The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One (14 page)

The Katy’s panties affair had been a departure from Denny’s form, because Duke believed that simplicity is the essence of success, and he’d based his phenomenal string of conquests on a singularly inauspicious approach. At the initial tallyho, Denny could swap colors as effortlessly as a chameleon, suddenly projecting an aura of innocent bewilderment, his customary suave and outgoing demeanor giving way to fumbling, bumbling reticence—he became the kid from the barnyard, overwhelmed by the big city. Development of this facade had required a great deal of practise but it’d been worth the effort expended—it was convincing, and when presented with Denny’s innate thespian skills, it served to endear him to the hearts of women, striking resounding chords within them, arousing nigh uncontrollable desires to protect and mother this wide-eyed defenseless bumpkin. That lure, working in tandem with striking good looks and the physique of a Roman gladiator, made Duke Denny a withering force in the field of pussy-chasing, and small indeed was the wonder that his intended quarry of the hour, no matter how worldly-wise, was very apt to find herself stripped, bedded, and impaled before she was fully cognizant of which the hell end was up.

Lockington drove directly home from the Loop, or as directly as it was possible to drive to West Barry Avenue from downtown Chicago at 5:00 in the afternoon, which was not directly at all, the twelve-mile trip consuming upwards of an hour. He shucked his clothing, showered, slipped into pajamas and robe, opened a can of beer, made a salami sandwich, and had his evening repast while reading a chapter of
Tom Sawyer,
the one in which Tom and Becky emerge safely from the cave. Lockington liked that part best—it gave him goose bumps.

He was smoking his after-dinner cigarette when the doorbell rang. He checked his watch. It was 7:05. Edna Garson stood in the vestibule. She stepped into the apartment, shoving a fifth of Martell’s at Lockington.

She said, “Dammit, I was lonely!”

Not knowing what else to say, Lockington said, “Oh?”

Edna closed the door, locking it. Her fingers went to the top button of her blouse. She said, “Now or later?”

Lockington said, “I have that choice?”

Edna’s blouse was open, slipping downward to expose one creamy shoulder. Her gaze was rapt. She said, “Quite frankly, no.”

The bedroom was silent and the vague scent of Edna Garson’s hyacinth perfume washed over Lockington like a light purple fog. Or maybe it wasn’t hyacinth—Lockington didn’t know one scent from another—well, onions, garlic, boiling cabbage, and roses—he could identify those readily enough. But Edna was wearing good perfume, whatever it was. She lay on her left side, her back to him, breathing slowly, deeply, barely audibly, her honey-blonde hair splashed fan-like on the crumpled pillow, Lockington cupping her right breast, a man closer to heaven than he had any right to be. Once in a while she’d twitch in her sleep, mumbling softly, unintelligibly. Then, at exactly 2:30
A.M.
Lockington’s telephone went off like a seventeen-dollar firecracker, nearly knocking him out of bed. Muttering a curse on Alexander Graham Bell, he lunged across Edna’s shoulder to seize the offending instrument and hear Duke Denny’s voice rolling over the wire. “Lacey?”

Lockington grunted, “Uh–huh.”

Denny said, “Did I wake you up?”

“Uh–huh.”

“Well, partner, I’m sorry about that, but I just came in and Jack Slifka left a note saying you’d called this afternoon.”

“Uh–huh.”

“Making sure that I got to Cleveland okay, Jack’s note says.”

“Uh–huh.”

“There was something that you wanted to discuss?”

“Uh–huh.”

“Oh—well, what happened here was I went out for beer, and I ran into this big blonde tomato—wow, these Cleveland chickies!”

“Uh–huh.”

“I guess that hitting the hay is about all there is to do in Cleveland—hell, the Indians are in the cellar, and the Browns don’t start regular season play for three weeks yet.”

“Uh–huh.”

“I dunno, maybe I shouldn’t say that—I suppose a few of ’em play bingo—they sure got a lot of bingo in Cleveland.”

“Uh–huh.”

“Say, Lacey, I’ll be digging into this inheritance business first thing tomorrow morning—I’m probably outta luck, but there might be a loophole.”

“Uh–huh.”

There was a long silence before Denny said, “Uhh–h–h, correct me if I’m wrong, but I got a hunch you ain’t alone.”

“Uh–huh.”

“Oops, sorry! Well, have fun—I’ll be in touch sometime tomorrow.”

