Mourn The Living

by Collins, Max Allan

  “Yeah . . . yeah, that’s right. I can’t tell you how much I . . . I appreciate this . . . Nolan, thanks.”

  “Sure.” He headed for the door. “See you around.”

  “Yeah . . . uh . . . so long, Nolan . . . you going by bus?”

  Nolan looked at him and said, “You ask too many questions, Sid,” and closed the door.

  Tisor watched through the picture window and saw Nolan board a city bus routed for downtown Peoria.

  There Nolan found a Hertz office and rented a midnight- blue Lincoln in Tisor’s name. He drove it back to his motel, packed and cleaned up, then checked out.

  He could make Chelsey by noon if he kicked it.

  6

  GEORGE FRANCO was a satisfied man.

  He was not happy, but there was satisfaction, a certain contentment in his life.

  He realized this as he lay on the soft double bed in his penthouse apartment, watching his woman get dressed. She was a leggy whore, with good firm breasts, and she was taking her time about fastening the garter snaps as she replaced her black hose. Her tousled black hair fell to her shoulders, and her once-pretty face wore a tight red line for a mouth. George liked the look of her hard, well-built body, but he didn’t like her equally hard face which spoke of something other than love.

  But she was his woman, hired or not, and he was lucky to have her and knew it. Especially when you were a repulsive glob of fat, as George resignedly recognized himself to be.

  She was dressed now, as dressed as possible considering the black sheath hit mid-thigh. She did her imitation of a smile for him and said, “Tomorrow, same time, Georgie?”

  “Yeah, Francie. Tomorrow. Sure was good today.”

  The whore smiled some more and said, “Yeah, sure was,” because that was her job. Her fingers rippled a little wave at her employer and she left.

  George sat up on the bed, poured the last shot out of the bottle of Scotch he and the woman had emptied during the day—the courthouse clock across the way was bonging four—and he drank it down. He held his liquor well, he knew he did; it was the one thing he could do well. Then he settled back with a good cigar and thought about his life.

  Satisfied, content. Not happy, but you can’t have everything.

  After all, he had fifty cent cigars when he wanted them, and a fifty dollar woman when he wanted her. He lived in a five hundred buck a month secret penthouse (over a drugstore) with five rooms and two color TV’s and two cans and two big double beds and three bars and lots of soft red carpet. His bars were well-stocked with all the liquor he could possibly drink; and he had all the food he could eat, as prepared by his personal chef, who came in twice a day. The chef lived down the street in an apartment shared with George’s maid.

  There were disadvantages, George realized that. People still didn’t like him. They never had, they never would. It was a kind of reverse magnetism he possessed. His woman, for example. You can only buy a woman from the neck down, he told himself over and over again, but you can never buy the head, except for the mouth of course. And his men, the ones who were supposed to protect him, they didn’t like him. And his chef didn’t like him—the chef could stand George, and seemed to kind of like him, but that was only because George was a good eater and, as such, a pleasure to cook for.

  Hell, he thought, not even his brothers had liked him.

  Not to mention his father.

  But Momma (requiescat in pace) had liked him.

  The best move he had ever made was being born of that sweet woman. Being born of the woman had made him the son of Carlo Franco (requiescat in pace), a big man in Chicago “business.” And the brother of Charlie Franco and Rosie Franco (requiescat in pace) and Sam Franco (requiescat in pace), who didn’t like him but provided for him. Especially after Poppa died and Charlie and Sam took the reins of the “business.”

  Charlie and Sam looked out for their younger brother very well, in spite of their lack of brotherly love for him. Back in ’58 they had put him on the board of directors of the business—made him one of “The Boys.” But when George fumbled away over a half million dollars in his treasurer capacity, in a virtuoso display of incompetence, he was replaced by Lou Goldstein.

  George cursed Goldstein as regularly as he ate. That goddamn Jew! What would Poppa (requiescat in pace) think about a Jew being one of the Family, for Christ’s sake!

  But even George knew that Goldstein could keep good books. And Goldstein was a veteran of the “business” with a talent for seeing to it that other people kept good books. George, on the other hand, had trouble carrying a number over to the tens column.

