Mourn The Living

by Collins, Max Allan

  There were Chelsey-style flower children all over the lobby, and Nolan sat in a chair across from two of them who were curled as one on a couch. Then he noticed the man standing by the cigar counter, pretending to look over the paperback rack.

  Tulip.

  Nolan got up and strolled to one of the pay phones to make his first contact with Vicki Trask. He would have to lose Tulip before he met with the girl, Irene’s roommate, the most important name on Tisor’s list. Nolan didn’t imagine it would make too great a first impression to have Tulip barge in and turn his visit into a brawl.

  He looked her number up in the book, dropped a dime in the slot and dialed.

  A soft but somehow icy voice answered. “This is Vicki.”

  “Miss Trask, my name is Earl Webb. I’m a friend of Sid Tisor, Irene’s father.”

  “Yes, of course. How is Mr. Tisor?”

  “He’s upset about his daughter.”

  “Well, I can understand . . . please send him my deepest sympathy.”

  “I’m afraid I’m asking for more than sympathy, Miss Trask.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m an investigator and I’m looking into Irene’s death. As a favor to Sid.”

  “I see . . . that’s generous of you, mister, uh . . . what was it?”

  “Webb.”

  “Well, Mr. Webb, are you trying to say you’d like to see me and talk about Irene?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right now I’m on my lunch break and I’ll be going back to work in a few minutes, so . . .”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I’m a clerk at the bank.”

  “Would dinner be possible?”

  “Mr. Webb, I don’t even know you . . .”

  “I’m ugly as sin. How about dinner?”

  The voice till now cold turned warm in a gentle rush of laughter. “I must admit your voice is very intriguing . . .”

  “What do you say?”

  “. . . all right.”

  “Good.”

  “Might I suggest the Third Eye? The food isn’t bad, the drinks are suitably damp. And you could do a little investigating on the side. That’s where Irene spent much of her spare time, you know.”

  “That’d be fine. Stop by at seven?”

  “Okay. See you at seven. Dress casual.”

  She hung up.

  Nolan nearly smiled. A touch of promise in that voice? He glanced over at Tulip, who stood at the cigar stand engrossed in Modern Man.

  Nolan stepped in an elevator, said, “Fourth floor,” to the elderly attendant. He wondered what Lyn Parks would look like. He wasn’t worried about Tulip. If Tulip cared to join him, that would be Tulip’s problem.

  He knocked on door 419 and immediately heard movement inside. A voice cried out, “Come on in, it’s open.” A feminine voice.

  Nolan opened the door.

  The walls, pink crumbling plaster, were covered with posters and flower power graffiti. Doc Leary put in another appearance, Bonnie and Clyde Barrow (Warren Beatty/Faye Dunaway version this time) again rode the plaster. Also W. C. Fields, Mae West, a Fillmore Ballroom poster in purple announcing Moby Grape and the Grateful Dead, and several home-made efforts, including “Legalize Pot” and “If It Feels Good, Do It.” There were two bubbling “lava” lamps—one red, one blue.

  Nolan sat on the bed, a bare mattress with a single crumpled blanket on it. He smoked a cigarette. The girl was in the john, making john noises. He sat and smoked and waited for her. For two minutes he stared at a chest of drawers that had been stripped of varnish and assaulted with red, green and blue spray paint.

  The girl came in and was naked.

  She held two small jars of body make-up in one hand, one yellow, one green, and was dabbing a tiny paint brush in the jar of yellow. There was a towel over her shoulder and her body dripped beads of water.

  She said, “Oh, hi.”

  Nolan said, “Hello.”

  She appeared to be painting a yellow daisy around her navel. When he noticed this Nolan also noticed a few other things about her. Her stomach was attractively plump and her legs were long and well-fleshed. Her breasts were firm and large, with copper-colored nipples. Her face was scrubbed and pretty, surrounded by white-blonde hair cut in lengths and hanging down to partially conceal her full breasts. Her pubic triangle was dark brown.

  “Have we met?” She asked, frowning in thought but not displeasure.

  “No.”

  “Did you lock the door?”

  “No.”

  “Lock it.”

