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

Avenue?”
    “Uh-huh—I always make that little joint on the corner before I go home—that’s around midnight, usually.” She giggled again, setting Lockington’s teeth on edge.
    Denny said, “The Brass Rail?”
    “That’s it—the Brass Rail.” She whispered something into Denny’s ear and went away, smiling mysteriously, scratching her magnificent ass. The tryst had been arranged Chicagostyle, Lockington noted—lay it on the line—first come, first served. He gave Denny a look. “Bum lay, did you say?”
    Denny shrugged defensively. “Yeah, but you know how it goes, partner—any old port in a storm.”
    Lockington said, “Some storm.” He watched Laura seat herself at her table, her short black skirt rocketing to her thighs and beyond. He said, “Some port.” After a while, he said, “She told me that these threats are made by an outfit identifying itself as LAON—a radical right wing group, apparently.”
    Denny was nodding. “LAON—familiar name—I believe LAON stands for Law and Order Now—it’s been around for years—murky organization, all hot air so far as I know—no track record—threats, but no moves of consequence.”
    “What if there was a first time—what if the Fisher woman received threats and ignored them? That Stella Starbright column has been spouting ultra-liberal bullshit since its beginning, hasn’t it?”
    Denny frowned, “Yeah, but we’re probably trying too hard. You hear of LAON on the streets and everybody laughs—a bunch of Don Quixotes, chances are.”
    Lockington didn’t say anything. He’d never heard of LAON on the streets.
    Denny ordered spaghetti with clam sauce, Lockington tried the veal française. Laura dropped Denny’s fork into Lockington’s minestrone. Laura apologized. Lockington said, “That’s okay.” They had double Gallianos with black coffee. Lockington said, “Eleanor Fisher probably got picked up by the wrong jocker. These newspaper chippies swing—they get started during their working days and they never hit the brakes. Remember that society reporter from the Chronicle ?”
    “The one Luke Stark was banging?”
    “Yeah, she’d been married for ten years, and screwing for twenty.”
    “Lucy Wallick—Luke didn’t have a monopoly on Lucy—Lucy had a thing for cops—liked the macho image, probably.”
    Lockington yawned. The Eleanor Fisher thing was none of his affair. He was a cop in name only, and not for much longer.
    Denny was saying, “Hey, how’s about this—what’s her name again?”
    “Erika—Erika Elwood.”
    “Well, she’s a newspaper woman. Does Erika get it on?”
    “I’d think she does. When I told her that I’d show her my switchblade scars, she said that she’d show me her butterfly tattoo.”
    Denny smiled a wolfish smile. “Words uttered not completely in jest, perhaps. Where’s her butterfly tattoo?”
    “On her appendectomy scar, she told me.”
    Denny popped the table with the flat of his hand. “Hey, partner, get to that butterfly and her monkey will be just over the ridge!”
    Lockington made a deprecatory gesture. “I’m old enough to be her father.”
    Denny snorted. “That matters ? Give it a shot! Whaddaya stand to lose ?”
    “Uh-uh, not this one—if I never see that little conartist again, it’ll be six months too soon!”
    Denny signalled for another round of double Gallianos and turned back to Lockington. “ Use the slut, Lacey—what the hell, she’s certainly used you ! That’s the name of the game, isn’t it?”
    “ Is it?”
    “I asked you first.” Lockington didn’t answer and Denny lit a cigarette. “Well, brace yourself, partner—here comes the commercial.”
    Obviously ill-at-ease, Denny was studying the golden depths of his double Galliano, tracing an invisible design on the bright red tablecloth with the handle of his knife. He looked up at Lockington.
    Lockington nodded. He’d sensed that there’d been considerably more on Denny’s mind than the death of a