The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One (23 page)

“Well, Duke, I was at the residence of our new client.”

“
That
late?”

“And then some.”

“So you managed to get in touch with Fisher.”

“No, Fisher needs more than Classic Investigations. Fisher’s dead.”

“
Dead?
”

“If you trust coroners. He got blown away in an Evanston motel room.”

“But, why—who—what the hell?”

“Would you believe that Buck Curtin is looking for the same answers?”

“Curtin got you tagged for the Fisher business?”

“Curtin got me tagged for everything but the fucking Boxer Rebellion, and he ain’t all that sure about the Boxer Rebellion.”

Denny’s sigh drifted over the line. He said, “Well, don’t sweat it—that’s just one less shyster, and you got an alibi—you
do,
don’t you?”

“Yeah—our new client.”

“Which is who?”

“Which is Erika Elwood.”

Denny chuckled. “
Sure,
she is. By the way, who’s Stella Starbright picking on now?”

“The Salvation Army, they tell me.”

“Why not—who else is left? Seriously, partner, who are we working for?”

“Seriously—Erika Elwood—at five-hundred per day. You’re to bill the
Sentinel
.”

“I’ll be
damned
! Enlighten me!”

“I’m her bodyguard.”

“Protecting her from what?”

“LAON, presumably.”

“LAON
exists
?”

“I doubt it, but she’s convinced.”

“LAON got Fisher?”

“She thinks it did—Fisher was a Commie lawyer handling the legal affairs of a radically liberal news publication, which might have made him eligible.”

“Yeah, could be. What do your duties amount to?”

“I pick her up at the Sentinel Building, drive her home, spend the night, drive her back to work in the—”

“Wait a minute—spend the
night
?”

“Yep.”

“Hot
damn
! You see her butterfly tattoo?”

“She don’t
got
no butterfly tattoo.”

Denny laughed boisterously. “Way to
go,
Lacey!”

Over the wire, Lockington heard a clock chime twice. He winced, and filed that into the recesses of his crowded memory. Denny was saying, “Where should I call you this evening—or
should
I?”

“Uhh-h-h, under the circumstances, maybe you shouldn’t. If anything pops, I’ll call
you—
how’s
that
?”

A smile crept into Denny’s voice. “Well, you can
try,
but they’re throwing a polka party at the corner gin mill tonight, and the pickings are mighty good in Cleveland, partner!” The line went dead and Lockington folded his arms on the desk, resting his chin on them, the position lending him the appearance of an aging jungle cat. The speed of foot had faded, but the hunter’s gleam was bright in the narrowed eyes.

He took Erika Elwood’s Repentino-Morté from his jacket pocket, cocking it, studying the expensive weapon, whistling tunelessly. He’d neglected to ask Duke Denny how he’d made out at the lawyer’s office.

At 3:30 the agency office was stuffy and Lockington dragged a dusty electric fan from a closet shelf, placing it on a desk corner, plugging it in, throwing the switch. It didn’t work. Lockington unplugged the device, lowered it gently to the floor, stepped back, and kicked it across the room. He retrieved it to repeat the ritual. It still didn’t work. He shrugged a fatalistic shrug. Lockington’s fatalistic shrugs differed slightly from his philosophic shrugs, but
so
slightly as to have been undetectable to all save veteran philosophers.

He sauntered to the vestibule, peering out. Lieutenant Buck Curtin was seated at the wheel of a black Ford sedan. Lockington’s smile was thin. A silent battle in a war of nerves. He watched amazed as Curtin lit a cigarette. It was the very first time he’d seen Curtin light one of his own cigarettes. Lockington ambled back to the desk, getting there in time to pick up the telephone on its first ring. Moose Katzenbach said, “Whaddaya say, Nostradamus?”

Lockington said, “Watch your fucking language.”

Moose said, “You got hold of something, Lacey—two more cookie cutter cases—both kids adopted—no father of record.”

“Both Mabel Hammerschmidt’s?”

“Right—four for four. Old Mabel must have been been having babies and
selling
’em.”

“In a sense, yes. Anything on that license number?”

“Yeah, white Buick Regal, owned by Traveler’s Car Rental on Touhy Avenue in Park Ridge.”

Lockington nodded. He said, “Rented by a guy named Herzog?”

There was a lengthy silence before Moose Katzenbach said, “Hey, look, Lacey, if you already know these goddam things, why blow a bunch of money and run my wheels off?”