  George rose from the bed and headed for the bar a few steps away; he needed a fresh bottle of Scotch. Another disadvantage of wealth, George decided, was it made you waddle when you walked. Especially when you tipped the scales, as George did, at an even two hundred and eighty. When he walked on the plush red carpet, he left tracks that took their time raising into place again.

  As he stood at the bar pouring a shot of Scotch, he heard a knock at the door. He glanced at his watch and said, “It’s open, Elliot,” and downed the Scotch. Time for Elliot.

  A man entered the room, a man as thin as George was heavy. He wore a powder blue suit, tailored, with a blue- striped tie. His face was bony and pockmarked, and his large black horn-rimmed glasses made his head seem small. Behind the lenses of the glasses were watery blue eyes. His teeth were very white.

  “How are things going for us, Elliot?”

  Elliot was George’s financial secretary—the strong prime minister to George’s weak queen. Elliot said, “Things are fine, Mr. Franco.”

  George poured another shot, said, “You want anything?”

  “Ginger ale would be fine.”

  George poured a glass, dropped a few ice cubes into it and left it on the bar for Elliot to retrieve. He headed for the bed, where he sat among the unmade sheets, wondering why Elliot never drank hard stuff, wondering why he never smoked, or never seemed to have any interest in women. Maybe he was queer, who could tell about the guy?

  Elliot went after the ginger ale, then found a chair.

  George, sitting on the bed, said, “How’s the college kid trade? They still buyin’ what we’re sellin’?”

  “Business is good, Mr. Franco.”

  “How about the feds? You said last time there was a rumor about feds.”

  There had been a rumble that federal men were going to look into the Chelsey situation because of some unfavorable publicity concerning local college kids and LSD. There had been a girl who had jumped from a building while on a trip. There had been four trippers, it had been reported, who were in the hospital after having eaten magic sugar cubes and then deciding to stare at the sun. A day of sun-gazing, supposedly, resulted in all four going blind.

  “It’s still just a rumor about the feds,” Elliot said. “Nobody paid much attention to the girl who went off the building, and the story about the sun-gazers going blind turned out to be a fake. Just one of those stories that got started.”

  “That’s good to hear,” George said. “No trouble about the girl who fell off the building?”

  “No, it’s blown over. Phil got the thing played down.”

  Phil Saunders was Elliot’s cousin; he was also the police chief in Chelsey.

  “What was that girl’s name?”

  “Tisor,” Elliot said. “I think that’s it. Tisor.”

  “Coincidence,” George said, gulping his Scotch. “My sister married a guy named Tisor. Used to work under Goldstein.”

  “Is that so.” Elliot was tapping his foot, not nervous, just anxious to bid George goodbye. At least that was the way George interpreted it.

  George leaned back on the bed and waved his arms with a flourish. “You’re doin’ a good job, Elliot, and I’m gonna put in the word for you with my brother Charlie.”

  Elliot’s smug smile stung George. Skinny little shit! Smirking little bastard! I’m George Franco, and you’re nobody!
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  “Just keep up the good work,” George continued, murdering Elliot over and over again in his mind.

  “I have your allowance, Mr. Franco.”

  That damn condescending tone!

  “Leave it on the bar, Elliot.”

  Elliot nodded, got up from the chair and laid down his empty glass and an envelope on the bar. The envelope contained two hundred dollars, George’s allowance for the next week. There were bank accounts George could draw upon, and his expenses were taken care of by Elliot on Charlie Franco’s orders; but to simplify things for George, this spending money was allotted him. Pin money.

  “See you, Mr. Franco.”

  “Goodbye, Elliot.”

  Elliot left silently.

  George stared at the ceiling and pounded a fist into the soft bed. Then he sighed and rolled over on his stomach.

  Yes, it was a good life for him. His only real job was to keep out of Elliot’s way. It was perfectly all right for him to pretend that he was Elliot’s superior, Elliot went along with it pretty good, but his direct orders from brother Charlie were to stay the hell out of Elliot’s operation.

