jotting notes on a large yellow pad. Lockington looked around the place, shaking his head. He said, “Just what is it with Italians and crystal chandeliers?”

Denny shrugged. “Don’t forget red tablecloths, red carpeting, red candle-chimneys, and all the travel posters.”

They took a table in a distant corner of the room. Denny said, “Why don’t we kick this off with vodka martinis?”

“It’s your credit card.”

The waitress left her chair to bear down on their table. She was a half-pint peroxide-blonde bit of fluff wearing a shiny, short black dress, a frilly white apron, and enough makeup to camouflage the
USS New Jersey.
She was thirty-five, possibly. She was also fifty, possibly. Denny ordered a pair of vodka martinis on the rocks. He said, “No twists with those, sweetie—make it anchovy-stuffed olives.”

The waitress said, “Okay, that’s two vodka martinis for you.” She swung her attention to Lockington. “How about you—how many?”

Denny rolled his eyes. “Just let him have one of mine until he makes up his mind.” When she was gone, Denny said, “That was Laura—hardly a candidate for class valedictorian—a bum lay, incidentally.”

Lockington winked at Denny. “Bum lays are bored lays, usually.”

Denny let that one go by. There was something bugging Duke or he’d have jumped right on it, Lockington thought. He looked his ex-partner over—he could have stepped right out of a haberdashery display window—white sports coat, brown silk shirt, white tie, brown slacks, white oxfords, and there was a brown chrysanthemum tucked into his left lapel buttonhole. Same old Duke—once a clotheshorse, always a clotheshorse. They differed there—clothes didn’t interest Lockington. They served to create favorable first impressions, but when those faded, a man stood naked. Denny was saying, “By the way, I got one helluva coincidence for you!”

Lockington said, “Let’s have it—I’m crazy about coincidences.”

Denny leaned toward Lockington, starting to speak, then holding up as Laura arrived with their vodka martinis. He sampled his drink, smacking his lips. He said, “Pete makes the best goddam martini from here to Alexandria, Louisiana.”

Lockington said, “I’ve never been to Alexandria, Louisiana,” his eyes tracking Laura’s return to her table at the dining area entrance. Laura had a magnificent ass. Lockington gave Laura a mental checkmark in the magnificent ass column. He said, “Uhh–h–h, the coincidence, if you will.”

Denny said, “Okay, you’re in the hot soup with this Stella Starbright column, right?”

Lockington said, “I’m beginning to get that impression.”

“And last night you said that a couple of other broads have written under the Stella Starbright byline.”

“That’s what I was told. What’s your point?”

“Well, partner, just this morning, the Cook County cops hauled a dead woman out of a garbage bin down at the corners of Wolf Road and Grand Avenue—quiff by the name of Eleanor Fisher—shot through the back of the head—very neat job. You hear anything about that?”

“It was on the noon news but there was no mention of how she died—only that she lived in Wilmette.”

“Right—Wilmette, out where the long green grows.”

“Okay, so she lived in Wilmette where the long green grows.”

“So this afternoon I was talking to Information Brown.You know of a fella they call Information Brown?”

“
Everybody
knows Information Brown—little guy—looks like somebody’s first husband—runs the newsstand at State and Randolph—spends most of his time in the Squirrel’s Cage—knows everything and everybody.”

“Check.Well, Information Brown was telling me that Eleanor Fisher was divorced and playing the field—however, until a year and a half ago, she’d been married to Gordon
Fisher.
Whaddaya think of
that
?”

Lockington said, “Not a helluva lot—if she’d been married and divorced, you’d get even money that it’d been to and from a guy named Fisher. Who’s Gordon Fisher?”

“You’ve never heard of him?”

“The name fails to send little jingles up my spine.”

“Why, Gordon Fisher’s one of Chicago’s top-flight corporation attorneys! He’s filthy-rich, and his clients’ list is topped by the Chicago
Morning Sentinel
!”

“All right, Eleanor married money—that ain’t happenstance. She just might have done that on
purpose.
”

“Oh, sure, but
that
isn’t the
coincidence,
that’s just a sidelight. The
coincidence
is that Eleanor Fisher used to write the
Stella on State Street
column!”

Lockington worked on his vodka martini for a few moments. Denny was right, it was an excellent cocktail but, being a skeptic, Lockington charged that to accident. The next one would probably blow their socks off. He said, “Duke, I think you’re seeing rats in your woodpile when you got no woodpile.”

Denny said, “Well,
hell,
Lacey, stand back and
look
at it! Stella Starbright spooks Netherby into suspending you, then a woman who once wrote the column gets herself murdered, and it turns out that she’d been hitched to the chief attorney for the newspaper that
publishes
the damned thing! You don’t see a coincidence in
that
?”

“If it’s there, it’s like getting two parking tickets in one day—a trifle unlikely, but no big deal. Where’s the connection—what does it hook to
what
?”

Denny’s face was beet-red. “Lacey, God damn it, I didn’t
say
that there was a connection, I didn’t say that anything was hooked to
any
thing—all I said was that it was a fucking
coincidence
—Jesus Christ, I—shit, forget it, will you? Just forget the whole fucking business!”

