The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One

by Ross H. Spencer

  Lockington shrugged a non-committal shrug, not prepared to go on record at such an early stage in the ballgame.

  The woman grabbed the doorframe for support. “Look, oshifer,” she said, “thish whole thing all horbull mishtake—he never laid hand on me like I tole you on phone—whah happen wash am fall down goddam stairsh, sho you go way, okay?”

  Lockington said, “Ma’am, I’m seeking an audience with Reverend Abraham J. Wright, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The hell he didn’t—Lockington had pulled more than his share of Chicago southside assignments.

  “You not cop?” She fell forward, inflexible as a redwood, and Lockington crouched, catching her on a jutting shoulder, planting her in a more or less upright position. He said, “No, ma’am, I not cop.”

  She nodded, stepping unsteadily aside to grant him entrance, closing and securing the door with fumbling hands before leading him through a deserted meeting area that would have handled approximately seventy-five people, the room furnished with unfinished backless wooden benches, a splintered piano, and a lectern that had once been a packing crate. Lettered on the front of the makeshift lectern were the words JESUS WANTS YOU FOR A SUNBEEM.

  They proceeded down a long dim hallway that reeked of fried onions, his guide ricocheting from wall to wall like a ping-pong ball, and Lockington wondered if she’d gotten whacked in the mouth because she’d been drunk or if she’d gotten drunk because she’d been whacked in the mouth, deciding that it’d probably been one of those chicken-or-the-egg things, and that whichever had come first hadn’t been first by much.

  The woman raised her hand, halting Lockington’s advance, this immediately prior to her opening a door and reeling into a room where she fell flat on her face. From the hallway Lockington could see a stout gray-haired man of some fifty years who sat behind a desk, peering through thick-lensed spectacles. He wore a red sweatshirt on which was emblazoned ABRAHAM J. WRIGHT MINISTRIES, INC., and he smiled at Lockington, saying, “A good mornin’ to y’all, brother!”

  Lockington entered the office, stepping carefully over the untwitching woman on the floor. He said, “Likewise.” He scanned the room in search of a place to sit, settling for a stack of telephone books. He said, “You’re Reverend Abraham J. Wright?”

  “The same, brother, the very same!” He reached to shake Lockington’s hand and Lockington observed that his knuckles were skinned and bruised. Reverend Abraham J. Wright smiled expansively. “Now, brother, y’all juss gonna hafta ’scuse the good Sister Lucy Penrod—Sister Lucy Penrod done receivin’ the Holy Ghost and there juss ain’t no predictin’ the behavior of them as is privileged to host His Divine Presence!”

  Lockington nodded. “Yeah, I notice that for openers, the Holy Ghost kicked the good Sister Lucy Penrod’s front teeth out.”

  The Reverend Abraham J. Wright cleared his throat, checking a desk calendar. “Wall, brother, since y’all the gentleman interested in the comin’ of the anti-Christ—”

  Lockington said, “Uhh-h-h, well, Reverend Wright, there seems to be some misunderstanding here, because—”

  “Ain’t no misunderstandin’, brother, no how—the anti-Christ ain’t made his appearance yet, but he gonna git here, yes-siree, he gonna come in with a bang! He gonna be accepted worldwide as the rat man at the rat time, and, brother, thass when the manure gonna hit the windmill, thass when—”

  Lockington said, “Yes, this is extremely interesting, but the reason I’m here is to inquire about—”

  The woman on the floor moaned, heaving herself to sitting position. She looked bewilderedly around the room, rolled her eyes, said “Shit!” and collapsed, spread-eagled on her back.

  The Reverend Abraham J. Wright said, “Oh, glory, the Holy Ghost rilly doin’ a number on the good Sister Lucy Penrod this mornin’—she sho’ nuff in ecstasy!”

  Lockington didn’t say anything, a policy that had paid handsome dividends from time to time.

  The Reverend Abraham J. Wright said, “The Lord be praised! When that roll is called up yonder, the good Sister Lucy Penrod gonna be there!”

