Mourn The Living (10 page)

He glanced over Sid Tisor’s notebook of information on daughter Irene. He had gone through the six male names in the notes—Zig-Zag and five others like him, and now all that remained were the two female names, Lyn Parks and Vicki Trask. There were probably dozens of Irene’s friends her father hadn’t known about—all Tisor had was a handful of names culled from Irene’s occasional letters.

Lyn Parks lived at the Chelsey Arms Hotel. Nolan parked a block away and walked toward it, passing several clusters of long haired men and women wearing the latest thing in wilted flowers, plastic love beads and Goodwill Store fashions. The block was run-down but distinctly not tenement—secondhand stores, burger joints, head shops—though in Chelsey, Nolan had a hunch this would be as close to a slum as he would get.

The Chelsey Arms Hotel had seen a better day. Its theater-style marquee bore faded red lettering that didn’t spell anything, and there was a worn carpet leading to double doors which said CAH proudly but faintly. Once in the lobby Nolan saw that the Arms was somewhat ramshackle but hardly in danger of being condemned; he’d stayed in worse. A desk clerk, in a rumpled gray suit, seemed to be trying to decide whether Nolan was a cop, or a salesman looking for female companionship.

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 above 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.”