Mourn The Living (11 page)

“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.

Then, exhausted, his bony frame slick with perspiration, he lay down on the black leather couch and tried to nap. And couldn’t. His heart was beating quickly from the exercise and he took deep breaths to slow it but his nerves kept it going fast and hard.

He walked to his desk, opened the drawer and removed a glossy photo.

Elliot looked at the photo, at the hard, lined face and the cold eyes and the emotionless mouth.

The man in the photo was named Nolan.

And Elliot, in a cold, shaky sweat, darted his eyes from the wall-safe to the phone, wondering if he dare call Charlie Franco and tell him about the man who called himself Webb.

Three

1

AT TWO TILL SEVEN
Nolan reached the address of Vicki Trask’s apartment and found himself facing a door sandwiched between the chrome-trimmed showroom windows of Chelsey Ford Sales. Just down the street was Berry Drug, the upper story of which was occupied by George Franco. As Nolan glanced in one of the windows at a red Mustang he caught the reflection of a dark green Impala creeping along the street behind him, a familiar Neanderthal figure at its wheel. Nolan lifted his hand easily toward the .38 tucked beneath the left armpit of his sportscoat and looked in the reflecting glass to see what Tulip was going to do.

Tulip drove on.

Nolan straightened the collar of his pale yellow shirt, wondered absently if he should have worn a tie. He pressed the bell and placed his hand over the knob, waiting for the lock to let go. A buzz signaled its release and he pushed the door open.

She stood a full steep flight of stairs above him, displaying long, sleek legs below a blue mini skirt and she called out, “Come on up, Mr. Webb, come on up.”

Nolan nodded and climbed the stairs. At the top he took the hand she held out to him and stepped into the loft apartment.

“Hello, Mr. Webb,” she said warmly, “come in, please.”

Her face was lovely, framed by long to-the-shoulder brown hair. She smiled invitingly and motioned him to a seat.

“Thanks,” he said, refusing her gesture to take his sportscoat; she wouldn’t be prepared to meet his .38.

“Drink?” she asked.

“Thanks no.”

“Abstainer?”

“Just early.”

“How about a beer?”

He nodded and she swept toward the bar, which was part of the kitchenette at the rear of the room. Nolan was sitting in an uncomfortable-looking comfortable modular chair; he glanced around the apartment. It was a single room, very spacious, the walls sporting impressionistic paintings, possibly originals. Overlooking the large room was a balcony divided in half between bedroom and artist’s studio.

“How do you like it?”

“It’s fine. You paint?”

“How’d you ever guess?” she laughed. “Yes, that’s my work defiling the walls.”

“Looks okay to me.”

She came back with two chilled cans of malt liquor and stood in front of him, openly watching him. He took advantage of her sizing him up and did the same to her. She was a beautiful girl, the shoulder-length brown hair complemented by large, child-like brown eyes. Her body, well displayed in the blue mini and a short-sleeved clinging white knit sweater, was lean but shapely, with high, ample breasts that didn’t quite go with her otherwise Twiggy-slender body. Her features were of an artistic, sensitive cast with a delicate, finely shaped nose and a soft-red blossom of a mouth.

Suddenly Nolan realized she was waiting for him to say something and the moment became slightly awkward.

He cleared his throat. “This really is a nice apartment.”

“Thank you,” she said, seating herself. “It’s rather large for one person, and kind of spooky now that Irene is gone.”

“I wonder if we could talk about Irene, if it doesn’t bother you.”

“No, that’s all right . . . directly to business, I see, Mr. Webb?” She laughed gently. “Not much for small talk, are you?”

“No. Call me Earl, will you?”

“Of course, Earl.” She looked at her hands, thinking to herself for a moment, then said, “I don’t suppose small talk would fit your personality, would it? I mean, since I already feel as though I know you.”

“How’s that?”

“Irene spoke of you often.”

Nolan’s hand tightened around the glass. How could Irene Tisor have known the non-existent Earl Webb? “I never met Irene.”

“Of course you have.” She laughed again. “I’m afraid I’m teasing, aren’t I?”

“I’m not much on humor, either.”

“I don’t know about that . . . Mr. Nolan.”

Nolan didn’t answer.

He reached over and gripped her hand and looked into her eyes and locked them with his. Fear took her face.