“Uh–huh.” When Lockington returned the telephone to the nightstand, Edna Garson reached to loop her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her, speaking into his mouth. “Locky—Locky, now that we’re both awake and everything—well—”

“Uh–huh?”

She grasped him firmly by the ears, lifting his head, peering at him through the darkness. “Look, don’t you
ever
say
any
thing but ‘
uh–huh
’?”

Lockington sat up. “Why, sure! You think you’re in bed with a dummy? Hell, I even recite poetry!” He slipped a hand under her buttocks, lifting her slightly, swinging her to the middle of the bed. “Want some?”

“Some
what
?”

“Poetry.”

“Well, no, not particularly—you see, what I really had in mind was—”

Lockington had sucked in a deep breath. He said, “Under the wide and starry sky—”

Edna groaned. “Locky, for Christ’s sake, knock that off!”

Lockington’s voice was sonorous. “Dig the grave and let me lie—”

“Hold it, Locky—hold it! What in the name of God are you
doing
?”

“Glad did I live and gladly die—”

“All right, I
see—
yes—
yes—
well, I’ll be damned, this is certainly news to
me
—but
good
news, you understand—how long—when—what—hail, Columbia—you’ve never—”

“And I laid me down with a will—”

“Come on, you big bastard—come on—come
on—come ON
!”

“This be the verse you grave for me—”

“Faster, dammit,
FASTER
!”

“Here he lies where he longed to be—”

“Will you hurry, please? You’re down to the last two God damned
lines—
oh, what the hell, Locky,
Locky, LOCKEEEEEE—
”

“Home is the sailor, home from the sea—”

Edna clamped a violent scissors hold on Lockington’s rib cage, pummeling the small of his back with frantic heels, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, shrieking “
QUOTH THE RAVEN, ‘NEVERMORE’!
”

When the prolonged shudder had departed her body, she lowered her legs, sprawling spread-eagled under him, ruffling his hair, gasping for air. She said, “
Damn,
I blew it—wrong line.”

Lockington said, “No problem—you’ll get it right next time.”

Dreamy-voiced, Edna said, “Where in the hell did you
ever
learn
that
?”

“In junior high—eighth grade—it was an absolute must in Miss Lavagetto’s class.”

“Yes, but that’s not what I meant—”

“Hey, I’m here to tell you, Miss Lavagetto was one very tough cookie! One day she—”

“I don’t want to hear about Miss Lavagetto—I want to know where you picked up that sex with poetry routine!”

Lockington smiled into Edna’s shoulder. “That ain’t the whole shot—I can do a couple or three verses of that thing about the raven—with
gestures,
yet!”

There was newly kindled interest in Edna’s voice. “Is that right? What
kind
of gestures?”

Lockington said, “Like this.” He made great flapping motions with his arms, sort of like a raven, he thought.

Edna Garson’s sigh was a dismal thing. She said, “Uhh–h–h, tell me, what ever became of Miss Lavagetto?”

When Lockington reached the agency building at 9:25 on Wednesday morning, Moose Katzenbach was seated on the stair, a pair of large white styrofoam coffee containers and a brown paper bag on the top step beside him. He said, “At your service, Master.”

Lockington said, “Sorry I’m late, Moose—had to stop at the bank.”

Moose hoisted his bulk to a standing position, looking Lockington over. He said, “Where in blazes were
you
last night?”

“Why, did I miss something?”

“Apparently not—you look like you got dragged through a very small knothole.”

Lockington nodded, “Yeah, well, it wasn’t last night, it was this morning—a fat woman just rammed into me with the handle of her umbrella!”

“Where?”

“Right in the balls!”

“Okay, but
where
?”

“Half-a-block from here—she was walking east, looking west!”

“Her
umbrella
handle?”

“Yeah, and it ain’t even gonna
rain
! Moose, something’s gonna have to be done about these God damned
fat
broads—they’re a
menace
!” He handed Moose his back pay as he unlocked the agency door. “What’s in the bag?”

“Couple chunks of apple pie. After you called last night, Helen went right to work. You didn’t eat breakfast, did you?”

“Naw, didn’t have time.” It was a lie—he’d fixed scrambled eggs and sausage before he’d left his apartment, but there was always room for Helen Katzenbach’s apple pie. They went in, seating themselves at the desk to wash down apple pie with coffee. Lockington said, “No doubt about it—Helen makes the world’s greatest apple pie!”

