The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One (12 page)

And he was unable to accept the groundwork for his own existence having been laid with a couple of amoebas knocking off a quickie in some prehistoric Afghanistanian swamp, or wherever the theory of evolution claimed it had occurred. In lieu of that, Lockington liked Adam and Eve fornicating under a Wap-Wap tree in the Garden of Eden. He wondered about Eve—had she been an active lay, or had she ho-hummed the experience? Active, probably, Lockington thought, very active—a real stem-winder.

Crossing Kimball Avenue, Lockington turned to the human soul—was it an actuality, a tangible thing, or merely a wispy figment of man’s wishful imaginings? How was it to be defined, what was its function, did it react before or after the fact, was it activated by senses or by thoughts, how did the damned thing work,
if
it worked—a cacophony of automobile horns was seeping into Lockington’s consciousness and there was a thunderous pounding on the left front window of his Pontiac. His soliloquy shattered, Lockington took stock of his location and found himself parked under the traffic signal of the Kennedy Expressway’s southbound exit onto North Mannheim Road, a spot not on his itinerary, because he’d intended to depart the Kennedy Expressway at Harlem Avenue, some four miles east. He was able to drum up vague recollections of having stopped at a red traffic signal, but now the light was green, and a fat woman stood at the door of his automobile, waving her arms, stamping her feet, her beady eyes blazing, her face livid, her chins quivering, every damned one of them. She was screaming, “Are you gonna move this frigging pile of junk or am I gonna call the frigging police?”

Lockington nodded, tipped his hat, and pulled onto Mannheim Road, adding the incident to his already bulging file of clashes with overweight females. There was a strange, turbulent venom seething within these creatures, and the fatter they got, the testier they became.

He turned left on Grand Avenue, tooling his old blue car eastward through Franklin Park, River Grove, Elmwood Park, pulling into the Shamrock Pub’s parking lot. Shamrock Pub action rarely picked up before five o’clock in the afternoon, and the place was reasonably quiet, Mush O’Brien standing behind the bar, one foot up on the sink drainboard, watching the door with jaded eyes, the juke box throbbing a tango—“La Cumparsita”—Joe Brothers and Rosie Delancey dancing to its beat. They weren’t dancing to it, exactly—they were standing in a dim corner behind a Hickory Barrel Ale display, glued pelvis to pelvis,
rubbing
to it. Cheaper than a motel room, Lockington thought, but there were certain drawbacks. At the bar Buster Weatherby and Duffy Gray were discussing the destruction of Pompeii, and Buster Weatherby was saying, “It wasn’t Mt. Vesuvius—Pompeii was bombed, baby,
bombed
!”

Duffy Gray said, “Yeah? Who bombed it?”

Buster Weatherby said, “Mussolini—who the fuck
else
?”

Duffy Gray said, “I didn’t know that.”

Buster Weatherby said, “Me, neither, till I figured it out!”

Duffy Gray said, “But Mussolini was
Italian
!”

Buster Weatherby said, “Uh–huh, and so was Joe DiMaggio!”

Duffy Gray said, “By God, I never looked at it in that light!”

Lockington took a seat at the bar and Mush O’Brien said, “Martell’s, Lacey?”

Lockington nodded and Mush served him, rolling his eyes, lowering his voice. “You listening to them two lamebrains?”

Lockington nodded. “Highly enlightening conversation.”

Mush said, “Now, Lacey, you know God damned well that Benito Mussolini
never
bombed Pompeii!”

Lockington said, “A doubtful premise, I agree.”

Mush said, “It was that fucking Adolf Hitler,
that’s
who!”

Lockington didn’t say anything.

Mush said, “
Think
of it, a whole fucking
town
! Oh, my God, the
humanity
!”

Edna Garson came swinging in, ignoring Lockington. She went to the far end of the bar, waited for Mush O’Brien, ordered a screwdriver, took it to a rear booth, and sat with her back to the door. Her walk would have derailed a two hundred car freight train, and Lockington picked up his cognac, following her to the booth, sitting across the table from her. He said, “Hi, long time no see.”

Edna scowled. “That’s what the fat man said when he saw his dick in the mirror. Where in the hell have you
been
?”

“Around.”

“
Around
? Around
what
—the fucking
world
?”

“I’ve been downtown, mostly. You aren’t working today?”

“Apparently not.”

“How come?”

“Possibly because it’s my day off.”

“I see.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Well, I got a new job, sort of.”

“
Sort
of?”

“Yeah, it’s a temporary thing.”

“Doing what?”

“Not much of anything.”

“So tell me about it.”

“Okay, I’m—”

“Not
here
!”

“All right, let’s go to your place.”

“No, let’s go to
your
place. I’ve never been to your place.”

“What’s to do at my place?”

“Same thing that’s to do at my place.”

“Oh,
that.
”

Edna gulped her screwdriver, getting to her feet, grabbing Lockington’s hand to tug him from the booth. When they were in the Pontiac, she said, “For God’s sake,
hurry—
this is an
emergency
!”

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.

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 sonofa
bitch
!”

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.

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.