For Christmas he’d bought her a hardbound copy of Roget’s Thesaurus—to help her with her novel, he’d said, and she’d presented him with a black and chrome Zippo cigarette lighter engraved LL from JM. He’d kept it on his nightstand and they’d shared it during their long, dead-of-the-night, naked, sitting cross-legged in bed conversations, these leading them far afield but to nowhere, which was perfectly agreeable to both, because there’d been nowhere of importance to go. They’d been happy enough—not as happy as they might have been, but considerably happier than most, and they’d realized this, and they’d settled for it.
She’d stayed and she’d cooked and she’d kept the apartment neat, and she’d done some reading, and she’d jotted voluminous notes on a yellow legal pad—a rough outline for her novel, she’d told him, and before very long they’d fallen in love as lonely people are sometimes wont to do, their better judgement notwithstanding.
They’d spent their New Year’s Eve in bed—fucking the old year out and the New Year in, she’d giggled—and then they’d tied into a few fifths of cheap champagne, and he’d gotten his first chance to see Julie Masters drunk. She’d been an utter delight until dawn—she was a topnotch mimic, he’d found out—and she’d sung, providing the harmony to Lockington’s lead of “When You Wore a Tulip,” then doing a commendable solo on “My Rosary.” She’d hypnotized him with a naughty little dance, performing naked with the stem of a plastic rose tucked between her legs and another protruding from between her buttocks. On this note they’d returned to the bedroom where they’d started on the bed and finished on the floor. They’d slept through the Sugar Bowl game, and the Rose Bowl game, and halfway through the Orange Bowl game, awakening with the flame sputtering but hot enough to kick off another round which Lockington had felt fortunate to survive. They’d regrouped in the kitchen over a can of cream of mushroom soup, toast and black coffee, and when they’d gone back to bed, there’d been no shenanigans, none at all, and Lockington had been glad for this.
Quite a pair—Julie Masters, who would never write her novel, and Lacey Lockington, who’d never know what her novel would have been about.
26
The muggy Chicago afternoon struggled by on tortoise feet, and Lockington closed the Classic Investigations office at 5:00 sharp. He hadn’t heard from Millie Fitzgerald concerning anything. It figured. Geronimo and Duke would be rendezvousing with females of their respective species—Geronimo pouring it to a feline femme galante under a backporch somewhere in Chicago, Duke Denny holed up with a third-rate Cleveland floozie in a fourth-rate Cleveland motel. Geronimo would return to Millie Fitzgerald when he was damned good and ready, Duke Denny would get back with the Rolling Rock beer, possibly before Jack Slifka succumbed to dehydration.
Of all the pussy-chasers Lacey Lockington had ever known, Duke Denny was far and away the pussy-chasingest. The man seemed equipped with some sort of incredible sensory device, a built-in apparatus akin to sonar that winnowed the chaff from the grain, separating the ladies who wouldn’t from those who just might, then those who just might from those who sure as hell would, and it was downright amazing how many sure as hell would. Duke Denny was gifted beyond belief, an absolute cinch for the Pussy-Chasers’ Hall of Fame, which Lockington assumed would be built in Chicago.
One evening at the Roundhouse Café, Lockington and Denny had been sucking up a few draft beers, watching a svelte little blonde article dancing juke box polkas with a Soo Line switchtender. Denny had studied the blonde through a polka and a half, and he’d nudged Lockington and said, “She’s wearing green panties with a poker hand embroidered on them.”
Lockington had said, “What sort of poker hand?”
Denny had said, “Wait’ll she turns this way again.” Then he’d said, “It’s a straight, Jack-high.”
Lockington had said, “Horseshit.”
Denny had shrugged, leaving his barstool to cut in on the switchtender. A few moments later he’d whirled the blonde toward the bar, pulling her up short at Lockington’s knee. He’d said, “Honey, I just bet this guy 300 billion dollars that you’re wearing green panties with a Jack-high straight embroidered on ’em.”
The blonde had winked. “You lose—it’s a King-high straight flush—hearts.”
Lockington had said, “That’s a crock.”
