Mourn The Living (6 page)

“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!

“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.

Nolan tried the
Globe
again, couldn’t get Davis, then got up from bed and, phone book under his arm, left the room, grabbing his tan suitcoat from the chair. He went out to the Lincoln, climbed in and roared toward Chelsey.

As he drove through the shaded residential streets, Nolan felt Chelsey was more a postcard than a city. He had heard there was a slum in Chelsey, but that he would have to see to believe.

In seven minutes he reached the downtown area. It was a typical small-town business district, built around a square, with all the businesses enclosing a quaint crumbling courthouse which stood in the center collecting dust. There were people bundled warmly against the cold Illinois wind, rushing up and down the sidewalks, visibly pained to move that quickly. Birds and bird-dung clung to the courthouse and Nolan wondered why the hell they didn’t fly south or something. At first Nolan didn’t see any old men in front of the courthouse, as he expected there to be, but after he parked his car and walked half-way around the square, he saw them at last. They were sitting in the shade of a large leafy tree, bench-bound, tobacco-mouthed, as motionless as the twin Civil War cannons in front of them.

He checked Dillon’s Tap, found it empty except for a blowsy redhead talking to the bartender. No Davis, no other reporters to ask about Davis.

He didn’t find Davis or colleagues in the Eastgate Tavern, where two on-duty policemen were drinking beer. He didn’t want to talk to them.

Nolan went back to his rented Lincoln and headed toward the Chelsey University campus, which lay beyond the downtown district. The downtown continued on three streets north of the square, made up primarily of collegiate shops and bookstores; then the campus lay just after that, on a bluff overlooking the Chelsey River.

The river was little more than a wide stream, with several footbridges and four traffic bridges crossing it. The rest of Chelsey and the C.U. campus, football stadium included, were on the other side of the river. Nolan drove over the Front Street bridge and saw a large unlit neon saying Big 7. He pulled into the parking lot and went in.

The place was dark and smoke hung over it like a gray cloud. Nolan couldn’t tell whether or not, as the motel manager had said, it was a fairly nice restaurant, simply because he couldn’t see it very well. All he could see clearly were football action shots trying in vain to break the monotony of the room’s pine-paneled walls. Then he spotted two men in wrinkled suits, one blue and one grey, standing at the bar arguing over a long dead play out of a long dead Rose Bowl game.

“Excuse me,” Nolan said.

The two guys stopped mid-play and gave Nolan twin what-the-hell-do-you-want sneers.

Nolan said, “Where can I find Hal Davis?”

The two guys looked at each other in acknowledgment of Nolan being a stranger to both of them. Then one of the guys, a chunky ex-high school tackle perhaps, said, “Maybe Hal Davis likes privacy. Maybe he don’t care to be found.”

“If you know where he is, I’d appreciate it you tell me.”

The guy looked at Nolan, looked at Nolan’s eyes.

“He’s over at the corner table. Facin’ the wall.”

Nolan nodded.

The two men returned to the play and Nolan headed for the corner table, where a sandy-haired man of around fifty sat nursing a glass of bourbon.

“Mr. Davis?”

He glanced up. His eyes were blood-shot and heavily bagged and the hands around the glass were shaky. He wasn’t drunk, but he wished he was. His lips barely moved as he said, “I don’t know you, mister.”