The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One

by Ross H. Spencer

  Lockington backed out of his parking spot, slanting the car toward Grand Avenue, stopping just in time to avoid a collision with a pink Cadillac coming down the wrong side of the road. He didn’t get a good look at the driver, but over the years he’d noticed that Chicago fat women have strong preferences for pink Cadillacs.

  23

  On Monday, August 28, a scorching Chicago morning found Lacey Lockington seated at the desk in Duke Denny’s unairconditioned office, mopping sweat, thoroughly mesmerized by the first game of a Pepper Valley–Delta River series. The contest was scoreless in the last half of the sixth inning, two Delta River hitters had been retired, one had walked, Buck Nesbitt was the Delta River batter, Carl Willis was the Pepper Valley pitcher, Buck Nesbitt tagged a Willis pitch deep into right field, and the God damned telephone rang. The caller told Lockington that her name was Millie Fitzgerald, and that she was calling in reference to her cat.

  Lockington wanted to know what about Millie Fitzgerald’s cat.

  Missing, Millie Fitzgerald said. For two nights now, she said.

  Lockington expressed grave concern.

  Millie Fitzgerald wanted to know if Lockington had seen him.

  Lockington said well, no, not to the best of his knowledge.

  Millie Fitzgerald advised Lockington to keep his eyes open.

  Lockington assured her that he’d do that.

  He was gray, Millie Fitzgerald said—gray with black stripes.

  Lockington said uh–huh, just a moment while he made a note of that.

  Millie Fitzgerald told Lockington that her cat’s name was Geronimo.

  Lockington said ah, yes—Geronimo.

  Millie Fitzgerald asked if Lockington didn’t regard that as being unusual.

  Lockington wondered what was unusual about what.

  Millie Fitzgerald said a Siamese cat with an Italian name was unusual, wasn’t it?

  Lockington said yes, by God, it was, it certainly was.

  Millie Fitzgerald said oh, well, what the hell.

  Lockington agreed, Millie Fitzgerald hung up, Jason Browne went to the wall to drag down Buck Nesbitt’s long drive, but Delta River beat Pepper Valley anyway, and a big man in a dark blue suit came in, stopping to stare at Lockington before slamming the door, rattling Duke Denny’s picture of Wrigley Field on the north wall. The big man advanced, scowling, approaching the desk with a lumbering, splayfooted gait, reminding Lockington of a tyrannosaur with fallen arches—a lousy collation but the best he could come up with on short notice. The visitor came to a grinding halt at the edge of the desk, placing skillet-size hands on it and leaning toward Lockington. He said, “You, sir, are a misbegotten, drunken, worthless, rotten, motherfucking, chowder-headed sonofabitch!”

  Lockington nodded. He said, “I know it.”

  The big man said, “For two cents I’d kick your balls up around your fucking ears!”

  Lockington said, “For two cents you can’t buy a stick of chewing gum.”

  The big man said, “All right, how’s about I just do it for nothing?”

  Lockington lit a cigarette. He said, “Up your keester with a blowtorch.”

  The big man grabbed the straight-backed wooden chair with his left hand, handling it like it was a bag of popcorn, hoisting it high over his head. He said, “Don’t get cute with me, cocksucker—I’ll scramble your fucking brains!”

  Lockington didn’t move. He yawned. He said, “You talk like a man with a paper ass.”

  The big man lowered the chair to its accustomed place near the desk, sitting on it, putting out his hand. Lockington took it. He said, “Moose, you bastard, how are you?”

  Moose Katzenbach’s smile was for days gone by. He said, “After that came the part where you hopped off your barstool and about fifteen customers jumped between us to keep somebody from getting killed.”

  Lockington chuckled. “Yeah, that routine really shook ’em up—we worked it at the Trocadero two or three times.”

  “The Troc, and Spud’s Place, and the Poisoned Pup!” He squinted at Lockington. “Lacey, what the hell are you doing here—are you my replacement?”

  “You didn’t know I was here?”

  “Not till I walked through the door, honest to Christ!”

  “No, I’m not your replacement, Moose, not really—I won’t be here longer than a week or ten days. I’m standing in for Duke—he has personal affairs to get straightened out in Cleveland. What about you? I thought you were in Brooklyn.”