  Lockington said, “At this rate, she may be there to call it. Reverend, I’ve been given to understand that you’re familiar with the conservative element in these United States—I’m talking about extremist right-wing groups.”

  Reverend Wright said, “Yes, wall, y’see, brother, y’all gittin’ rat back to where the possum pooped in the pea-patch! Thass ezackly how the anti-Christ is gonna look to this here whole gullible world—he gonna look conservative, he gonna look rat-wing, he gonna look good, brother, I mean good! He gonna look so good that the people gonna fall all over theyselves elevatin’ him to the pinnacle of world govinment, because by that there time, the people gonna have had enough of this here liberal stuff, the Godlessness, the indecriminit sex, the drugs, the filthy movies, the lack of respeck for the aged, and all these here Communist-inspired false—”

  Lockington cut in on him. “Reverend, tell me, have you ever heard of an organization known as ‘LAON’?”

  Wright squinted at Lockington. “‘LAON’? Whassit all about?”

  “‘LAON’ stands for ‘Law and Order Now.’ It’s a radical faction, possibly given to violence, or so I’ve been told.”

  Wright frowned, opening a desk drawer to produce a sheaf of papers, thumbing his way slowly through it, then repeating the process before glancing up, shaking his head. “Ain’t no such outfit listed here, brother.”

  “Well, it’s probably very small—”

  “Don’t make no never-mind how small it is—this here ‘LAON’ could be holdin’ its conventions in a phone booth, and it’d still be on this here list! Y’see, I happens to be a student of such affairs on account thass where the anti-Christ gonna come from! He gonna pop outten the ranks of one of these here far-right movements, and I gonna be layin’ in the tall weeds fer that rascal! Brother, y’all talkin’ to the man what gonna alter the course of Biblical prophecy, you juss stick aroun’ an’ watch!”

  Lockington studied the Reverend Abraham J. Wright. Behind the thick-lensed spectacles his eyes glittered, and there was spittle foam on his lower lip. Lockington said, “Well, thank you for your time and patience, Reverend.”

  “That gonna be twenty-five dollars, brother—the standard consultation fee,” Wright said.

  Lockington shrugged, taking out his wallet to drop a twenty and a five on the desk-top.

  “Brother, I got a special package offer what oughta int’rest y’all—fer another twenty-five you git one of these here Wright Ministries sweatshirts, red, blue or black, and y’all git yer soul saved at the same time! I gonna put y’all on that high road to Heaven, shoutin’, ‘Glory, Hallelujah, to the Lamb of Calvary!’”

  Lockington got to his feet. He said, “Another time, perhaps.” He went out, stepping over the prostrate body of the good Sister Lucy Penrod. He drove back to Grand Avenue, turning east, listening to the tune he was humming, identifying it from his childhood church-going days. It would have made one helluva polka, Lockington thought.

  40

  Stunned and on short notice, Lockington hadn’t tried to locate her relatives. He’d simply claimed her body and made the best arrangements he’d been able to afford. There’d been a funeral service of a sort, conducted in a sleet storm by a preacher of a sort. Two mourners had stood at graveside—Lacey Lockington and Duke Denny. Denny had seen his ex-partner through the gut-wrenching ordeal, at his side every bitter inch of the way. Lockington had never gotten around to introducing Julie Masters to Denny, but he’d spoken often of her, and Duke had told him that he’d felt like he’d known her personally, so vividly had Lockington sketched the woman, her likes and dislikes, her needs, her idiosyncrasies, her hopes for the future that was to be cut so short as to amount to hardly any future at all.

  They’d trudged through the cemetery in February’s slashing wind and Duke had said, “Want a drink, partner?”

  Lockington had shaken his head. “Maybe nex
t time, Duke—I gotta get my world glued back together. Thanks, anyway—thanks for everything.”

  Denny had squeezed Lockington’s arm. He’d said, “We’ll get this bastard, Lacey—whoever he is, wherever he is, he’ll surface one of these days, and we’ll nail him! Did Julie ever mention anybody—an ex-boy friend, maybe?”

  “Just a guy named Herzog—he was somewhere in her past—prominent once, but that was over.”