  “I’m here to talk, Miss Parks.”

  “We’ll see. Lock the door.”

  Nolan got up and night-latched the door. He returned to the bed and sat back down. The girl sat beside him and crossed her legs and worked on the daisy that was now halfway encircling her navel. He offered her a cigarette and she bounced up after an ash tray and came back and accepted it. He watched her alternately puff on the cigarette and stroke her stomach with the tiny brush. Her skin was pearled with moisture from the shower, her flesh looked soft, pink . . .

  “I don’t pay,” Nolan said.

  “I don’t charge.”

  Nolan drew on the cigarette and collected his thoughts. Lyn Parks stunned him a bit. He’d never met a girl who paraded around naked painting flowers on her stomach. He glanced at her again and saw the sun spilling in the window on her white-blonde hair. She smiled like a madonna.

  “Lyn . . . okay I call you Lyn?”

  “Call me anything you like.”

  But shy.

  “Lyn, did you know Irene Tisor?”

  “Yes. You have nice grey eyes, do you know that?”

  “Were you a friend of hers?”

  “I knew her, that’s all. Your shoulders sure are broad.”

  “Did you hear anything strange about her death?”

  “She took a bad trip. Have you ever been eaten alive?” She licked a pink tongue over her lips.

  “Ever see her at the Third Eye?”

  “All the time. Do you believe in free love?”

  “Who’s Broome?”

  “Lead singer with the Gurus.”

  “The Gurus?”

  “The band at the Eye. Don’t you like girls, mister?”

  “Did Broome and Irene Tisor see a lot of each other?”

  “Broome sees a lot of a lot of girls. You seeing enough?”

  “Enough. Was Irene a regular tripper? What’d she take, LSD or STP or speed, or what?”

  “I don’t know, none of it regular, I guess. Aren’t you interested in me at all?”

  “I’m busy right now. Irene Tisor is dead and I want the details.”

  She stroked the back of Nolan’s neck. “Why?”

  “I’m writing a story on her.”

  “Why not write a story on me?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “How do you like my daisy?” She had completed the flower and had added a green stem extending from her navel to the edge of the thatch of triangular brown.

  Nolan got up, dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it out with his toe. “Thanks for your trouble.”

  “No trouble. You’re not going, are you?” She followed him to the door.

  “That’s right.”

  “So you’re a writer, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Webb.”

  “I guess you must not find me attractive, Mr. Webb.”

  “You’re attractive.”

  “Well then, Mr. Webb, come on, what’s to be afraid. It’s free.”

  Nolan undid the night latch. “What if I were a killer?”

  She stayed surface-cool but her eyes reflected a touch of fear. But just a touch. “What if you were?”

  He couldn’t figure her. Well, if she didn’t scare easy, maybe she could be offended. “Ever hear the term clap? And I don’t mean applause.”

  But that didn’t faze her, either. She just stretched her arms ab
ove her head and gave him another look at her lush breasts. She said, “It’s your loss.”

  Nolan said, “Maybe.”

  “You’ll be back.”

  He said, “Maybe” again and went out.

  He stood staring at the closed door. Was she for real? Did she really have the guts to let a stranger in her room and stroll around naked for him, offering him a piece of tail like it was a piece of candy?

  Nolan shook his head. She couldn’t be on the level, she couldn’t have that kind of nerve.

  But he’d remember her room number. She was right that, one way or another, he probably would be back.

  6

  DINNECK, WHO was in the john hiding in the shower, heard the door close behind the man he knew as Webb. Lyn Parks, still naked, came in and said, “Okay, lover boy, you can come out now.”

  Dinneck stepped out of the stall, pleased to be freed from the damp, claustrophobic cell. He shook some of the moisture from his wrinkled, uncomfortable gold sportcoat and leaned his pork-pie hat back and scratched his head. As he slipped his .45 back into its shoulder holster, he glanced at Lyn Parks as she stooped nakedly to pick up her underwear. “That’s a sweet ass you got there, honey.”

  She sneered at Dinneck as she wiggled into her panties. “It’s sweet all right, but you’ll never taste it.”

