The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One (16 page)

“Yeah, I heard—shot through the head.”

“I didn’t catch how it happened. Was it on the news?”

“Yeah, a week ago. Where you been?”

“How could it have been on the news a week ago? They just found her this morning. She was in a ditch along the Soo Line grain track on Green Street out in Bensenville.”

Lockington nodded, the chilling significance of Lieutenant Buck Curtin’s visit washing over him, heading for the door, one thoroughly bewildered six-foot-one, 205 pound, forty-eight year old ex-police detective with the damndest case of snakebite he’d ever heard of.

He tottered eastward, numbed to the bone, covering the two-and-a-half busy blocks to the corners of State and Randolph in the fashion of a man who’s just endured a ten hour heavy artillery barrage. Just three weeks earlier, everything had been peaches down in Georgia for Lacey Lockington—his horizon might not have been as rosy as he’d have liked it, but there hadn’t been a cloud in sight. Now he was a suspended, about-to-be-fired cop with a jury-acceptable motive for murder in the first degree, Chicago’s hottest homicide detective snapping at the seat of his pants. You never miss the sunshine till the raindrops start to fall—a line from a song in a minstrel show he’d attended as a youngster. He couldn’t remember the tune but all of a sudden the words made sense.

The newsstand had stood at State and Randolph since Lockington could remember. You could buy London newspapers there, Paris newspapers, newspapers from every major city in the United States. There was a gangly, pimply-faced kid tending the stand when Lockington got there. He was the cocky, belligerent type. He wore a five-dollar pair of threadbare blue jeans and an eighty-dollar pair of Nike jogging shoes. A cork-tipped cigarette dangled Bogart-style from his lower lip. Lockington said, “Pardon me—could you tell me where I can find Information Brown?”

The punk blew smoke through his nose in the approved manner of 1938 B movie detectives. He gave Lockington that look reserved by the Now Generation for the ancient and infirm. He spoke from a corner of his mouth, the same corner used by Edward G. Robinson. He said, “Whaddaya want with Information Brown?”

Lockington said, “I’m putting together a hit squad to assassinate the Prince of fucking Wales.”

The punk didn’t blink. He said, “Hey, grandpa, if you know Information Brown, you know where he
is
.”

Lockington said, “Mum’s the word, kid.” The boy’s answer had been insolent but adequate. He crossed Randolph Street, doubling back to the west as far as the Squirrel’s Cage Tavern, entering to spot Information Brown seated at the far end of the bar, alone and looking forlorn. Lockington sat next to him. He said, “Howdy, Info, what’re you gargling?”

Information Brown’s hangdog expression brightened perceptibly. He said, “Well, Lacey Lockington, you dog—Walker’s DeLuxe!”

Lockington said, “Walker’s DeLuxe? That looks like beer.”

Information Brown said, “I was drinking beer till you got here—now I’m drinking Walker’s DeLuxe—you see, Lacey, in this town there just ain’t no fucking invariables.”

Information Brown was a smallish, wiry man, graying, wearing a Knights of Columbus windbreaker with a Masonic emblem high on its left chest. There was a Chicago Cubs patch on one sleeve, a Chicago White Sox patch on the other—Information Brown never took sides. He was a walking encyclopedia of Chicago affairs—he could tell you who was who and who wasn’t ever gonna
be
who, he knew the city as Robin Hood had known Sherwood Forest, every nook, every seam, every cranny, and he knew its denizens—every hack, every hustler, every hood, every whore. Information Brown possessed the retentive powers of a five-million-dollar computer, he could have blackmailed half the populace of Chicago, and he was concentrating on drinking himself to death, his only excuse being that he didn’t want to die sober. He studied Lockington with glassy bloodshot eyes. He said, “Been a while, Lacey. Why now?”

Lockington said, “Well, for the moment, let’s file it under self-preservation.” He slid a twenty-dollar bill onto the bar, spurring the barkeep to action—in Chicago’s Loop, nothing smaller than a twenty will do it. He said, “Info, this
ex-Sentinel
writer who got scragged last night—who was she—how was she killed—what do you have on that?”

Information Brown said, “You working that case? I heard you got suspended.”

“I did. If I was working it, I’d know this stuff. Curtin got it.”

“Then God help
some
poor sonofabitch! Curtin don’t strike out often.”

Lockington made no response.