“I don’t
know
’em, Moose—I’m just guessing.”

“Uh-huh, well, if I could guess like that, I’d be at Arlington Park.”

“Moose, with the kind of money that’s involved in this mess, you could
buy
Arlington Park.”

“So, it’s going on four o’clock. Where do I go from here?”

“Get back to Grayson and—”

“I
can’t
get back to Grayson—he left early—doctor’s appointment.”

“He got the clap?”

“I’m a sonofabitch—Lacey, you’re really a
genius
!”

“Okay, knock it off for the day. Come by City Hall first thing in the morning. I’m still looking for something on Fisher and I’ll want to know if a guy named Herzog got himself married lately.”

“Fisher came up blank. How far back is ‘lately’?”

“Within the last year.”

“Hell, I forgot to get Herzog’s first name from Traveler’s Car Rental!”

“Doesn’t matter. How many Herzogs can there be?”

“Maybe a million—the Mexicans are overrunning the country!”

“‘Herzog’ isn’t Mex, it’s German.” Lockington hung up. It was 3:42. He put on his hat, locked the office, and went up the vestibule steps to the Polack’s gun shop. He said, “Gotta use your back door again.”

The Polack said, “Piss on you, Lacey—I got better things to do than let you in and outta that fucking back door!”

Lockington slapped him on the shoulder. They’d always gotten along in roughhouse fashion. “Last time, Stash—Scout’s honor!”

The Polack scowled, taking out his keys. He said, “’Scout’s honor,’ huh? Hey, did you read the Stella Starbright column yesterday morning? Stella says them Boy Scouts ain’t all they’re cracked up to be! She says they’re probably involved in drug trafficking.” He unlocked the door, swinging it open. He said, “A guy on my block got a kid who’s a Boy Scout—I better call him—maybe he don’t know.”

Lockington shook his head. He snapped, “No time for that! Call the
F.B.I.
!”

He’d swung the Pontiac sharply into the parking lot of The Viking Restaurant on Roosevelt Road in Winfield. She’d spun to stare at him. “Are we being followed?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, yet.”

“Then why are we stopping here?”

“Late bulletin. I’m buying dinner.”

She’d telegraphed her acceptance, her hands going to her hair, the certain gesture of a woman about to enter a public place. She’d said, “That’d be nice of you.”

They’d taken a dim half-circular booth to the left of the entrance. He’d had five vodka martinis in rapid-fire order. She’d kept pace with that many old fashioneds. They’d spent a nearly silent hour, studying each other. Then she’d said, “Won’t all those martinis dull your reflexes?”

He’d said, “Something wrong with dull reflexes?”

“Well, no—but if anything were to happen tonight—LAON, or whoever—”

“Nothing’s going to happen tonight—LAON or
any
body.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Positive.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s going to happen later, if it happens at all.”

“‘If it happens at all’? I don’t follow.”

“Is there easy access to Max Jarvis—I mean, can people just walk into his office and talk to him?”

“They can request an audience, but it’s like getting in to see the Pope.”

“Does he have a bodyguard?”

“Two.”

“Good ones?”

“Ex-Green Berets, I understand—they look tough, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean. Then he’s probably okay.”

“Max is in danger?”

“Let me put it this way—as long as Jarvis is okay,
you’re
okay.”

“Why is that?”

“Long story.”

“Will you have your own gun soon?”

He’d tapped his shoulder holster. “I have it now—picked it up today. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing, except that you’re probably a better shot with your own gun than with mine.”

“Not necessarily—most of ’em shoot where you point ’em.”

She’d shuddered a delicate little shudder. “Oh, golly, it’s hard to believe that all this has happened in such a short time.”

“What’s ‘a short time’?”

“Well, what’s it been—a
week
?”

“No, this show has been on the road longer than a week. It dates back to February, probably beyond that.”

“
Really
—that
long?
Lacey, I’m
afraid
!”

“So am I.”

“I don’t believe that—you seem so very much in
control.
”

“I
am
in control—that’s my problem.”

“You’re worried about
me
?”

“No, not about you—not at all.”

“That’s encouraging, but—you’re afraid—of whom—of
what
?”

“Of how it’s going to end.”

“
Will
it end?”

“Yes, soon—
very
soon.”