  Kissing ass didn’t bother him too much. Not when it stayed relatively painless, like this.

  Not when he was safe, content.

  After all, wasn’t he the smart one? Hadn’t his brother Sam (requiescat in pace) got himself all shot to hell by that crazy animal named Nolan? Wasn’t Charlie scared crapless all the time for fear death’ll strike him down like Sam, either through this Nolan clown or some other maniac connected to the family “business”?

  George chuckled. He was the smart Franco. He stayed away from trouble in a little town in Illinois, getting fat on fine foods, getting drunk on good booze and screwing nice- looking broads. He got nowhere near the fireworks, yet he got all the benefits.

  Look at poor Sam (requiescat in pace). Shot down like a common criminal! And to think that psychopath Nolan was still running around loose, gunning for brother Charlie.

  “No sir,” George said aloud, “none of that crap for me.”

  “None of what crap for you, George?”

  George rolled over and looked up. He hadn’t seen the man enter, he hadn’t heard him either. He was a tall, mustached man, his brown hair graying at the temples, dressed in a tailored tan suit and holding a .38 Smith & Wesson in his hand.

  “Who . . . who the hell’re you? You work for me? I never seen you before.”

  “Think. You’ve seen my picture.”

  “I . . . I don’t know you.”

  The man sat on the edge of the bed, prodded George with the .38. “My name’s Nolan.”

  Two

  1

  NOLAN ARRIVED in Chelsey, Illinois, a few minutes past noon. He let a Holiday Inn go by, and a Howard Johnson’s, then picked a non-chain motel called the Travel Nest. It was a pleasant-looking yellow building, an L-shaped two stories; its sign promised an indoor heated pool, color television and a vacancy. Nolan pulled into the car port outside the motel office and went in.

  “Yes sir?” The manager, a middle-aged man with dark, slightly thinning hair, gave Nolan a professional smile.

  Nolan said he’d need a room for a week, filled out the registration, using the name Earl Webb. He listed his occupation as journalist and his hometown as Philadelphia. The manager asked if he wished to pay the $65 room rate when he checked out or . . .

  Nolan gave the man two fifties. “Make it a nice room.”

  “Yes, sir!” The manager eyed the registration. “Are you a newspaperman, Mr. Webb?”

  “No,” Nolan said. “I’m with a new magazine out of Philadelphia. Planning a big first issue. It’s going to be on the order of Look, except monthly.”

  “Really?” The manager’s eyes went round with interest. Nolan smiled inwardly; he hoped everybody would bite his line as eagerly as this guy did.

  “Come with me, Mr. Webb,” the manager said. He turned to a younger copy of himself, most likely his son or kid brother, and snapped, “Take over, Jerome.”

  Jerome took over and the manager followed Nolan back outside to the Lincoln.

  “We can park your car, if you like.”

  “I’ll park it.”

  The manager told Nolan where the room was and turned and walked briskly toward the far end of the yellow building. Nolan got into the Lincoln and drove it into the empty space near the door the manager was entering. He liked the looks of the motel, well kept-up, with separate balconies for each room on the upper story, private sun porches for the lower. He got out of the Lincoln, took his suitcase and clothes-bags from the trunk, then locked the car.

  He met the manager at the head of the stairs and followed him to room 17. It was large, smelled fresh and was mostly a pastel green. The spread on the double bed was a darker green and the French doors leading out to the balcony were ivory-white. Nolan looked in at the bath and shower, found it clean and walked out on the balcony, which afforded him a view of the wooded area to the rear of the motel. There was a color TV. Nolan said it would do.

  “If you need anything else, just call down to the office and ask for me—Mr. Barnes. Oh, and there’s a steak house across the street. And the pool is just down the hall.”

  “If you’re fishing for a tip, I already slipped you an extra thirty-five.”

  The little man looked hurt, but he didn’t say anything; he just forced a weak smile and started to leave. Nolan immediately regretted falling out of character. He had to make himself be decent to people, even insignificant ones.

  “Hey,” Nolan called softly.

