The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One (2 page)

He always saved the Pepper Valley games for last, like dessert, and he sat at his kitchen table, rolling dice, flipping cards, checking charts, watching anxiously as the Crickets hung on to win a 6–5 nailbiter over the last place Hades Gulf Freighters, pleased with the triumph and particularly impressed by the performance of Nick Noonan, who’d busted a homer and a brace of doubles to chase in four of Pepper Valley’s six runs. Nick Noonan wasn’t a great baseball player, he was mediocre at best but he possesed a curious knack for rising to a difficult situation and playing over his head. Lockington could identify with that type of individual, sensing in Noonan a kindred spirit—they were birds of a feather, the paper Pepper Valley shortstop and the flesh and blood Chicago police detective.

He put on his second pot of coffee, bringing the league statistics up to date while it perked, noting with a frown that Nick Noonan led Cider Press Federation shortstops in errors. Well, what the hell, nobody’s perfect and he liked Nick Noonan. Whatever Lockington’s flaws, there was an indelible streak of loyalty in the man.

The doorbell rang and Lockington left the kitchen table, slouching in response to the summons. Duke Denny stood in the vestibule, sharply dressed as usual—crisp white shirt, beige golf cardigan, fawn slacks, highly-polished two hundred dollar alligator skin loafers—a walking Lucky Strike advertisement if Lockington had ever seen one. Nodding to Lockington, Denny eased into the apartment without invitation. He was a big man, standing better than six-three and weighing 210. He was from someplace in Ohio, thirty-two years old, redheaded, bright green eyed, ruggedly handsome with a quick, white-toothed smile. Single, ambitious, and a devil with the ladies, he’d bitten into Chicago as he’d have bitten into an oversize jelly doughnut—he flat-out
loved
it.

A few years earlier, Denny had been Lockington’s partner on the force. Lockington had shown the greenhorn from Ohio the ins and outs of their trade, and if they hadn’t shared the entire filthy tapestry, they hadn’t missed many threads. They’d waded through street gangs, gambling, juice loans, extortion, whores, narcotics, rapes, murders and the assorted ingredients that made Chicago rotten to the depths of its incurably diseased soul. Denny had saved Lockington’s life once and Lockington had returned the favor on a couple of occasions. They’d learned to anticipate each other’s moves, and proved a brilliantly effective tandem until Denny quit the force to open his small private investigations agency on West Randolph Street.

Denny had been an exuberantly enthusiastic cop, believing that the end usually justified the means no matter how drastic, and he’d cut a few fancy corners, quite a few, in fact. But Lockington had swept his partner’s minor transgressions under the rug, not wishing to endanger their excellent working relationship by splitting hairs. They’d maintained their connection since the separation—small talk over beer at the Sherwood Tap, reminiscences over dinner at Berghoff’s—that
alte kameraden
thing shared by old soldiers, old sewer workers, old whatevers who’d served under the same banners. As a rule, memories hardly matter until men begin to grow old, but Duke Denny was an exception, a young man to whom memories were already precious. He’d dredge up faded experiences from their days together, things that would bring a furtive tear, like the time Lockington had been forced to shoot an old lady’s bull terrier when the beast had attacked him without provocation, and Lockington had taken a day off to buy her another. And there’d be chuckles—the night a good-looking North Clark Street whore had bet Duke Denny five dollars that she could rape him, and Denny had lost without putting up so much as a token struggle because her going rate was fifty, and he’d come down with a major league case of gonorrhea which had cost him nearly two hundred.

“I’m off today, Duke,” Lockington said as they shook hands.

Denny said, “Yeah, I checked downtown. I got time for a cuppa coffee.”

Lockington led the way into the kitchen. He said, “Black?”, knowing the answer before he’d asked the question. Denny nodded Yes.

Denny eyed the chaos of Lockington’s kitchen table, cluttered with Cider Press Federation paraphenalia, before flopping onto a chair and lighting a cigarette. “How’s Pepper Valley doing?” he asked. Since the birth of the Cider Press Federation, Denny had displayed an amused interest in the fortunes of Lockington’s favorite make-believe baseball team.

Lockington poured coffee, shrugging. “We’re 29 and 31, but we’ll come around—we still got a shot at third, maybe even second.”

“Delta River’s running wild?”

“Yeah, can’t miss.” He seated himself across from Denny, staring inquisitively at his ex-partner over the chipped rim of his coffee cup. He said, “All right, Duke, what’s the shake? You aren’t here to run a check on Pepper Valley.”

