Lacey Lockington eased the balding tires of his road-weary Pontiac Catalina onto the Barry Avenue curbing, thereby granting an additional few inches of clearance to westbound traffic. Not that it’d make a helluva lot of difference on Barry Avenue. On Barry Avenue you could get totaled out while parked in your garage. Still he found consolation in the knowledge that he’d taken the precaution.
He departed the decrepit vehicle, slammed its door, turned his ankle when he stepped on a crumpled Budweiser can, mumbled a few one-syllable words, kicked the offending can into the middle of the street, and limped through the sticky late afternoon toward the vestibule of his apartment building.
The neighborhood was deteriorating rapidly, keeping pace with the rest of the city. Ten more years, Lockington figured—only ten more, and Chicago would be the world’s largest ghetto, 250 square miles of slums, Lake Michigan to Elmwood Park, Evanston to Blue Island. He’d given brooding thought to the matter but he’d been unable to pinpoint the origin of a once-great city’s decline—there’d been no single event to presage the avalanche, but it was on and there’d be no stopping it, now or ever. Just a few months earlier, Lockington had been forced to shoot two Hispanics who’d attempted to mug him less than three blocks from his own front door. Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate—he hadn’t been forced to shoot them—he might have squeaked out of the predicament because a pair of fancy switchblade knives constitute a poor match for a .38 police special, but he’d killed the bastards anyway, and with considerable gusto. The incident had cost him his job as a Chicago police detective, but what the hell, you win a few, you lose a few.
It’d been another long day at Classic Investigations on West Randolph Street. Boring days are always long. Lockington checked his vestibule mailbox. Empty. That was fine—no news is good news. He unlocked his door, pushed it to find his night-chain hooked. Edna Garson appeared at the narrow aperture, peered through it, detached the chain, and said, “Why, Mr. Lockington, won’t you please come in?”
Lockington said, “Thanks a bunch—don’t mind if I do.” He pitched his crumpled, sweat-stained hat onto his overstuffed chair and flopped on the sofa, watching Edna splash Heublein’s double-strength vodka martini mix into a water glass brimming with ice. Edna was in her stocking feet, a certain indication that she was a visitor who felt completely at home. She handed the drink to him and Lockington took a tentative sip of it before settling back and lighting a cigarette. He growled, “What’s the occasion?” From their beginning, he’d always played it a shade on the gruff side with Edna and she’d taken it in good-natured stride—it’d become an intrinsic part of their relationship.
Edna said, “Since when do I need an occasion?” She wasn’t a strikingly beautiful woman, but her big, sincere, smoky blue eyes, a slightly out-of-line ski-jump nose, a wide-mouthed, chipped-tooth smile, and a dazzling mop of honey blonde hair had convinced Lockington that she was mighty close. Then, of course, there was the matter of that long-stemmed, instantly responsive, panther-graceful body. Edna Garson was flat-out bonkers over Lacey Lockington and although the feeling may not have been mutual, it wasn’t far from it. Lockington had attempted to avoid dwelling on that question because he was afraid of learning the answer. Edna was saying, “You gave me a key, didn’t you?”
Lockington nodded, grinning, winking at her, taking a long pull at his vodka martini, half-draining the glass, finding the drink to be excellent. He said, “You brought in my mail?”
“Uh-huh, it’s in the trash can—just a flyer from Crossman Brothers Furniture. Crossman’s is running a big sale on Chippendale. I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
Lockington was squinting at her. He said, “Chippendale?”
“Eighteenth century-style furniture—lots of swoops and swirls—heavy on rococo.”
“Rococo?”
“Wooden scrollwork, sort of—intricate—excessively ornate.”
Lockington shrugged, returning to his vodka martini. He said, “We learn something every day.”
Edna withdrew briefly to the kitchen, reappearing with her own martini. She said, “I bought two quarts of the stuff—I figured they’d get us as far as dinner.” She shifted Lockington’s hat to an end table and sat in the overstuffed chair across from him, wiggling her toes in her nylons. Edna never painted her toenails. Lockington was grateful for that. He suspected women who painted their toenails. He didn’t know what he suspected them of, but he suspected them nevertheless. Edna said, “I brought pork chops and delicatessen cole slaw. Okay?”
Lockington said, “Beats hell out of a can of vegetable soup.”
“Glad to see me, Locky?”
“Sure.”
“Try to control your enthusiasm. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you glad to see me?”
“Because you brought pork chops and delicatessen cole slaw.”
Edna reached for his cigarette, lighting her own from it. She returned it and said, “Anything new at Classic Investigations?”
“Oh, sure—a fat woman came in to use my washroom. She got stuck on the john and when I pulled her off she threatened to sue me for invasion of privacy.”
Edna shook her head perplexedly. “Locky, what is it with you and fat women?”
“I wish to Christ I knew.”
“It may have something to do with your horoscope.”
“Also, a guy called this afternoon—told me that he’ll be in at ten tomorrow morning.”
“Regarding?”
“God knows.”
“Hungry?”
“If he was, he didn’t mention it.”
“You—are you hungry?”
“Probably.”
Edna left the room to get the chops started. Their sizzle and the sounds of her clattering around in his kitchen were comforting to Lockington.
She came back into the living room to spruce up his martini and perch on a sofa arm, peeking at him over the rim of her glass. She said, “Would you believe that for two cents I’d move in with you?”
Lockington said, “I’d believe it.”
“So?”
“So suit yourself, you have a key.”
Edna frowned, considering it. “Well-l-l, probably not immediately, but one of these days.”
The pork chops were superb, golden brown, crispy around the edges. Lockington liked his pork chops crispy around the edges. The golden brown part wasn’t all that important.