  Moose Katzenbach’s eyebrows arched like bushy black rainbows. “Brooklyn? I ain’t been in Brooklyn since Helen’s mother died, five, six years ago. What’s in Brooklyn?”

  “Duke said something about your brother-in-law buying a tavern.”

  “He did—three years back—it burned down. He was losing his ass, so he had it torched. What about it?”

  Lockington shrugged, not carrying it further. He saw it now—Duke Denny had canned Moose Katzenbach to make room for his out-of-a-job ex-partner, cooking up the Katzenbach-to-Brooklyn yarn, not wanting Lockington to know that Moose had been the goat of the switch. “What’s on your mind, Moose?”

  “Duke owes me a week’s pay—thought I’d come around and pick it up. Did he say anything about it before he left?”

  Lockington shook his head. “Naw—Duke had a lotta things on his mind. I got a number where you can reach him in Cleveland. He’ll be in there sometime this afternoon.”

  “I’ll wait—y’know, Lacey, I can’t figure why he let me go—hell, I was doing real good for Duke—never late, always on the job, did every damn thing he wanted, no questions asked. He tell you why he did it?”

  Lockington lied, spreading his hands. “Economy measure, probably.”

  “Economy measure? Hell, I was making under twenty grand a year! How economical can you get?”

  Lockington alibied his silence with the squelching of one cigarette and the lighting of another. Three-seventy-five per week as opposed to seven-fifty—ah, generosity, thy true name is Duke Denny! And, if he’d mention it to him, Duke would reply, “Skip it—that’s what friends are for.” Or something equally ridiculous. Duke was that way.

  Moose Katzenbach was saying, “Hey, how’d that Grimes thing work out?”

  “Just fine—providing that you aren’t J.B. Grimes.”

  “That was the only thing Duke had cooking when he gave me the axe. What’s next—who’s gonna work with him now?”

  “I don’t know what’s next, Moose, and I won’t be here, whatever it is. When Duke gets back from Cleveland, I’m history.”

  “Maybe you oughta ask Duke if you can stay on—that investigation don’t look too good for you.”

  “Naw, I’m through as a cop, but this ain’t for me. I’ll find something. How’s Helen, Moose?”

  “Not real good—about the same as when you used to come around on Friday nights—” His voice trailed away, and Lockington wished he hadn’t asked. Helen Katzenbach had a heart condition. She was a fine lady, Helen Katzenbach—she’d baked Friday night apple pies, and she’d talked about Brooklyn, Brooklyn, Brooklyn. He should have called to inquire about her, but he hadn’t. In Chicago nobody gives a damn for anybody, it’s contagious—in Chicago you catch it early.

  The silence was thickening when Lockington said, “You still got the same phone number?”

  “Uh–huh—why?”

  “Well, if you aren’t working and I hear of something, I could let you know.”

  “That’d be good, Lacey—I’m gonna go on state unemployment and I’ll tend bar a couple nights a week at the Roundhouse down near Pacific Junction—cash pay so it won’t mess up my compensation. You know the Roundhouse?”

  “Sure—before Julie, I used to bang around with the morning barmaid.”

  “Sadie Winters, probably—cross-eyed chick—big jugs?”

  “That’s her. What ever happened to Sadie?”

  Moose thought about it. “I think Sadie married Elmer Klausen—Elmer was cross-eyed, too
. You probably remember Elmer—he was a janitor at some west side high school.”

  It’d been a while for them, and they sat there, smoking, laughing, reminiscing, two veteran war-horses from palmier days, before Chicago had gone completely to hell.

  It was noon before Lockington knew it.

  24

  Moose Katzenbach was gone—something about picking up a prescription for Helen, and Lockington sat in the sweltering basement office, feeling the rumble of West Randolph Street traffic, spinning the knob of Duke Denny’s plastic radio to no avail. The Cubs were on the road, they’d be playing at Pittsburgh that evening, the White Sox would be at Comiskey Park for a night game, and there was nothing on the dial but rock stuff—soft rock, hard rock, acid rock, heavy metal—discordant five-note mishmosh with cookiecutter three-word lyrics, music geared to the mentality of retarded wart hogs. Someone had said, “Let me hear the music of a nation, and I will tell you the moral condition of that nation.” With that remark in mind, Lockington found himself wondering if the United States of America would make it to the turn of the century.