Information Brown said, “Well, for whatever it’s worth to a guy who got no business being interested, her name was Connie Carruthers, and she was strangled—small hours of this morning.” He downed his Walker’s DeLuxe, pointed to his empty glass, and cleared his throat, warming to his task. “Connie did a six year stretch with the
Sentinel,
about half of it grinding out that
Stella on State Street
thing—she tossed in the towel a couple years back when she married Jason Carruthers—Carruthers owns a string of photoengraving houses, Chicago to Florida—big bucks there, but she blew the marriage—she couldn’t keep her pants on.”

“What was her maiden name?”

“Mmm-m-m-m—Mandell, maybe—no, Kendall—yeah, make it Kendall. She was a swinger before and after she got hitched—skated high, wide, and upside-down—hung around The Boiled Ostrich up on the Gold Coast, Rush Street—fine-looking chickie, scored at will, took most of the local sports celebs to bed—went every goddam route known to mankind—French, Greek, Bedouin—you name it, Connie Carruthers was good at it.”

“Just one moment—
Bedouin,
did you say?”

“Never completely understood that one, Lacey—it calls for a camel, I’ve heard.”

“Look, Info, let me take a shot in the dark—the character who runs the
Sentinel
—any way he could be involved? They say he’ll go to the moon on a manure wagon if there’s a headline in it. A couple of murdered Stella Starbrights ain’t gonna damage the
Sentinel’s
circulation numbers.”

Information Brown shook his head vehemently. “No way! The
Sentinel
ain’t cashing on the Stella Starbright stuff—no mention of it. No, he’s clean, and he’s concerned as hell, I understand.”

“What sort of character is he—what’s his name—Jarvis?”

“Yeah, Max Jarvis—Max is sixty, plus or minus—born into North Shore money—graduate of Loyola University—ultraconservative—brilliant mind—he led the—”

“
Hold
it, for Christ’s sake! Ultra
-what
?”

Information Brown grinned a bleary grin. “Conservative, like I said—he’s a flaming
radical
—he helped found the Grayfriar Society!”

“Grayfriar Society?”

“You wouldn’t want to live under the Grayfriar Society’s rules—that bunch is so far right it’s outta
sight
! That ain’t all—Jarvis is a charter member of God knows how many similar organizations—he’s a drum-pounding, flag-waving sonofabitch from the old Yankee Doodle school!” Lockington sat in silence, shaking his head, and Information Brown continued. “He’s never been married, but he was an expert cocksman in his day—he had a few hundred affairs, but none of ’em got out of the chute except the scorcher he had with a Michigan City honky-tonk stripper—Bonita Berea—that one trailed smoke for a
decade
!”

“When was this?”

“Long time ago—early fifties, ran into the sixties, as I recall. Bonnie could really grind that thing—saw her get it on a few times back when Michigan City was a fast track. Bonnie’s dead now, incidentally.”

“Dead how long?”

“Not very.”

“
How
not very?”

“Well, let’s see—only a couple, three months—got her head bashed in right in her own bedroom, assailant unknown—they put it down as robbery—they thought some jewelry was missing.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It didn’t make much of a splash—run-of-the-mill suburban murders don’t rate big copy in Chicago. She was an easy mark—had a nice a secluded property out on Deerfield Road—she lived alone—no watchdog, and her nearest neighbor was a quarter-mile away. Nothing to it.”

“Let’s get back to Jarvis—he interests me.”

Information Brown hoisted his Walker’s DeLuxe, putting it away with an expert flip of the wrist, shoving his glass to the rim of the mahogany, winking an okay at the man behind the bar. “Jarvis had a bundle going in, big inheritance—bought the
Sentinel
at ebb tide, got it dirt-cheap. He overhauled editorial policy, moved to the sensational, made a ton of money—Jarvis got to be worth fifty million.”

Lockington said, “A fifty-million-dollar asshole—he’s a conservative, yet his stinking newspaper pisses on everything that’s American in concept. Info, that just don’t
rhyme
!”

“He’s a conservative
politically,
which don’t mean that he ain’t an opportunist in the
business
field! The Chicago
Morning Sentinel
is a hot rag, and controversy made it that way—there just ain’t nothing like
controversy
!”

“All right, you said that Jarvis belongs to various right-wing factions—how many
are
there—right here in Chicago, I mean.”

Information Brown shrugged. “Hell, no more than half-a-dozen that anybody’s ever heard of, I suppose.” He polished off his Walker’s DeLuxe and made a motion to the bartender. “There’s Concerned Conservative Citizens of Chicago—that’s probably the most influential of the locals—Jarvis contributes heavily to it—then there’s—”

Lockington cut in on him. “LAON—tell me about LAON.”

