Free The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One by Ross H. Spencer

said, “It probably got something to do with my father’s name being Lockington.”
    Duke Denny was sliding onto the barstool to Lockington’s right, chuckling, waving hello to the bartender. He said, “Don’t let this guy throw you, Pete—sometimes he has a one-track mind.”
    Pete said, “Aw, Lockingworth ain’t so bad—I’ve run into worse.”
    Denny nudged Lockington. “Finish your beer and we’ll go into the mess hall.”
    Pete was yawning, rubbing his eyes with hairy bricklayer fists. “Off night tonight—must of been all that rain.” He went back to the stack of invoices.
    They ambled into the dining room. It was deserted save for a waitress who sat at a table, jotting notes on a large yellow pad. Lockington looked around the place, shaking his head. He said, “Just what is it with Italians and crystal chandeliers?”
    Denny shrugged. “Don’t forget red tablecloths, red carpeting, red candle-chimneys, and all the travel posters.”
    They took a table in a distant corner of the room. Denny said, “Why don’t we kick this off with vodka martinis?”
    “It’s your credit card.”
    The waitress left her chair to bear down on their table. She was a half-pint peroxide-blonde bit of fluff wearing a shiny, short black dress, a frilly white apron, and enough makeup to camouflage the USS New Jersey. She was thirty-five, possibly. She was also fifty, possibly. Denny ordered a pair of vodka martinis on the rocks. He said, “No twists with those, sweetie—make it anchovy-stuffed olives.”
    The waitress said, “Okay, that’s two vodka martinis for you.” She swung her attention to Lockington. “How about you—how many?”
    Denny rolled his eyes. “Just let him have one of mine until he makes up his mind.” When she was gone, Denny said, “That was Laura—hardly a candidate for class valedictorian—a bum lay, incidentally.”
    Lockington winked at Denny. “Bum lays are bored lays, usually.”
    Denny let that one go by. There was something bugging Duke or he’d have jumped right on it, Lockington thought. He looked his ex-partner over—he could have stepped right out of a haberdashery display window—white sports coat, brown silk shirt, white tie, brown slacks, white oxfords, and there was a brown chrysanthemum tucked into his left lapel buttonhole. Same old Duke—once a clotheshorse, always a clotheshorse. They differed there—clothes didn’t interest Lockington. They served to create favorable first impressions, but when those faded, a man stood naked. Denny was saying, “By the way, I got one helluva coincidence for you!”
    Lockington said, “Let’s have it—I’m crazy about coincidences.”
    Denny leaned toward Lockington, starting to speak, then holding up as Laura arrived with their vodka martinis. He sampled his drink, smacking his lips. He said, “Pete makes the best goddam martini from here to Alexandria, Louisiana.”
    Lockington said, “I’ve never been to Alexandria, Louisiana,” his eyes tracking Laura’s return to her table at the dining area entrance. Laura had a magnificent ass. Lockington gave Laura a mental checkmark in the magnificent ass column. He said, “Uhh–h–h, the coincidence, if you will.”
    Denny said, “Okay, you’re in the hot soup with this Stella Starbright column, right?”
    Lockington said, “I’m beginning to get that impression.”
    “And last night you said that a couple of other broads have written under the Stella Starbright byline.”
    “That’s what I was told. What’s your point?”
    “Well, partner, just this morning, the Cook County cops hauled a dead woman out of a garbage bin down at the corners of Wolf Road and Grand Avenue—quiff by the name of Eleanor Fisher—shot through the back of the head—very neat job. You hear anything about that?”
    “It was on the noon news but there was no mention of how she died—only that she lived in Wilmette.”
    “Right—Wilmette, out where the long green grows.”
    “Okay, so she