The blonde had sighed, “Well, what’s a girl to do?” She’d hoisted her skirt and half-slip to the belt line, holding it there while Lockington stared. Green panties—King-high straight flush in hearts. She’d dropped her skirt and smiled fetchingly at Denny. She’d said, “Close, big boy, but no cigar.”
Denny had said, “Is there a consolation prize?”
The blonde had said, “Damn betcha, but you don’t get it here!”
They’d gone out arm-in-arm and Lockington had gotten drunk with the Soo Line switchender who’d been every bit as puzzled as Lockington. He’d said, “Katy’s panties usually got birds on ’em!”
The Katy’s panties affair had been a departure from Denny’s form, because Duke believed that simplicity is the essence of success, and he’d based his phenomenal string of conquests on a singularly inauspicious approach. At the initial tallyho, Denny could swap colors as effortlessly as a chameleon, suddenly projecting an aura of innocent bewilderment, his customary suave and outgoing demeanor giving way to fumbling, bumbling reticence—he became the kid from the barnyard, overwhelmed by the big city. Development of this facade had required a great deal of practise but it’d been worth the effort expended—it was convincing, and when presented with Denny’s innate thespian skills, it served to endear him to the hearts of women, striking resounding chords within them, arousing nigh uncontrollable desires to protect and mother this wide-eyed defenseless bumpkin. That lure, working in tandem with striking good looks and the physique of a Roman gladiator, made Duke Denny a withering force in the field of pussy-chasing, and small indeed was the wonder that his intended quarry of the hour, no matter how worldly-wise, was very apt to find herself stripped, bedded, and impaled before she was fully cognizant of which the hell end was up.
Lockington drove directly home from the Loop, or as directly as it was possible to drive to West Barry Avenue from downtown Chicago at 5:00 in the afternoon, which was not directly at all, the twelve-mile trip consuming upwards of an hour. He shucked his clothing, showered, slipped into pajamas and robe, opened a can of beer, made a salami sandwich, and had his evening repast while reading a chapter of Tom Sawyer, the one in which Tom and Becky emerge safely from the cave. Lockington liked that part best—it gave him goose bumps.
He was smoking his after-dinner cigarette when the doorbell rang. He checked his watch. It was 7:05. Edna Garson stood in the vestibule. She stepped into the apartment, shoving a fifth of Martell’s at Lockington.
She said, “Dammit, I was lonely!”
Not knowing what else to say, Lockington said, “Oh?”
Edna closed the door, locking it. Her fingers went to the top button of her blouse. She said, “Now or later?”
Lockington said, “I have that choice?”
Edna’s blouse was open, slipping downward to expose one creamy shoulder. Her gaze was rapt. She said, “Quite frankly, no.”
27
The bedroom was silent and the vague scent of Edna Garson’s hyacinth perfume washed over Lockington like a light purple fog. Or maybe it wasn’t hyacinth—Lockington didn’t know one scent from another—well, onions, garlic, boiling cabbage, and roses—he could identify those readily enough. But Edna was wearing good perfume, whatever it was. She lay on her left side, her back to him, breathing slowly, deeply, barely audibly, her honey-blonde hair splashed fan-like on the crumpled pillow, Lockington cupping her right breast, a man closer to heaven than he had any right to be. Once in a while she’d twitch in her sleep, mumbling softly, unintelligibly. Then, at exactly 2:30 A.M. Lockington’s telephone went off like a seventeen-dollar firecracker, nearly knocking him out of bed. Muttering a curse on Alexander Graham Bell,
he lunged across Edna’s shoulder to seize the offending instrument and hear Duke Denny’s voice rolling over the wire. “Lacey?”
Lockington grunted, “Uh–huh.”
Denny said, “Did I wake you up?”
“Uh–huh.”
“Well, partner, I’m sorry about that, but I just came in and Jack Slifka left a note saying you’d called this afternoon.”
“Uh–huh.”
“Making sure that I got to Cleveland okay, Jack’s note says.”
“Uh–huh.”
“There was something that you wanted to discuss?”