  Dinneck laughed harshly and spat in the can. “So . . . your love child trip ends when that creep Webb cuts out.”

  “Don’t try to talk like a hippie, Dinneck,” she said, pulling on ski pants that left her bare to the waist. “The only thing remotely hippie about you is your fat ass.”

  A low blow, but just the same Dinneck flashed her what he considered to be his most charming smile. “Look, honey, you just made an easy fifty bucks, didn’t you? I mean, you didn’t even have to come across for Webb, just flirted a little and painted your cute tummy a flower. Now, wouldn’t you like to make an extra twenty-five for something really worth your while?”

  She snapped her bra across Dinneck’s face and one of the metal snaps bit his cheek. “You were sent here to protect me, you little bastard, not to make passes. Now get the fuck out of here.”

  “What’s eating you!”

  “Not you, dork.” She whirled out of the john, hastily fastening the hooks on the bra.

  Conceited little bitch, Dinneck thought, rubbing his cheek. He followed her out into the shabby mass of posters and pop art that was her apartment. He strolled over to the window and saw Webb leaving the Arms and heading down the street toward the dark blue Lincoln. In ten seconds he saw Tulip pick up Webb’s tail.

  Dinneck looked back at Lyn Parks who was lying on the bed in ski pants and bra, sticking her shapely ass out at him in defiance, or so it seemed to Dinneck. She was staring at the door in a wistful sort of way, apparently wishing the man called Webb—whom she’d been paid to seduce and pump for information when he came calling on her—had taken her up on her offer.

  Bitch, Dinneck thought. What the hell was it to her? She could obviously use the extra twenty-five he’d offered her. What was the difference if she gave Dinneck a quick roll in the hay?

  “I suppose,” Dinneck said bitterly, gnawing on a toothpick, “it’s something else again when Broome tells you to diddle than when you diddle on your own.”

  “Oh,” she said, not bothering to look back at him, “are you still here?”

  Dinneck wanted her and he wanted her bad and he wanted her bad right now. “All right, baby, fifty bucks, that’s tops, fifty bucks!”

  “Take your fifty bucks and stick it.”

  “You bitch, you little bitch, if Broome okays Webb, why the hell not me?”

  “What gives you the idea Broome okayed it?”

  “You’re Broome’s woman, aren’t you?”

  “Part-time. I’m my own woman full-time.”

  “Well, if Broome didn’t ask you to give Webb the treatment, who the hell did?”

  “The same guy that sent you, dummy.”

  “You mean Elliot?”

  “That’s right. God, you’re brilliant.”

  Elliot had sent Dinneck to the girl that morning, to watch over her in case Webb got rough when he came calling. Late the night before, after washing their wounds from the pool battle with Webb, Dinneck and Tulip had reported their findings from the ransacking of Webb’s motel room to Elliot. In a notebook in Webb’s suitcase had been a list of names, one of which had been Lyn Parks. Since Lyn Parks supposedly belonged to Broome, one of Elliot’s hippie-town peddlers, Dinneck had assumed Elliot had gotten Broome’s permission before unleashing the Parks girl on Webb. Of course, Broome was a pretty weird character and probably wouldn’t give a damn who did what to his woman.

  Dinneck chewed on his toothpick, thought for a while longer, then said, “How do you happen to do direct business with Mr. Elliot?”

  “We’re acquainted.”

  “You sell your goodies to him, too, do you?”

  “I don’t sell myself, scumbag. I might rent out now and then, but as far as you’re concerned there’s no vacancy.”

  “Your business connection with Elliot wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain ‘One-Thumb’ Gordon, now, would it?”

  “How did you know that, you little bastard?” The girl was surprised to hear the name, as she should be, because it was the name of her father, who was an associate of the Boys. It was a well-kept secret that she was the uncontrollable offspring of Victor “One-Thumb” Gordon. She had threatened to expose her daddy’s Family ties unless he left her alone but well provided for.

  “How the hell did you know about that?” she asked again.

  Dinneck said, “Shut up, shut your damn mouth,” and wiped his sweaty forehead.

