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.”
“Whatever. 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.
4
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.”
“Are we talking about the same thing?”
“Probably not, but we can get it straightened out at my place.”
The first fat woman had heaved a martyr’s sigh. Fat women are very good at heaving martyr’s sighs. The second fat woman had shuffled impatiently. She’d said, “What are they doing up there, rewriting the goddam theory of goddam relativity?”
The first fat woman had said, “She mentioned a cannon—they could be terrorists!”
Sitting in his car in front of Evasheski’s Liquor Emporium, waiting for Edna Garson, Lockington had watched the fat women come out. The first fat woman had said, “I do believe he was carrying a gun!”
The second fat woman had said, “I know goddam well he was, I saw the goddam thing!” She’d heaved a martyr’s sigh. “Where are the goddam cops when we need them?”
5
Hitting the feathers with Edna Garson wouldn’t have earned Lacey Lockington a great deal of space in the Guinness Book of Records—Edna Garson knew what mattresses were for. She was an upbeat woman possessed by an unflagging zest for life and all its trimmings. She wasn’t beautiful, far from it—her ski-jump nose was slightly askew, her cheek bones were too high and too prominent, her mouth was too wide, her jaw too resolute, but she had those wonderful, fetching, smoky-blue eyes, she was damned attractive, and she knew it.
Edna’s willowy contours belied her thirty-seven years, her dazzling shock of honey-blonde hair was identifiable from a quarter-mile’s distance, her skin was whipped cream smooth and sun-stained to gold, her tailored slacks clung to the more important creases of her exquisite body with magnetic tenacity, and her free-striding saunter had been responsible for more traffic accidents than any six-inch snowfall in Chicago’s history.
She had round heels, she made no secret of the fact, and on a scale of ten, the bedroom Edna Garson had been awarded a multitude of fifteens. Edna was a thoroughly-educated, highly-skilled sexual technician—she savored men, she devoured them, and she discarded them with gleeful gusto. But she hadn’t dropped Lockington, not yet. Since that March afternoon at Evasheski’s Liquor Emporium, they’d spent considerable time together, not all of it in bed, their brief relationship blossoming into more than could have been stuffed between a set of Edna’s discount-store sheets.
That she’d developed something for Lacey Lockington was readily apparent to the most casual of observers, if Edna Garson had any casual observers. When they’d sit talking in a Shamrock Pub back booth, she’d touch him constantly, her fingertips brushing the backs of his hands, her alert smoky-blue eyes growing dreamy, her knowing smile dissolving into a wispy thing bordering on the naïve, her saucy, Chicago-style banter fading to be replaced by the gentle tones of a sister of the church.
They’d discuss a variety of subjects, most of them inconsequential, their conversations amounting to irrelevancy stacked upon irrelevancy. They’d take turns at defending indefensible positions, arriving at no firm conclusions whatsoever, but enjoying the trip nonetheless. They’d tease as lovers sometimes do once firmly established as residents of that blindly blissful state—Lockington would remark that Edna’s lipstick was smeared, demanding an immediate explanation, and she’d fake a yawn, responding that she’d taken the entire Pepper Valley baseball team to bed, and Lockington would ask if it’d been a rewarding experience and she’d say, Oh, yes, downright mindboggling despite the fact that Nick Noonan had been a lousy lay.
It’d continue along such lines until around midnight when, with the late workers pouring in and the juke box being turned up to ear-splitting volume, they’d walk the half-dozen doors east to Edna’s second-story Grand Avenue apartment where Lockington would sit on Edna’s sagging blue corduroy-covered living room couch, smoking, nursing a glass of Martell’s, watching Edna peel to the skin, save for her open-toed spike-heeled pumps, because a naked woman in spike-heeled pumps has a helluva lot more appeal than a barefooted naked woman, and Edna was aware of this.
It was a leisurely business, Edna draping her clothing over the back of the couch, studying him as she stripped, measuring her effect with experienced smoky-blue eyes before sitting beside him to share his glass of Martell’s.
It’d become a ritual, prefacing those moments when they’d chat about where they’d been and how they’d gotten to where they were, a treadmill colloquy that whiled away their cognac period. Lockington would glance at Edna’s lithe, tawny body, biding his time, anticipating that which he knew would come, making no move until she’d pop to her feet, taking his hand to lead him into her bedroom, and shortly after the lights had gone out she’d observe that their doing this—“oh, God, Locky, Locky!—seemed such a—there, that’s it!, that’s it!—perfectly natural thing—do it, Locky, for Christ’s sake, do it to me!—didn’t he—now, Locky, now, now, NOW!—agree?”
And Lockington, who’d never dwelled on the subject at great length, would struggle to regain his breath because Edna Garson was eleven years his junior and she possessed a sexual master’s degree plus the stamina of a race horse, and he’d mumble Yes, certainly he agreed, having only the foggiest conception of what he was agreeing to, doubting Edna’s veracity and his own because, after all, they were big city people and big city people rarely mean what they say, just their saying it tends to suffice. He’d put these fuzzy exchanges down as attempts to justify what they’d just done and, later, with his face buried in her sweet-smelling shaggy mop of yellow hair and her breath hot on his chest, he’d drift in the general direction of sleep, rationalizing that what they’d just done wasn’t in dire need of justification—if it hadn’t been completely moral it certainly hadn’t been illegal, they hadn’t hurt anybody. It’d happened before and it’d happen again, with each other and with God knew whom, and he’d wonder if these efforts to defend their lust didn’t indicate something beyond the ordinary, since ordinary lust requires no flowery epilogues nor does it seek them.
It was an excellent affair, as affairs go, typical of its time and location, a thing of understanding that defied understanding, a substantive thing devoid of substance, a demanding thing that made no demands, and it would cross Locking
ton’s mind that at sometime during the progress of their arrangement he must have lied to her, and he’d hope to Almighty God that he had, because if he hadn’t it was twenty, ten and even that he’d fallen in love with Edna Garson, and that was a position Lockington wasn’t anxious to occupy. He’d been in love, and he’d experienced the agonies of withdrawal.
During the dawn of Friday, August 17, Lockington sat on the edge of Edna Garson’s bed, listening to her contented breathing, smoking his wake-up cigarette, considering his recent case of snakebite. It appeared to be healing, but there is no trusting appearances, as Richard Brinsley Sheridan said.
Unfortunately, Lacey Lockington had never heard of Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
6
There are thoughts that come unwanted and unannounced, they come like locusts, blackening the green fields of a man’s mind, ripping, devouring. There is no putting them off, and no dealing with them. So it was with Detective Sergeant Lacey Lockington and his thoughts in a booth of a little Italian restaurant on Barry Avenue during a rainy Sunday evening in Chicago.
She’d slipped into his life some eight months earlier, a slender shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom of a darkened room. It’d been December, a week prior to Christmas, and Lockington had been coming home from the Shamrock Pub’s Christmas party at twelve-fifteen in the morning in the middle of a driving snow storm, halflit-up, singing “Beautiful Dreamer” at the top of his lungs, “Beautiful Dreamer” having had nothing whatsoever to do with the Christmas season, but Lockington had felt like singing something at the top of his lungs, and “Beautiful Dreamer” had been the first thing to cross his mind, meshing with his sentimental mood.
The storm had been sweeping the city like a great white broom, visibility had been twenty feet at best, and Lockington had taken a side street, cutting north from Grand Avenue to Barry, an inadvisable move that he wouldn’t have made had he been sober because any Chicagoan knows that you should stay the hell off the side streets when it’s snowing. In Chicago the main thoroughfares get plowed when they get around to it, the side streets never, ever, ever.
The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One Page 2