  His thoughts drifted back to Moose Katzenbach, and he was vaguely disturbed—Moose had a sick wife, he needed the job at Classic Investigations, but Duke Denny had cut him loose, and he was talking about hiring another man. Lockington didn’t know the other man but he was certain of one thing—the new guy would never measure up to Moose Katzenbach. Moose was big, too big—grossly overweight, a condition that had cost him his job on the Chicago Police Force, but Moose wasn’t clumsy, he was remarkably agile. He looked stupid, but he was wilier than a fox, he had the guts of a Miura bull and he was just about that dangerous in a fight. With the possible exception of Duke Denny, they just didn’t come any better than Moose, and he had one important plus—despite his size, he looked average. There was nothing about Moose Katzenbach that would draw attention—he could have tailed the Pope across the Gobi Desert and he’d have gone unnoticed. Moose was the neighborhood vacuum cleaner salesman, the proprietor of the corner used car lot, the bartender at the joint in the middle of the next block. Mr. Nobody.

  Lockington glanced at his watch for the fiftieth time in that many minutes—it was 3:30. Duke Denny had been scheduled to leave Chicago for Cleveland, Ohio, at 7:00 that morning, and Cleveland was something like 375 miles east on Interstate 80. Lockington did a bit of grade school arithmetic—Denny drove hard, and if he wasn’t already in Cleveland, he’d be blowing in there shortly. Lockington waited until 4:00 before picking up the phone and dialing the Cleveland number Denny had left in the top desk drawer. After a half dozen rings, a raspy male voice crackled on the line—“Shoot, you’re faded!”

  Lockington blinked at the 1930s crack before saying, “Is Duke there?”

  “Duke?”

  “Duke Denny.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Lockington.”

  “Lockington?”

  “Lockington in Chicago.”

  “I don’t know no Lockington in Chicago. I don’t even know no Lockington in Cleveland.”

  “I’m the guy who’s running the agency while Duke’s in Cleveland.”

  “Gotcha! Yeah, old Duke’s here—well, he ain’t here right this very moment, but he was here—pulled in, oh, maybe twenty-five minutes ago. What’s up, Lockington?”

  “Nothing—just checking to make sure Duke got there in one piece.”

  “Gotcha! Sure, he made it grand style—I’m nuts about that black Caddy, ain’t you?”

  “Yeah, nice car—Duke isn’t there now?”

  “Naw, old Duke went out for a case of beer—Rolling Rock—best damn beer in these parts—you like Rolling Rock?”

  “I’m not a beer man. Cognac.”

  “Gotcha! Cognac! I can take cognac or leave it alone. Generally speaking, I leave it alone.”

  “Uh–huh, well, when do you expect Duke to get back? I want to discuss something with him.”

  “Gotcha! Say, man, I ain’t real sure—he should be back in ten minutes, but you know old Duke—if old Duke runs into a snatch in heat, Christ only knows when he’ll show up!” He chuckled a man-to-man chuckle, the kind with the built-in leer.

  Lockington said, “Okay—looky, I’ll be closing the agency in about an hour—if I don’t hear from him by then, he can call me at home sometime this evening—he has my number.”

  “Gotcha! I’ll tell him—any friend of Duke’s is a friend of mine!”

  “Thanks—uhh–h–h, what’s your name?”

  “Jack.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  “Jack Slifka.”

  Lockington said, “Gotcha!” and hung up, suddenly not sure that he should bring up the Moose Katzenbach matter. After all, Duke Denny had told him that Moose had quit and was moving to Brooklyn, and there was nothing to be gained by proving Duke a liar—his heart had been in the right place, he’d fired Moose to help Lockington. Anyway, Lockington had just thought of another road to town, albeit a temporary route. He called Moose Katzenbach’s number, and Helen answered. Lockington said, “To hell with St. Patrick!”

  There was a long pause before Helen Katzenbach said, “Lacey Lockington, is that you, you shanty Irish bastard?” Helen sounded tired, but she was Irish, too, and she’d go down swinging.

  “No, this is the Sheriff of Nottingham. Where’s the big guy?”

  “I recognized your voice—I got an ear for voices, Lacey—hell, I could pick out Cary Grant blindfolded!”

  “So could I if he was blindfolded.”

  Helen swore. Helen could swear up a storm on occasion. Then she said, “Moose is in the shower, singing ‘On the Road to Mandalay’! Have you ever heard Moose sing ‘On the Road to Mandalay’?”