  The manager, halfway down the hall by now, turned and said, “Yes, Mr. Webb?”

  “Com’ere, Mr. Barnes.”

  Nolan reached into his front shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Barnes, who accepted it. He lit one himself, smiled his tight smile at Barnes in a semblance of good will.

  “Mr. Barnes, the assignment I’m on for my magazine is important to me. A big opportunity. I could use your help.”

  Barnes grinned like a chimp. “I’ll be happy to assist you, Mr. Webb.”

  “I wonder if maybe there’s somewhere in town reporters might hang out.”

  “Well. . . several bars come to mind. There’s a fairly good restaurant where the Globe guys go to talk. Called the Big Seven.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s down the hill from the football stadium, by Front Street bridge.”

  “Big Seven, huh?”

  “Yes, it’s a sports type hangout. The Chelsey U football team is in the Big Seven conference, you know.”

  “Any place else?”

  “Some bars downtown. Dillon’s, maybe, or Eastgate Tavern. What you going to write on, the hippies?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, Hal Davis did a big write-up on the anti-draft demonstration last week. Hippies, yippies, the whole SDS crew. A bunch of ’em slaughtered a live calf on the steps of the student union, then tossed it at some Dow Chemical people who came down to C.U. to interview seniors for jobs.”

  “Interesting. He didn’t happen to do a write-up on that girl who fell off the building a while back?”

  “Don’t know, Mr. Webb. There was a write-up on that, but I can’t remember any details. Say, I’m saving my old Globes for a paper drive one of my kids is on. If you want to look at some of ’em, I could bring up a batch.”

  “Fine. Bring them up for the past couple months and you got another ten bucks.”

  Barnes smiled. “Don’t bother, Mr. Evans. Glad to help, you being a real writer and all.” Then he trotted off after the papers.

  Good, thought Nolan. This way he wouldn’t have to go down to the newspaper and ask to see back files. It wouldn’t pay to show his face claiming to be a writer when he didn’t have enough knowledge or a solid enough cover to fake it around pros.

  He eased out of the tan suitcoat, hung it over a chair and started to unpack, leaving most of his things, including a spare .38 Colt and
several boxes of ammunition, in the suitcase. He hung his clothes-bags in the closet and thought about taking a shower, but then decided against it. He was too tired for that, so he flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes. He yawned, stretched his arms behind him, brushing against the phone book on the nightstand in back of him. He pulled the book down from the stand and looked up the Globe’s number.

  When he got the newsroom Nolan asked to speak to Mr. Davis. Mr. Davis was not in, was there a message? No message, he could call Mr. Davis later.

  There was a knock and it was Barnes with the papers. Nolan thanked him and took the stack from him and laid it on the bed.

  He leafed through the papers till he came to one published the day after Irene’s death. The notes Tisor had given him were fairly complete, but any extra information might help. Besides, Tisor hadn’t even come to Chelsey to pick up the body; Irene Tisor’s body had journeyed home by train.

  There were three articles on the death, one published the evening after she died, one the next evening and one the evening after that. The article printed the evening after her death wryly commented that “certain factions in Chelsey have made LSD, among other items, easily accessible to C.U. students.” The by-line read Hal Davis. The other two articles, under the same by-line, played down the incident, largely ignoring the LSD and its implications and labeling the death “apparent suicide.”

  A white-wash job.

  And Nolan could guess who was holding the brush.

  The Chelsey arm of Franco-Goldstein enterprises was trying to slip the LSD part of the story under a rock to keep federal men out. This meant, one way or another, the Family branch in Chelsey had gotten to Hal Davis.

  Nolan lit another cigarette and remembered George Franco.

  Would it be stupid to reveal himself to a Franco?

  Nolan had never met George and had only seen him once, at a cocktail party some years ago at Sam Franco’s. Nolan knew George by reputation, though, and from what he’d heard about the younger Franco, it should take only a few screws put to him to make him tell his life story. George had made a name for himself as a coward, and not a smart coward at that. Some meaningful threats might both pry information from George and keep his mouth shut about Nolan’s presence in Chelsey.