Denny took a noisy slurp of his coffee, making a face. “God Almighty, that’s
abominable
stuff—no, I wondered if you’d seen this.” He dragged a folded section of the Chicago
Morning Sentinel
from a hip pocket, shoving it to Lockington between the sugar bowl and the salt shaker. “Hot item.”

Lockington glanced down at the newspaper. “The
Sentinel
? I don’t read that sleazy rag.”

“Well, maybe you oughta start—the
Sentinel’s
making you a celebrity! Sneak a peek at
Stella on State Street
—Page Three—Stella’s always on Page Three, left-hand side.”

Lockington unfolded the paper, found the column, skipped hurriedly through it, smothered a yawn, and said, “So what?”

“So
what
? Holy Christ, Lacey, this is her
second
barrage! She got all over your case when you blew Solano away! None of the guys told you about that?”

“Aw, c’mon, Duke—how many cops can read?”

“Maybe you know the tomato—this Stella Starbright.”

“I wouldn’t know Stella Starbright from a busted bass fiddle, but I know her
type
—she’s forty-seven, fat, frumpy, bleached-blonde, watery gray-eyed with capped teeth, an incurable romantic, a born liar, a quick-weeper, and she needs a whole bunch of psychiatric help.”

“Well, whatever she is, she sure got a roaring hard-on for
you
!”

“Stella Starbright got a roaring hard-on for the whole damned human race! Just last month she teed off on Johann Gutenberg, then she did a number on Jesus Christ—in the same column, yet!”

“Johann Gutenberg—who’s Johann Gutenberg?”

“He invented the printing press.”

“That’s right—they should have lynched the sonofabitch! Hey, didn’t you just tell me that you never read the
Sentinel
?”

“I don’t. Gus Markowski was telling me.”

“All right, who’s Gus Markowski?”

“My barber. He knew all about Johann Gutenberg but he’d never heard of the other guy.”

Denny maintained a straight face, shaking his head slowly. He said, “Lacey, you just ain’t never gonna change, are you?”

Lockington scowled. “Call it involuntary resistance—I don’t cotton to change.”

Denny nodded. “Well, neither do I, but a man has to look it in the eye when it shows up. Take me, for example—I stand a damned good chance of losing Moose Katzenbach.”

“Moose? Haven’t seen him in months. What’s with him?”

“He’s talking about quitting.”

“What for? Don’t you two hit it off?”

“Sure, we hit it off, but he keeps yakking about moving to Brooklyn; something about his brother-in-law buying a gin mill and needing a bartender.”

“That isn’t Moose talking—that’s Helen. You know Helen Katzenbach?”

“No.”

“Fine lady. Helen has a bum ticker. She’s been talking Brooklyn ever since she got to Chicago. She’s a sick woman, Duke—sick people suffer from attacks of nostalgia.”

“What
ever
. But if I lose Moose Katzenbach, my ass is in a sling!”

“Run yourself an ad in the
Chronicle
—Chicago’s crawling with busted-down gumshoes.”

“How about you, Lacey? If Moose checks out would
you
be interested?”

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

“You don’t need
new
tricks. Hell, you invented all the
old
tricks! I’d sure as hell beat what the City of Chicago’s paying you!”

“Naw, Duke. I’m a has-been, stuck with what I got. But thanks, anyway.”

“Okay, partner, I figured as much. Well, keep it in mind, just in case.”

“I’ll do that. More coffee?”

“More coffee and I’ll piss from here to Randolph Street.” Denny got up, retrieved his hat from the sinkboard, jammed it onto his head at a rakish angle, gave Lockington an affectionate wallop on the shoulder, and went out whistling a bit of “Musetta’s Waltz,” or a bit of what Lockington
thought
was “Musetta’s Waltz.” Lockington wasn’t much on opera. He preferred ragtime.

He walked to his living room window to watch Denny pull away in a sparkling black Caddy convertible, peeling rubber. Denny was a big spender, a little man in a large hurry; streetwise but far from all-knowing. And, Lockington had heard stories—Denny was in over his head; Denny was accepting big bucks to handle shabby cases; Denny was cooking his books to stay a jump in front of the IRS. Lockington had shrugged these off as sour grapes from Chicago’s unreliable vine. So far as Lockington knew, Duke Denny was doing just dandy. Beyond that, it wasn’t what a man
was
that mattered to Lockington, it was what a man was to
Lockington
that mattered, and Denny had always been straight-up with Lockington. About Moose Katzenbach, Lockington remembered him fondly. He’d been Lockington’s first partner, a fat, good-natured guy with a heart bigger than all outdoors. He’d blown his physical exam a half dozen times and they’d drummed him out of service. Out of sight, out of mind. He’d have to drop in on Moose one of these days.

