The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One Read Online Free PDF Page B

nuclear fission, had said, “Oh,” not knowing what else to say to a woman who stood six-one, weighed 233, and was said to trim her pubic hair with shrubbery shears.
    Now he entered the lair of the mighty, removing his hat to approach Chicago Police Superintendant Nelson G. Netherby who sat behind a highly polished Philippine mahogany desk nearly the size of a carrier flight deck, tilting in his tall-backed genuine Corinthian leather swivel chair, watching Lockington with wary eyes. Netherby was a graying, florid-faced man, heavyset, pompous, an ex-bird Colonel in Army Military Police, a brassbound martinet by any standards. He had the visage of a bereaved water buffalo, the temperament of an arthritic bull crocodile, and the authoritative mien of a Roman emperor. He glanced briefly at the small note pad on his desk blotter and snapped, “Detective Sergeant Lacey Lockington?”
    Lockington nodded, saying nothing, coming to the position of parade rest, his hat held behind him.
    Netherby yawned, put a Zippo lighter to a cork-tipped cigarette, exhaled loudly, and suspended Lockington on the spot.
    Lockington wanted to know what the hell for.
    For transforming Chicago’s northwest side into a shooting gallery, Netherby told him.
    Lockington wanted to know for how the hell long.
    Until the painstaking investigation, Netherby told him.
    Lockington wanted to know what the hell painstaking investigation.
    The painstaking investigation of Lockington’s transforming Chicago’s northwest side into a shooting gallery, Netherby told him, dismissing the veteran detective with a perfunctory wave of a pudgy hand.
    Lockington stood there, a Niagara roar in his ears, struggling to absorb the impact of the pronouncement, counting his years as a police officer, watching Nelson G. Netherby’s overstuffed person half-dissolve into a strange reddish haze, not knowing whether to laugh, weep or blow Netherby’s brains out. He ruled against these options, choosing the last available course of action, that of turning to depart the premises without a word or a backward glance.
    Netherby drew a relieved deep breath. When dealing with these Dodge City mentalities a man hardly knew what to expect. He smoothed his silvering hair with the palm of one beautifully manicured hand, straightening his pale blue silk necktie with the other, a wisp of a smile fluttering across his sagging features. So much for Stella Starbright and her posse.
    The great man pushed an intercom button, instructing Henrietta Mosworth to arrange a hurry-up luncheon press conference—at Cindy’s on Wells Street, he said—12:30, he said—the Wicker Room, if possible, he said—he’d be making an announcement having to do with the Lockington matter, he said—oh, yes, the meal, well, let’s see, he’d have beef barley soup, artichoke salad with vinegar and oil, a small filet medium well, buttered carrot discs, baked potato with sour cream, strawberry cheesecake, and black coffee with a double brandy, he said. Good brandy, he added.
    Meanwhile, Lacey Lockington was driving northwest to the Shamrock Pub on Grand Avenue where he hoisted numerous hookers of tequila before going to bed with Edna Garson, which was unusual because Lockington hardly ever drank tequila.

10
    His Tuesday had been pleasantly uneventful, and Wednesday morning found Lockington, unshowered, unshaven, still clad in pajama bottoms, frayed robe, and worn-out slippers, seated at his living room window, chain-smoking, drinking strong black coffee, watching pigeons peck at gravel along the Barry Avenue curbing. He’d received a telephone call shortly after eight o’clock—a local television station wanting to interview him for its evening news presentation. His sleep rudely shattered, Lacey Lockington had declined that honor with as much charity as he’d been capable of mustering under the conditions. There hadn’t been a great deal of it.
    The jackals were grouping now. Lockington’s days as a Chicago