Lockington grinned. “Okay.” He’d popped Duke’s cork.

They finished their martinis in stony silence, Denny glaring at Lockington before waving to Laura and pointing to their glasses for refills. Lockington said, “On the other hand, and for whatever it’s worth, the current Stella Starbright has been receiving death threats in the mail.”

Denny hoisted an inquisitive eyebrow. “That right?”

“That’s what she told me.”

“Recent threats?”

“Tail end of last week, and several times before that—it dates back to cold weather.”

Denny made no comment, and Lockington listened to the Ristoranté Italia’s piped-in music—lush, swirling strings, muted brasses, throbbing basses—“Begin the Beguine”—“elevator music,” according to the kids—if it didn’t blast your eardrums halfway through your cerebellum, the kids called it “elevator music.” “The kids”—a generation that could not read, neither could it write. Laura had pranced into view, bearing their fresh vodka martinis. She said, “Gotcha couple extra anchovy-stuffed olives this time!”

Denny reached to squeeze her leg, quite high on the thigh. “Good girl!”

Laura wiggled the tip of her tongue at Denny. “
Good
girl—
me
?” She giggled wildly, sounding like a jackhammer gone out of control, Lockington thought.

Denny said, “Busy later?”

Laura’s smile for Duke Denny was the smile of a puma for a lamb chop with the lamb still attached. She said, “Not so’s you could notice.”

Denny said, “Still living on Damen Avenue?”

“Uh-huh—I always make that little joint on the corner before I go home—that’s around midnight, usually.” She giggled again, setting Lockington’s teeth on edge.

Denny said, “The Brass Rail?”

“That’s it—the Brass Rail.” She whispered something into Denny’s ear and went away, smiling mysteriously, scratching her magnificent ass. The tryst had been arranged Chicagostyle, Lockington noted—lay it on the line—first come, first served. He gave Denny a look. “Bum lay, did you say?”

Denny shrugged defensively. “Yeah, but you know how it goes, partner—any old port in a storm.”

Lockington said, “Some storm.” He watched Laura seat herself at her table, her short black skirt rocketing to her thighs and beyond. He said, “Some port.” After a while, he said, “She told me that these threats are made by an outfit identifying itself as LAON—a radical right wing group, apparently.”

Denny was nodding. “LAON—familiar name—I believe LAON stands for Law and Order Now—it’s been around for years—murky organization, all hot air so far as I know—no track record—threats, but no moves of consequence.”

“What if there was a first time—what if the Fisher woman received threats and ignored them? That Stella Starbright column has been spouting ultra-liberal bullshit since its beginning, hasn’t it?”

Denny frowned, “Yeah, but we’re probably trying too hard. You hear of LAON on the streets and everybody laughs—a bunch of Don Quixotes, chances are.”

Lockington didn’t say anything. He’d never heard of LAON on the streets.

Denny ordered spaghetti with clam sauce, Lockington tried the veal française. Laura dropped Denny’s fork into Lockington’s minestrone. Laura apologized. Lockington said, “That’s okay.” They had double Gallianos with black coffee. Lockington said, “Eleanor Fisher probably got picked up by the wrong jocker. These newspaper chippies swing—they get started during their working days and they never hit the brakes. Remember that society reporter from the
Chronicle
?”

“The one Luke Stark was banging?”

“Yeah, she’d been married for ten years, and screwing for twenty.”

“Lucy Wallick—Luke didn’t have a monopoly on Lucy—Lucy had a thing for cops—liked the macho image, probably.”

Lockington yawned. The Eleanor Fisher thing was none of his affair. He was a cop in name only, and not for much longer.

Denny was saying, “Hey, how’s about this—what’s her name again?”

“Erika—Erika Elwood.”

“Well,
she’s
a newspaper woman. Does Erika get it on?”

“I’d think she does. When I told her that I’d show her my switchblade scars, she said that she’d show me her butterfly tattoo.”

Denny smiled a wolfish smile. “Words uttered not completely in jest, perhaps. Where’s her butterfly tattoo?”

“On her appendectomy scar, she told me.”

Denny popped the table with the flat of his hand. “Hey, partner, get to that butterfly and her monkey will be just over the ridge!”

Lockington made a deprecatory gesture. “I’m old enough to be her father.”

Denny snorted. “That
matters
? Give it a shot! Whaddaya stand to
lose
?”

“Uh-uh, not
this
one—if I never see that little conartist again, it’ll be six months too soon!”

Denny signalled for another round of double Gallianos and turned back to Lockington. “
Use
the slut, Lacey—what the hell, she’s certainly used
you
! That’s the name of the game, isn’t it?”

“
Is
it?”

“I asked you first.” Lockington didn’t answer and Denny lit a cigarette. “Well, brace yourself, partner—here comes the commercial.”

Obviously ill-at-ease, Denny was studying the golden depths of his double Galliano, tracing an invisible design on the bright red tablecloth with the handle of his knife. He looked up at Lockington.

Lockington nodded. He’d sensed that there’d been considerably more on Denny’s mind than the death of a woman unknown to either of them.