“Real good memory you got there, Duke. Good night.” Lockington hung up. He hadn’t been stunned by the development, but there’d been a slight twinge of disappointment. He skirted it, returning to sleep, and this time he dreamed. He dreamed that he’d died and that the Devil had him. In his dream he was amazed by his ecstatic sense of relief at getting the hell out of Chicago, Illinois.
13
With dawn came the hangover, and with the hangover the customary melancholy. Lockington, awake briefly at six-fifteen, avoided a portion of the depression by rolling over and sleeping until nearly eleven o’clock, when he roused himself to smoke a cigarette, trying to assemble the scattered pieces of his fractured yesterday, remembering the whirlwind visit of Stella Starbright—or Erika Elwood or Mata Hari or whoever the hell she’d been—his losing tussle with those jugs of Old Anchor Chain, the violent rain storm, Duke Denny’s late-night report on Stella Starbright’s cutthroat column in the Morning Sentinel, and Duke’s invitation to dinner at the Ristoranté Italia. That was all behind Lockington now and if there’d been perceptible changes in his situation, they certainly hadn’t been for the better—except maybe the dinner invitation. A square meal and a couple hours of kicking the gong around with Duke would probably help.
He stared across the bedroom at the bleary-eyed, shaggy apparition reflected in his dresser mirror—the Wolfman of Barry Avenue, he thought, shaking his sleep-tousled head. He eased to his feet, tottering into the bathroom, stepping recklessly into a steaming shower, scrambling hurriedly out of it, readjusting the water temperature to somewhere below the boiling point before stepping back in. He emerged to towel himself dry, shave, brush his teeth, and feel nearly human again. He slipped into his old brown flannel robe and headed for the kitchen where he scrambled two eggs and started the coffee while waiting for the toast to pop.
He ate his breakfast slowly, ruminatively, sipping coffee, paging through the yellowed volume of Tom Sawyer that had become a fixture on his kitchen table, his companion at virtually every meal. If he’d read it once, he’d read it fifty times, beginning back in his fourth grade days. He’d never tired of it. Tom Sawyer had been fortunate, his times had been simpler than Lockington’s, and Lockington envied the youngster, feeling a nostalgia for Tom’s sleepy little river town, his sun-splashed afternoons, his friends and acquaintances, even Injun Joe, that rotten sonofabitch.
He downed a second cup of coffee before washing the dishes. One of Lockington’s many frustrated ambitions was to become neat and orderly, but he’d never quite gotten around to it—something was always in the wrong place. He returned to the bedroom to dress, choosing a short sleeved white shirt, gray cardigan, black slacks, gray socks, and black loafers from a wardrobe that fell considerably short of the extensive category. In the living room he squinted through his window at sunlight, blue sky, and fleecy white clouds, then turned on his radio to catch the noon roundup of the news. Lockington preferred taking his news from radio—he’d never been able to understand why news had become show business, why television required ninety minutes and a cast of a dozen posturing, smirking fruitballs to present a review of events that one reasonably literate radio announcer could have handled in fewer than ten minutes. After all, who the hell cared if Lane Technical High School had held a hayride on a farm near Gray’s Lake? The horses, possibly, if there’d been horses.
The noon news radio reporter was low-key and to the point—on the international front, a bunch of Iranian maniacs had blown up a Paris rock concert, thereby terrifying a bunch of French maniacs. Locally, Chicagoland was bailing out following its most severe rainstorm in fifteen years—the Mayor and his city council had engaged in a free-for-all on the city council floor, the Mayor having been kicked in the groin—a light plane had crashed into a hotdog stand north of Wheeling, Illinois, breaking the pilot’s arm and a gallon jar of mustard—the body of a Wilmette woman, one Eleanor Fisher, had been found in a dumpster behind a gas station in unincorporated Leyden Township—the weather would be clear and sunny with a high of eighty-two degrees—the White Sox would play a twinight doubleheader—the Cubs had lost in Los Angeles 11–4.
That was the news, such as it was, and Lockington stood at his front window, watching the pigeons—a man who had no place to go and nothing to do when he got there.
14
On their morning after, she’d rolled to him, smiling, her dark eyes alive with something that hadn’t been there the night before. She’d whispered, “Oh, Jesus, how I hate to get up!”
Lockington had said, “Then don’t.”
“But you have to go to work.”
“So?”
“Well, the least I can do is make coffee!.”
“Okay, make coffee—I’ll shower and shave.”
She’d run her fingertips along his jowl. “Not bad there, but you’ll probably need that shower. I was—uhh-h-h, dripping—we were making squishy sounds.”
“Yes, we were.”
“I want to thank you for last night—bailing me out of that situation—the warm bed, and, well, everything that went with it. Is breakfast included in the package?”
“Yep. We’re out of bacon, but we have eggs.”
“Scrambled—over easy—how?”
“Whatever you’re pushing.”
“Over easy, then—look—thanks again.”
“The pleasure was mine.”
“Huh-uh—I’ve had the best of it.”
“Think you’ll be here when I get home?”
“I’d like that, but there’s my car—I should get it out of the middle of the street.”
“Give me your keys and I’ll take care of it on my way to work. There’s a good garage a couple of blocks from here.”
“You want me to be here?”
“Yes—very much.” And he did—very much.
“Honest injun?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die!”
“All right, I’ll be here. What would you like for dinner?”
“What’s your specialty?”
“If I have one, it’s lasagna.”
“Say, why don’t we have lasagna?”
“Excellent idea! Red wine?”
Lockington nodded. “There’s money in the top dresser drawer.”
“No, sir—my treat! How far am I from a grocery store?”
“Block and a half west—Sanganiti’s—all the fixings will be there.”
“Block and a half west means nothing to me. In Chicago I don’t know my ass from a mint julep. Which the hell way is west?”
“From the front door, you’ll turn right. Don’t lock yourself out!”
She’d laughed. “Now wouldn’t that be something? Out of the frying pan into the fire—no car, no roof over my head—I’d be a waif!”
“There’s a key where the money is.”
“What time do you get home? Usually, that is.”
“Oh, five—five-thirty.”
She’d sat up in bed, the sheet cascading into her lap. Her bosom was magnificent.
When he’d left the shower and come into the kitchen, she’d been seated at the table, still naked as a jaybird, munching meditatively on a slice of toast. His eggs had been ready and he’d sat across from her, eating rapidly. Between bites he’d said, “I have spare pajamas.”
“Thank you—you’re a trusting soul, do you know that?”
“Not all the time, but I get feelings about people—call it radar.”
“You had feelings last night—I didn’t quite expect—well, you were—you were very, very good.”
“Put that down to the luck of the Irish.”
She’d said, “Huh-uh—there’s no luck in bed—either it works or it doesn’t!”
He’d shrugged, glancing at his watch, gulping the last of his coffee, getting to his feet. “Gotta make tracks.”
She’d said, “I don’t want to seem presumptuous, but what’s your name?”
“Lockington—Lacey Lockington.”
“Mine’s Julie
. You’re a cop?”
“Yeah—hi, Julie! What’s your occupation?”
She’d smiled her wonderful smile. “Hi, Lacey! I’m trying to be a writer. The last name’s Masters.”
Nice, Lockington thought, knowing each other’s names.
15
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!”
16
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 probab
ly 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 anything—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!”
The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One Page 6