  “Is that the one where the dawn comes up like thunder?”

  “That’s it, only thunder ain’t quite the word for it. When are you coming over for apple pie, you ape?”

  “One of these nights, Helen, depend on it!”

  “All right, I’ll depend on it. If you want Moose, I’ll drag him out of the shower.”

  “Not necessary—you can handle this one. Just tell him to be at the agency in the morning—he gets his old job back for a week or so, and he’ll be paid in cash—he can forget about Uncle Sam.”

  “Well, sure and God bless you, Lacey Lockington, but Duke Denny hasn’t given Moose his last paycheck.”

  “I’ll have the money for him—I’ll get it from Duke later. Okay?”

  “Lacey, you’re one in a million!”

  “A million what?”

  “How’s a million drunken Irishmen?”

  Lockington said, “Right on the nose!” He broke the connection, grinning. Duke Denny was paying him seven-and-a-half per week, and that broke down to three-seventy-five for Moose Katzenbach, three-seventy-five for Lacey Lockington. It seemed no more than fair, and there was a bonus in it for Lockington—he’d have someone to talk to. The agency was dead, the hours were long, and the Pepper Valley Crickets wouldn’t be able to take up all the slack. Lockington leaned back, lighting a cigarette, wondering about Millie Fitzgerald’s cat.

  And such is the diminuendo before the crescendo, the silence before the battle, the lull before the storm—it comes every so often, even on West Randolph Street.

  25

  The garage had located the ’79 Mercury’s problem. Gasoline hadn’t been getting to the carburetor, this due to the gas tank being empty. The lasagna had been excellent, and that evening she’d driven to Des Plaines and brought half of her clothing. The next morning she’d announced that she’d made a serious mistake, and she’d driven back to Des Plaines and brought the other half.

  On Christmas Day she’d roasted a small chicken because they’d never have gotten outside a turkey. She’d made a dressing from cashews and Lockington had wolfed the dressing and all but ignored the chicken, and this had pleased her. Her pumpkin pie had been laced with crushed pineapple, scoring big with Lockington, who’d wiped it out by bedtime.

  They’d
talked a lot, neither asking personal questions, the answers to the questions they might have asked coming voluntarily. Julie Masters had been an only child, her parents had been gentle, understanding people, and she’d had a well-to-do uncle whom she’d never met—he’d died when she’d been a baby—and he’d been terribly generous, providing her with a fully-funded college education and a monthly allowance that had lasted until her graduation. Uncle Oxford had been a fine man, no doubt about it, but Julie had never quite cottoned to his widow, Aunt Harriet, who’d brought the money every month, always on a Monday night. Aunt Harriet had been an extremely good-looking women, but hard-faced, tough-spoken, and too-knowing.

  Julie had grown up—after a fashion, as she’d put it—she’d attended Northeastern Illinois, a small school close to her Lincolnwood home. She’d studied journalism because her Uncle Oxford had wanted her to, and she’d stayed with it, liking it, one thought in mind—write a novel. She hadn’t done that yet, but she was fiddling around with an idea, and she’d write one eventually, you just wait and see, Lacey Lockington.

  Her parents were gone now, both with cancer, both at comparatively early ages, and she’d sold their Lincolnwood house to take a nice three-room apartment near Rand and River Roads on the northwestern edge of Des Plaines. She’d had male friends, naturally, but never one that she’d consider marrying—she wasn’t certain that she believed in marriage—she didn’t know that she believed in much of anything. She’d given up her virginity at the age of seventeen—to a tackle on the high school football team, a horrendous experience because she’d bled profusely and it’d hurt like hell, and it’d been all of two weeks before she’d cranked up enough courage to try it again, and this time she’d enjoyed the hell out of it, and she still did—she assumed that Lockington was aware of that, and Lockington had said well, yes, he’d gotten that impression.

  There’d been one man about whom she grown serious—a fellow named Herzog, but there’d been facets of his personality that she hadn’t liked, and they’d drifted apart—well, not completely, but they hadn’t been getting together often recently, which was just as well, she thought, or said she thought, and Lockington hadn’t made an issue of Herzog or the others, however many there’d been. She hadn’t been explicit on numbers, but Lockington had figured that there’d been more than a few—her knowledgeable, responsive behavior in bed having been far from sophomoric.