  What a goddamn fool mistake that was, he told himself, letting information slip like that! He had gotten mad at the bitch and let his temper flare up and expose a piece of his cover. He had to remember to play smalltimer, and he hadn’t had any trouble in playing it till now. But if any of them—especially Elliot or anyone close to Elliot—saw through him, then he was washed up. If Elliot didn’t get him, Dinneck had no doubt his other employers would.

  And that Webb, that son of a bitch, had he seen through the hick routine? He remembered the swimming pool and how Webb had held him under water till his lungs had nearly burst. Where had he seen that face before? As soon as he took care of his job in Chelsey, Dinneck promised himself he would take care of that bastard Webb. Whoever he really was.

  Dinneck walked over to the bed and looked at the girl and thought to himself that if it wasn’t for the lousy clothes and the stooge role he’d had to assume, he might have gotten into that sweet bitch. As it was, the beautiful piece was sitting on the bed wishing she had made it with Webb.

  “When you turned me down, sugar,” Dinneck said easily, “you missed something real fine.”

  She kept her eyes fixed on the door. “I heard about you, needle dick. Remember a certain blonde waitress at the Eye? She says you don’t fuck for shit, and I believe her.”

  Dinneck snarled and swung at her. She ducked and shot a small, sharp fist into his adam’s apple. While he stood choking with his hands wrapped around his throat, he saw her go to the dresser, pull open a drawer and withdraw a mostly empty vodka bottle. She broke it over the edge of the dresser and turned it into a formidable weapon. She held it up in a very unladylike manner, the slivers of glass catching bits of light and reflecting it around the room.

  She said, “You’re going to leave now, and you’re going to leave lucky that I don’t call Elliot and tell him about the crap you’ve been giving me. The next time you come inside kicking range of me, you’ll leave wearing your balls for earrings.”

  Dinneck choked some more and shuffled out.

  She was a bitch, all right, he thought, but she was a tough bitch.

  Dinneck, in the lobby, tossed away the toothpick and fought the sour taste in his mouth with a cigarette. He rubbed his throat gently, thought about how much fun he
would have within the next day or two, when he’d be free to hit Webb and leave Miss Parks begging for more. But first he had to take care of the job he’d been hired to do in Chelsey.

  He stepped up to the phone, dropped in a dime and dialed Elliot’s number.

  ELLIOT WAS in his den reading Fortune when the phone rang.

  It was Dinneck.

  “Mr. Elliot, Webb wouldn’t go for Broome’s woman.”

  Elliot said, “He wouldn’t dip into the delectable Miss Parks? Strange . . . did he give any reason for his celibacy?”

  “Just smartass shit—’ever hear the word clap and I don’t mean applause.’ And so on.”

  “A man of genuine wit, apparently. Did she get any information?”

  “No, Mr. Elliot. He still says he’s a writer, with a magazine. His cover is consistent, anyway. And he keeps asking questions about that Tisor twat that did that two-and-a-half gainer off the Twill building a few weeks back. The Parks girl dodged his questions and tried to get friendly, but no go. She started in pumping for a little information, then out the door he went.”

  “Is Tulip still following him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine, Dinneck. Call back in three hours for further instructions.”

  Elliot hung up and rose from the desk. He stared blankly at one of the mahogany-paneled walls for a moment, then went to the doorway and called for his servant Edward, a black gentleman of around fifty.

  “Yes, Mr. Elliot?”

  “Ginger ale, please, Edward. With ice.”

  He went back to the desk and waited for the ginger ale. He drummed his fingers and glanced continually over his fireplace where, instead of a landscape, his license for real- estate brokerage hung. Behind the over-sized framed document was a wall-safe, where rested all the cash benefits netted by Elliot in the course of the Chelsey operation. Included was the last six weeks’ haul, as yet uncollected by the Boys’ periodic visitor.

  Edward came in with the ginger ale; Elliot thanked him and spent a quarter hour sipping it. Then he rose, stripped off his herringbone suit and his pale blue shirt and his blue striped tie, and began to exercise. He exercised for twenty minutes, push-ups, sit-ups, leg lifts, jumping jacks, touching toes, knee bends, a few isometrics.