  “Are you sure it was over?”

  “Positive.”

  “Why are you positive?”

  “Because she told me so.”

  Denny had said, “I can’t argue with that, partner. Look, if you come across anything—if you get a lead, I’ll help you run it down.”

  “I know that, Duke.” Lockington had turned away to hide the last of his tears. He’d driven slowly to his empty Barry Avenue apartment, leaving a bit of himself to be lowered into a hole in the ground.

  41

  Erika Elwood had been a client of Classic Investigations for approximately eighteen hours. She’d remained unassassinated and she’d been a ring-tailed tornado in bed, neither development being so much as remotely connected to Lockington’s acceptance of her case. In the first place, there’d been no call to defend her, and in the second place, Erika Elwood’s sexual proficiency could have been born only of arduous practice, beginning back about the time Erika had turned fourteen, Lockington figured. At the moment, Lacey Lockington rated as very little more than an easily-seduced plug-ugly bodyguard, but situations change, and in Chicago they change abruptly.

  He reached his apartment shortly before noon. He checked his mailbox, discarded a circular having to do with Texas ruby red grapefruit, showered, changed clothing, and attempted to phone Duke Denny in Cleveland. Jack Slifka answered on the second ring, and Lockington said, “Hello, Jack, this is Lockington.”

  “Lockington?”

  “Lacey Lockington in Chicago—we’ve gone this route before.”

  “Gotcha—you’re the guy who’s watching the store while Duke’s here in Cleveland, right.”

  “Right.”

  “And you wanta talk to Duke, right?”

  “You’re on a roll, Jack.”

  “Gotcha, Lockington! Well, old Duke’s downtown at his lawyer’s office—it got something to do with money.”

  “There ain’t no other reason to be in a lawyer’s office, is there?”

  “Gotcha! Hey, you’re one sharp article, Lockington!”

  “I was given the distinct impression that Duke was going to get that matter straightened out yesterday afternoon.”

  “Yeah, and Duke was given the distinct impression that you were gonna be someplace where he could call you last night!”

  “He tried?”

  “Hell, yes, a couple dozen times—at some tavern and at your apartment!”

  “Yeah, well, sorry—something came up—something I should discuss with Duke.”

  “Gotcha! I’ll have him call you the minute he comes in. You’re at the office?”

  “Will be, in an hour, give or take—I’m out to lunch.”

  “Gotcha! Be a good boy, Lockington.”

  Lockington hung up, grinning. He rather liked Jack Slifka. Jack would probably be a good man to get drunk with.

  He slipped his .38 police special into its shoulder holster, dropped them into a brown paper bag, tucked them into the back seat of the Pontiac, and wheeled south to Belmont Avenue, east to the Outer Drive, then south along the lakefront. Lake Michigan was royal blue, whitecapped, sparkling in the sun, probably Chicago’s last decent possession, and Chicago was poisoning it at a twenty-four-hour-per-day clip. He tooled the Catalina into North Michigan Avenue, checking building numbers out of the corner of his eye. If you want to find out what’s happening in a hotel or condominium, go to the hired help, the maids, the janitors. 814 North Michigan Avenue was swank—under-the-building parking, canopied entrance, uniformed doorman, balconies second-floor to top, beautifully landscaped, the whole shot, and the rent would be staggering—more than likely the reason for Erika Elwood’s bailing out to take a small house in the western boondocks. She was probably making a husky buck grinding out the Stella Starbright column—fifty, maybe sixty grand a year, Lockington figured, but why spend half of it just to live on the Gold Coast? Prestige is not edible.

  He swung the raggedy-assed Pontiac up the ramp and down into the underground garage, there to be confronted by the parking attendant, a fat woman clad in brown uniform and visored cap, who threw crossed arms in front of her face, a defensive gesture peculiar to those receiving visitations of demons. She screeched, “Hold it, hold it, God damn it to hell, HOLD it!”

  Lockington had stopped at first glimpse of her. He poked his head through the window. “He said, “Ma’am, don’t holler like that—I am holding it!”