Moose was silent for the better part of a minute. Then he said, “Helen ain’t doing too well, Lacey. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have her.”

Lockington munched the last of his apple pie, the taste going out of it now. He lit a cigarette to go with the dregs of his coffee before speaking into the thickening quiet of the office. “Moose, I can reach for you but I can’t touch you—I know where you’re coming from, but I’ve never been there.”

“The hell you haven’t—you lost a woman. I heard about it.”

“Yeah, but that had to be different—with her it was sudden and the shock damned near killed me, but it was probably a helluva lot easier than the long haul—you’ve been looking this thing in the eye for how many years now?”

“I dunno—seven, eight, maybe nine.”

“Moose, if I can be of help—”

Moose shook his head. “Nobody can help, Lacey—drugs, surgery, nothing—it’s a dead-end one-way street—just a matter of time.”

“We’re all on that street, Moose—Helen’s gonna outlive a lotta people who don’t even know they’re
on
it!”

They lounged around the office. Moose killed a fly, swatting it with the flat of his hand. He was quick, and for a
big
man, he was greased lightning. The telephone rang at 10:12—wrong number—a woman looking for DeHoff’s Delicatessen.

They talked, they discussed the Cubs, the Bears, the Bulls, the Blackhawks, the Mayor, the City Council, the weather, the condition of Chicago’s streets, women they hadn’t taken to bed and wished they had, women they’d taken to bed and wished they hadn’t, virtually everything within mutually discussable range. Moose was slouching back and forth in front of the desk like a short-leashed grizzly. He said, “Duke Denny ain’t exactly tearing up the league in this private investigations business—you know that, don’t you?”

Lockington shrugged. “Duke’s getting by—he grossed seven-thousand on that Grimes thing—he doesn’t need a helluva lotta those.”

Moose spun like he’d been stung by a hornet. “Seven
thousand
—who told you
that
?”

“Duke. Who else?”

Moose jerked a hand from a pocket to level a forefinger at Lockington. “Lacey, Duke got seven
hundred
and expenses for the Grimes job—I
know,
because I was right here when he swung the deal with that female rhinonceros! You know
why
I was right here? I was right here because there was nothing for me to do anyplace
else
! Duke hadn’t turned a wheel for two weeks before she got here and he ain’t turned one since she
left
! Which is probably why he fired my ass—the sonofabitch just couldn’t afford to
pay
me!”

Lockington kicked it around in his mind. He said, “Well, hell, Moose, he
has
to be turning a buck—he’s driving a brand-new Cadillac convertible, isn’t he?”

“Sure, but—well, look, Lacey, I know that Duke’s a friend of yours, but if you want my opinion, I think he’s hustling women for money—I think he’s a gooddam
gigolo
!”

Lockington shrugged it off, grinning. “Duke’s qualified.”

The phone rang at 10:38—wrong number again—a guy with a southern accent, looking for Stacey’s Model Railroad Shop.

Moose said, “Lacey, let’s go out and do something magnificent.”

Lockington said, “
How
magnificent?”

“
Very
magnificent.”

“Okay, I haven’t done anything very magnificent in a long time.”

“This is just about the most magnificent idea I have ever had!”

“Then it must be extra magnificent because you have had any number of very magnificent ideas, one of which was to goose that waitress at the Ham and Egger on Elston Avenue.”

“Well, how was I to know that she was gonna call the fucking police?”

“And it turned out to be O’Malley and Kerrigan, and when they spotted us, they sat at our table.”

“And when she came over to register her beef, O’Malley pinched her tit.”

“Back to your magnificent idea.”

“Ah, yes! Lacey, this time I have outdone myself!”

“Speak, oh, thinker of profound thoughts!”

“Thou art with me?”

“Fear not!”

“Okay, let’s go blow Nelson G. Netherby’s ass off.”

Lockington said, “Moose, you shouldn’t tempt me like that.”

“Well,
some
body’s gotta get that fat fruit! You can’t fuck as many people as Netherby’s fucked without paying the piper! I’m a few pounds overweight and you shoot a few assholes, and we’re
both
out of a job!”

Lockington stretched and yawned, ditching the subject. He said, “It’s almost eleven o’clock. Why don’t you go to lunch and leave me to contend with this avalanche of clients? Take an hour.”

“Hell,
both
of us could go to lunch and take a
week
! Nobody’d know the difference!”