She’d lapsed into silence. So had Lockington. They’d had green salads and hot roast beef sandwiches and fries, exchanging occasional glances, nothing more. They’d driven to her house after dark. When she’d locked the door behind them, he’d sat on the big leather couch, placing her Repentino-Morté on the coffee table. He’d said, “You’d better put that thing away.”

She’d picked up the superb 9mm pistol, transporting it carefully into her bedroom. In a few moments, she’d called to him. “Would you come in here?”

He’d left the couch and gone in there. She’d been naked, her back to him, turning down the bed. Without looking at him, she’d said, “Uhh–h–h, look, Lacey, we’ve had dinner, there are no dishes to wash, we’re already drunk enough, and I’m so Goddamned hot I may blow a gasket! Turn out the lights, please.”

Lockington had turned out the lights, feeling a sudden melancholy. We never knowingly do anything for the last time in our lives without experiencing sadness. He’d read that somewhere. He’d sat on the edge of the bed, and she’d swarmed over him with the awesome white-tipped frenzy of a Solomon Islands hurricane. A sense of imminent danger will do that to some women. So will a sense of imminent wealth.

Moose Katzenbach came into the Classic Investigations office at 9:54
A.M.
Lockington said, “Whatcha got?”

Moose said, “Plenty, but it’ll have to wait. Curtin just parked out front and he was getting out of the car!”

From the doorway, Lieutenant Buck Curtin said, “Well,
well,
if it ain’t the vanishing Lacey Lockington and Omar, the fucking tentmaker!”

Lockington said, “What—”

Curtin said, “Sit down and be quiet!”

Lockington said, “I ain’t standing up.”

“That simplifies it—now all you gotta do is be quiet!” He jerked one of Lockington’s Marlboros from the pack on the desk, lighting it with one of Lockington’s matches. He said, “For your information, that old back door stunt ain’t gonna work no more!”

Moose said, “We don’t got no back door.”

Curtin said, “Don’t start up with me, fatso! Now, shall we get down to brass tacks?”

Lockington said, “You better ask Moose—I ain’t allowed to talk.”

Moose said, “It’s okay by me—I got nothing better to do.”

Curtin said, “All right, I’ve just been notified that Mr. Max Jarvis is missing. So is his Rolls Royce automobile.”

Moose said, “Which way did they go?”

Curtin said, “Straight up. Somebody stashed about twenty pounds of TNT under the front seat.”

Moose said, “Next time, Jarvis better look under the seat.”

Curtin said, “It knocked out windows in fucking Toledo!”

Moose said, “I got an aunt in Toledo.”

Curtin said, “So, boys, if you’ll put on your hats, we’ll truck on down to 26th and California, there to discuss certain matters considered pertinent to Max Jarvis getting blowed clear the hell to Covington, Kentucky.”

Moose said, “I know a guy lives in Covington.”

Curtin said, “Drop your cocks and grab your socks—you’re off to see the wizard.”

Lockington said, “Are we under arrest?”

Moose said, “Covington’s just across the river from Cincinnati.”

Curtin said, “C’mon, c’mon, let’s
go
!”

Lockington said, “Curtin, sit down and listen to me!”

Curtin said, “I’ll listen to you in the interrogation room at 26th and California.”

Lockington said, “If we’re under arrest you gotta read us our rights.”

Moose said, “That Covington’s sure a swinging town.”

Curtin’s face was the color of a five-alarm fire. He said, “Okay, on your
feet
!”

Lockington said, “You ain’t told us if we’re under arrest.”

Curtin roared, “Yes, you sonofabitch, you’re under
arrest
!” His voice had risen a full octave.

Lockington said, “Let’s hear the charges.”

Curtin clawed for his shoulder holster and Lockington threw up his hands. He got to his feet, giving Moose a meaningful look. He said, “Well, you can’t argue with an officer of the law.” He slouched from behind the desk. He said, “Except when he won’t listen.” He busted Buck Curtin very hard on the point of his clefted chin. Curtin’s knees buckled and he sagged slowly, settling to the floor like Godzilla going down in Tokyo Bay. Lockington said, “Get his gun, Moose, and we’ll prop him up in the swivel chair.”

Curtin came out of it slowly, twitching, a slender ribbon of bloody saliva trickling from a corner of his mouth, his eyes returning to focus, becoming twin beads of smoking malevolence. He rasped, “You cocksuckers are gonna do big fucking time for
this
!”