  She came snorting around the left front fender of the car like a mama rhino around a fever tree, panting, pointing an accusing finger at Lockington. “You fool, you nearly ran me down—my God, you were driving fifty miles an hour!”

  “Ma’am, this vehicle won’t go fifty miles an hour.”

  Her hands went to her hips, western gunslinger style. “And what’s more, you don’t even live here!”

  Lockington nodded. “I know that. How did you know that?”

  “Simple! No tenant of this building would get caught dead in that stack of scrap iron! There ain’t no visitors’ parking in the garage, so take it on the duffy, mister!”

  “Okay, but one question, please. Has anyone come around asking about Erika Elwood?”

  “Erika Elwood—the newspaper writer?”

  “You got it.”

  “She moved—must be a month now.”

  “Would the doorman be available?”

  “For what? He don’t speak English—he’s from Taiwan.” Lockington shrugged resignedly. He’d drawn a blank, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. The attendant was studying him with narrowed eyes. She hissed, “Wait a minute—wait a minute!” She placed her hands on the roof of the old Catalina, lowering her head to the level of Lockington’s, her voice to the level of a funeral director’s. She said, “You’re a goddam detective, ain’t you?”

  Lockington said, “No, I’m a discus thrower.”

  “Don’t pull my leg, you rascal—this junk heap is just a front—you probably got a Mercedes at home! I know the signs, junior—I read all them detective books—got one right here!” From her jacket pocket she whipped a paperback copy of Lust is the Reaper by Judd Hamelwicz, holding it up for Lockington’s approval. She said, “Helluva yarn, so far!” Her credentials having been presented, she whispered, “You city, county, state, Federal, or private?”

  Lockington whispered, “Private—private as hell.”

  She whispered, “No point in my asking your name, is there?”

  Lockington whispered, “None that comes readily to mind.”

  She whispered, “You’re incognito, of course—nobody ever dresses that crummy unless they’re incognito.”

  Lockington whispered, “Yes, incognito.”

  She whispered, “Why are we whispering?”

  Lockington said, “Damned if I know.”

  “Whatcha working on—serial murders, jewel heist, blackmail?”

  “Sorry, can’t talk about it—not just yet.”

  “That makes it a national security thing—Chuck Carey couldn’t talk about it, either.”

  “Chuck Carey?”

  “In Pentagon Hexagon—third book in the series—when he smashed that terrorist gang—Chuck Carey, the real suave private investigator from New England.”

  Lockington said, “I used to know a guy named Carey, only he was from Massachusetts.”

  “I get the impression you ain’t real suave.”

  “Used to be, before I caught the mumps.”

  “Say, if I hear or see anything that got to do with this Erika Elwood, I could give you a jingle. Is she dangerous?”

  “She has her moments
.”

  “My name’s Ada Phelps.”

  “Mine’s Lockington. At the moment I’m operating out of Classic Investigations on West Randolph—it’s in the book.”

  It’d been a matter of casting his bread upon the waters. Besides that, he had to find a men’s room. Within five minutes, preferably less.

  42

  He took the Pontiac into the garage, pulling to the guardrail between a black Cadillac convertible and a fire-engine-red Jaguar, one of those V-12 jobs that he’d read about. He backed out of the stall, cut sharply to avoid a baby blue Lincoln Town Car parked directly behind him, and zipped onto North Michigan Avenue, feeling the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He turned west on Chicago Avenue, stopping at a plush little bar called “Honolulu Harry’s.” He ordered a Martell’s cognac, hit the lavatory, gulped the cognac on his way out, spurning the water wash. He threaded his way through Loop noonday traffic to the Randolph Street parking lot, hiking to the alley north of the agency, his head threatening to explode like a Fourth of July starburst, suddenly seeing things from an entirely different angle, a dozen possibilities swarming through his recently clogged mental passages, clamoring for attention like a litter of hungry puppies.

  He slowed his hurried gait in the alley, climbing the rickety wooden stairs to hammer on the steel rear door of the Polack’s gun shop. In a few seconds it opened and the Polack said, “You again! Look, Lacey, this ain’t no public fucking thoroughfare!”