“Uh–huh.”
“Oh—well, what happened here was I went out for beer, and I ran into this big blonde tomato—wow, these Cleveland chickies!”
“Uh–huh.”
“I guess that hitting the hay is about all there is to do in Cleveland—hell, the Indians are in the cellar, and the Browns don’t start regular season play for three weeks yet.”
“Uh–huh.”
“I dunno, maybe I shouldn’t say that—I suppose a few of ’em play bingo—they sure got a lot of bingo in Cleveland.”
“Uh–huh.”
“Say, Lacey, I’ll be digging into this inheritance business first thing tomorrow morning—I’m probably outta luck, but there might be a loophole.”
“Uh–huh.”
There was a long silence before Denny said, “Uhh–h–h, correct me if I’m wrong, but I got a hunch you ain’t alone.”
“Uh–huh.”
“Oops, sorry! Well, have fun—I’ll be in touch sometime tomorrow.”
“Uh–huh.” When Lockington returned the telephone to the nightstand, Edna Garson reached to loop her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her, speaking into his mouth. “Locky—Locky, now that we’re both awake and everything—well—”
“Uh–huh?”
She grasped him firmly by the ears, lifting his head, peering at him through the darkness. “Look, don’t you ever say anything but ‘uh–huh’?”
Lockington sat up. “Why, sure! You think you’re in bed with a dummy? Hell, I even recite poetry!” He slipped a hand under her buttocks, lifting her slightly, swinging her to the middle of the bed. “Want some?”
“Some what?”
“Poetry.”
“Well, no, not particularly—you see, what I really had in mind was—”
Lockington had sucked in a deep breath. He said, “Under the wide and starry sky—”
Edna groaned. “Locky, for Christ’s sake, knock that off!”
Lockington’s voice was sonorous. “Dig the grave and let me lie—”
“Hold it, Locky—hold it! What in the name of God are you doing?”
“Glad did I live and gladly die—”
“All right, I see—yes—yes—well, I’ll be damned, this is certainly news to me—but good news, you understand—how long—when—what—hail, Columbia—you’ve never—”
“And I laid me down with a will—”
“Come on, you big bastard—come on—come on—come ON!”
“This be the verse you grave for me—”
“Faster, dammit, FASTER!”
“Here he lies where he longed to be—”
“Will you hurry, please? You’re down to the last two God damned lines—oh, what the hell, Locky, Locky, LOCKEEEEEE—”
“Home is the sailor, home from the sea—”
Edna clamped a violent scissors hold on Lockington’s rib cage, pummeling the small of his back with frantic heels, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, shrieking “QUOTH THE RAVEN, ‘NEVERMORE’!”
When the prolonged shudder had departed her body, she lowered her legs, sprawling spread-eagled under him, ruffling his hair, gasping for air. She said, “Damn, I blew it—wrong line.”
Lockington said, “No problem—you’ll get it right next time.”
Dreamy-voiced, Edna said, “Where in the hell did you ever learn that?”
“In junior high—eighth grade—it was an absolute must in Miss Lavagetto’s class.”
“Yes, but that’s not what I meant—”
“Hey, I’m here to tell you, Miss Lavagetto was one very tough cookie! One day she—”
“I don’t want to hear about Miss Lavagetto—I want to know where you picked up that sex with poetry routine!”
Lockington smiled into Edna’s shoulder. “That ain’t the whole shot—I can do a couple or three verses of that thing about the raven—with gestures, yet!”
There was newly kindled interest in Edna’s voice. “Is that right? What kind of gestures?”
Lockington said, “Like this.” He made great flapping motions with his arms, sort of like a raven, he thought.
Edna Garson’s sigh was a dismal thing. She said, “Uhh–h–h, tell me, what ever became of Miss Lavagetto?”
28
When Lockington reached the agency building at 9:25 on Wednesday morning, Moose Katzenbach was seated on the stair, a pair of large white styrofoam coffee containers and a brown paper bag on the top step beside him. He said, “At your service, Master.”
Lockington said, “Sorry I’m late, Moose—had to stop at the bank.”