Lockington checked the Cider Press Federation schedule, wincing. Pepper Valley would be departing Hades Gulf to move into Bannerville and it’d be tough sledding in Bannerville. The Crickets would be running into Dayton McClure in the series opener, and Dayton McClure was 11–2 with three shutouts and over a hundred strikeouts.

Well, that game would have to wait.

He showered, shaved, slipped into a blue shirt, blue slacks and gray sports coat. He drove to the Shamrock Pub on Grand Avenue where he drank Martell’s cognac until he went to bed with Edna Garson, the part-time cashier at Evasheski’s Liquor Emporium, a block west on the south side of Grand Avenue. That was where Lockington had met Edna Garson—at Evasheski’s Liquor Emporium, back in April.

It’d been a bitterly cold and gusty-gray early April afternoon when he’d stopped at Evasheski’s Liquor Emporium to pick up a bottle of Martell’s cognac. Prowling around for ten minutes, he hadn’t been able to locate Martell’s, so he’d settled for a quart of Flemish Pride and headed for the checkout counter, narrowly beating a fat woman to the cashier’s chute. The fat woman had been carrying a six-pack of Hickory Barrel Ale and she’d tapped Lockington brusquely on the shoulder. She’d said, “Let me go first.”

If she’d been a skinny woman, or even a pleasantly plump woman, he’d have said, “Yes, ma’am,” and stepped aside, but she’d been fat and since he’d never gotten along with fat women, he’d said, “Why?”

The fat woman’s eyes had glinted dangerously. Over the years, Lockington had noticed that fat women’s eyes usually glint dangerously. She’d said, “On account of I only got one item.”

Lockington had glanced at her six-pack of Hickory Barrel Ale. He’d said, “Excuse me, but
you
got
six
items—
I
got
one
item.”

The fat woman had been joined in line by another fat woman, this one lugging a gallon jug of Old Roma chianti wine. The first fat woman had turned to the second fat woman. She’d said, “There are no more gentlemen!”

The second fat woman’s eyes had glinted dangerously. She’d said, “Oh, goddam, ain’t it the goddam truth?”

Edna Garson had been perched on a rickety wooden stool at Evasheski’s cash register, her buttocks bulging ever so slightly over the seating surface. She’d been reading a paperback copy of
Nine Loves Have I
by Carolyn Bliss, whose real name was probably Ophelia Snodgrass, Lockington had figured. Edna had put her book to one side, ringing up Lockington’s purchase, looking him over as she’d punched keys. It’d struck Lockington as being a rather thorough looking over. She’d said, “Haven’t I seen you at the Shamrock?”

“I don’t know—have you?” Lockington said, knowing that she probably had.

Edna had said, “Do you spend a great deal of time at the Shamrock?”

Lockington had nodded. He’d said, “And a great deal of my paycheck.”

Edna had slipped the bottle of Flemish Pride carefully into a slender brown paper bag. She’d said, “You like cognac?”

Lockington had said, “Not really—I’m buying this for the Pope. The Pope likes cognac.”

Edna had scratched her upper thigh. It’d been just one helluva upper thigh, in Lockington’s estimation. She’d said, “Just where do you intend to gargle this turpentine?”

Lockington had said, “My place.” He’d winked at Edna Garson. He’d said, “Unless I get a better offer, of course.”

Edna had winked back, handing him his change and meeting his eyes. Edna had unblinking smoky-blue eyes, the kind that convey sincerity in huge gobs, or any number of things, also in huge gobs. She’d said, “I was coming to that. Why not my place?”

“Where’s your place?”

Edna had peeked at her watch. She’d said, “I could show you—I get off in a little under twenty-five minutes.”

Lockington had said, “I’ve seen it done in a little under twenty-five seconds.”

Edna had nodded, her tongue bulging her cheek. “Possibly, but there’s a difference between popguns and cannons, you see.”

Lockington had said, “I see.”

Edna had said, “Not yet, you don’t.” She’d run the tip of her tongue slowly across her lower lip. “But seeing is believing.”

“Who was it said that?”

“I did.”

“Yes, but haven’t there been others—Bacon—Wordsworth—Johnson?”

“Well, certainly, but some you remember, and some you don’t—there might have been a Johnson.”