“
You
tell
me
. What’s LAON?”

Lockington watched Information Brown’s fourth Walker’s DeLuxe vanish down the hatch. He watched Information Brown gesture for a fifth. He watched his twenty-dollar bill shrink to a ten. He said, “LAON is a conservative outfit, maybe
dangerously
conservative—L—A—O—N—Law and Order Now, I’ve been told.”

“By whom?”

“Duke Denny.”

Information Brown snorted. “Duke
Denny
? Jesus Christ, Lacey, Duke Denny don’t have enough sense to pound sand into a fucking knothole!”

Lockington shrugged. “Duke didn’t claim to know anything about it—all he said was that nobody takes LAON seriously.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of it.”

“Then who
might
have?”

Information Brown pondered the question while quaffing his fresh Walker’s DeLuxe and smiling a yes to the bartender’s questioning eyebrows. Eventually he raised a prescient forefinger. “There’s a refugee from the loony-bin out in Franklin Park—”

“Franklin Park’s
swarming
with refugees from loony-bins!”

“Yeah, but this one’s a
preacher
—he made up his own religion. Can you imagine that—a home-made religion?”

“When you find one that
ain’t
home-made, give me a call—any old time of the night will be just dandy. What is the name of
this
one?”

“First Church of Jesus Christ Our Glorious and Crucified Redeemer, I’m pretty sure.”

“Well, if you’re wrong, don’t sweat it. What about the preacher—who is he?”

“The Reverend Abraham Wright. He’s got a whole bunch of people following him.”

“So did John Dillinger. Wright could know something about LAON?”

“He’s your best bet in the Chicago area—he’s hooked up with rightist movements from coast to coast. LAON—how come you’re interested?”

“I got a bet with Duke Denny.”

“You’re a loser already—Denny never paid a bet in his life—he owes every bookie from here to Muncie, Indiana!”

Lockington sighed, slipping from his barstool as Information Brown wiped out another Walker’s DeLuxe.

“I probably just better have one for the road, don’t you think?”

Helplessly, Lockington said, “Sure, what the hell, why stop
now?
” He salvaged a five-dollar bill, leaving the loose buck for the barkeep, waving so-long to Information Brown and going out to walk west on Randolph Street, his thinking more disorganized than it’d been when he’d left the agency, not certain that he’d gained fifteen dollars worth of knowledge—more like ten, he figured, but it’d been a seller’s market, and Information Brown had been aware of that.

There was something squirming in the undercurrent, something hairy—Lockington could
feel
it. He was stumped. He was an aging, trail-wise hound with a strange scent in his nostrils—he was on a track and he didn’t have the remotest idea what he could possibly be tracking, but whatever it was, it was deadly.

On a sudden hunch he turned into Leo’s Hamburger Palace, a fly-plagued, roach-infested, greasy spoon eatery. He hustled into the kitchen, flashing his badge. He said, “Police matter—gotta use your backdoor!”

The emaciated old man washing dishes didn’t look up. He said, “Leave the damned thing open—I could use the air.”

Lockington turned left in the alley, found a rear door ajar thirty yards to the east, and used it to place himself in a dim room where a woman was slipping dresses onto hangers. She had frizzy red hair, glaring dark eyes, a mouth constructed along the lines of a bear trap, and she weighed two-seventy-five if she weighed a gram. She stepped in Lockington’s direction, not stopping until they’d made bodily contact. She said, “What do you want from me, you monster?” Her breathing was hotly ragged.

Lockington said, “Nothing, ma’am, nothing at all—this is police business.”

The woman said, “I give you fair warning—if you rip my panties off and rape me, I may scream!”

Lockington said, “I’m not going to rape you, ma’am—I’m not even going to rip your panties off. Where the hell am I?”

“You’re in the stock room of Flora’s Fashions on West Randolph Street. Who
are
you, you beast?”

“Chicago Police Lieutenant Buck Curtin, ma’am.”

“I’m Flora—Flora Hapsburg—I get offjust a little after five.”

Lockington said, “I have to move along, ma’am—there’s a Martian loose in the area.”

Lockington departed Flora’s Fashions by way of the front door, emerging into the tide of traffic on Randolph Street. One fat woman after another. He made his way west a couple of doors. Every now and then a hunch pays off. Buck Curtin stood in a shop doorway, watching the entrance to Leo’s Hamburger Palace the way an eagle watches a gopher hole. Lockington ambled up behind him, tapping him on the shoulder. He said, “Hey, Buck, did you hear the one about the dinosaur and the dragon?”