Moose hoisted his bulk to a standing position, looking Lockington over. He said, “Where in blazes were you last night?”
“Why, did I miss something?”
“Apparently not—you look like you got dragged through a very small knothole.”
Lockington nodded, “Yeah, well, it wasn’t last night, it was this morning—a fat woman just rammed into me with the handle of her umbrella!”
“Where?”
“Right in the balls!”
“Okay, but where?”
“Half-a-block from here—she was walking east, looking west!”
“Her umbrella handle?”
“Yeah, and it ain’t even gonna rain! Moose, something’s gonna have to be done about these God damned fat broads—they’re a menace!” He handed Moose his back pay as he unlocked the agency door. “What’s in the bag?”
“Couple chunks of apple pie. After you called last night, Helen went right to work. You didn’t eat breakfast, did you?”
“Naw, didn’t have time.” It was a lie—he’d fixed scrambled eggs and sausage before he’d left his apartment, but there was always room for Helen Katzenbach’s apple pie. They went in, seating themselves at the desk to wash down apple pie with coffee. Lockington said, “No doubt about it—Helen makes the world’s greatest apple pie!”
Moose was silent for the better part of a minute. Then he said, “Helen ain’t doing too well, Lacey. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have her.”
Lockington munched the last of his apple pie, the taste going out of it now. He lit a cigarette to go with the dregs of his coffee before speaking into the thickening quiet of the office. “Moose, I can reach for you but I can’t touch you—I know where you’re coming from, but I’ve never been there.”
“The hell you haven’t—you lost a woman. I heard about it.”
“Yeah, but that had to be different—with her it was sudden and the shock damned near killed me, but it was probably a helluva lot easier than the long haul—you’ve been looking this thing in the eye for how many years now?”
“I dunno—seven, eight, maybe nine.”
“Moose, if I can be of help—”
Moose shook his head. “Nobody can help, Lacey—drugs, surgery, nothing—it’s a dead-end one-way street—just a matter of time.”
“We’re all on that street, Moose—Helen’s gonna outlive a lotta people who don’t even know they’re on it!”
They lounged around the office. Moose killed a fly, swatting it with the flat of his hand. He was quick, and for a big man, he was greased lightning. The telephone rang at 10:12—wrong number—a woman looking for DeHoff’s Delicatessen.
They talked, they discussed the Cubs, the Bears, the Bulls, the Blackhawks, the Mayor, the City Council, the weather, the condition of Chicago’s streets, women the
y hadn’t taken to bed and wished they had, women they’d taken to bed and wished they hadn’t, virtually everything within mutually discussable range. Moose was slouching back and forth in front of the desk like a short-leashed grizzly. He said, “Duke Denny ain’t exactly tearing up the league in this private investigations business—you know that, don’t you?”
Lockington shrugged. “Duke’s getting by—he grossed seven-thousand on that Grimes thing—he doesn’t need a helluva lotta those.”
Moose spun like he’d been stung by a hornet. “Seven thousand—who told you that?”
“Duke. Who else?”
Moose jerked a hand from a pocket to level a forefinger at Lockington. “Lacey, Duke got seven hundred and expenses for the Grimes job—I know, because I was right here when he swung the deal with that female rhinonceros! You know why I was right here? I was right here because there was nothing for me to do anyplace else! Duke hadn’t turned a wheel for two weeks before she got here and he ain’t turned one since she left! Which is probably why he fired my ass—the sonofabitch just couldn’t afford to pay me!”
Lockington kicked it around in his mind. He said, “Well, hell, Moose, he has to be turning a buck—he’s driving a brand-new Cadillac convertible, isn’t he?”
“Sure, but—well, look, Lacey, I know that Duke’s a friend of yours, but if you want my opinion, I think he’s hustling women for money—I think he’s a gooddam gigolo!”
Lockington shrugged it off, grinning. “Duke’s qualified.”
The phone rang at 10:38—wrong number again—a guy with a southern accent, looking for Stacey’s Model Railroad Shop.
The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One Page 11