“I . . . I suppose . . . suppose you want me to explain.”

“Yes.”

She tried to smile, stay friendly, but his hard icy grip and the grey stone of his eyes froze her.

Her voice timid, forced, she said, “Irene and I, you see, were . . . extremely close . . . like sisters . . .”

She stopped to see if that explained anything, but all she got from Nolan was, “So?”

“Well, Mr. Nolan, she . . . she carried your picture in her billfold, all the time.”

Nolan hadn’t seen Irene Tisor for years, had hardly known her even then. There was no reason for her to carry him around with her. “Keep going, Vicki.”

“She idolized you, Mr. Nolan.”

“It’s Webb and why should she idolize me?”

“She said she knew you when she was growing up. That you were a . . . gangster . . . but that you had gotten out. By defying your bosses.”

“Suppose that’s true. Suppose I did know her when she was a kid. Who was Irene Tisor that a ‘gangster’ would know her?”

“Her father . . . her father was one himself.”

Nolan released her hand. “Okay, Vicki. Let’s suppose some more. Let’s suppose I did know Irene Tisor when she was growing up and her father was what you say he was. But let’s also suppose I hadn’t seen her for years and this part about me quitting the outfit didn’t happen till eight months ago.”

“She knew about it because her father helped you. Her father wasn’t a very brave man, she told me, but he
had
helped you. She remembered it. It made an impression.”

“How did she know?”

“Her father told her.”

That was like Sid. Nolan nodded and said, “All right.”

“All right what?”

“All right I believe you.”

There was another awkward moment, then she managed, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What are you going to do?”

He picked up the can of malt liquor and finished it. “Decide whether or not to kill you.”

She sat back and let the air out of her as if someone had struck her in the stomach. She said, “Oh,” and shut up and sat, worry crawling over her face.

“Don’t sweat it,” Nolan said, with a faint trace of a smile. “I’m deciding against it.”

She sighed. Then, reprieve in hand, she attacked. “That’s very big of you, you bastard!”

Nolan grinned at her flatly. “See? I do have a sense of humor.”

She shook her head, not understanding him at all. Her eyes followed him as he rose and went to the door, opening it. She got up and joined him. She looked up at him with luminous brown eyes.

“Just my natural curiosity,” she said, tilting her head, “but why?”

“Why what?”

“Why in hell did you decide thumbs up for this skinny broad? I thought hard guys like you always threw the likes of me to the lions.”

Nolan hung onto the flat grin and shrugged. “I need you, for one thing.”

“How about another?”

“Well, you’re not the ‘type’ of person who ought to end up a casualty in the kind of war games I play. Anyway, I hate like hell to kill women.”

“That’s pretty goddamn chivalrous of you.” She smiled, a mild in-shock smile. “Does that mean you plan to keep me out of your life?”

“Hardly. Later on I’m going to ask you if I can move in with you for a day to two.”

That stopped her for a moment, then she got out a small, “Why?”

“I need a new place. There are some people who want to kill me and the motel I’m staying at now is getting to be a local landmark.”

She touched his shoulder. “You’re welcome to share this mausoleum with me for a while, Mr. Nolan.”

“Webb, remember?”

“All right. Earl? Earl it is. Is that all you want? A place to stay, I mean?”

“There’s more. I need information on Irene, of course.”

“Of course. Is that all?”

“We’ll see,” he said. “You need a coat?”

“Yes, just a second.” She came back with a bright pink trenchcoat and he helped her into it. She plopped a Bonnie Parker beret on her head and said, “You know the way to the Third Eye?”

He gave her half a grin. “You eat a mushroom or something, don’t you?”

“Maybe I should lead the way,” she said.

She led.

2

THE THIRD EYE
was a red two-story brick building along the Chelsey River, surrounded by a cement parking lot and assorted packs of young people, early teens to mid-twenties, milling about in cigarette-smoke clouds.

Nolan drove around front, in search of a parking place. He took a look at the brick building and said to Vicki Trask, who sat close by, “That looks about as psychedelic as an American Legion Hall.”

She nodded and said, “Or a little red school-house.”

At a remote corner of the parking lot, Nolan eased the Lincoln into a place it shouldn’t have fit and said, “What the hell’s the occasion?”

“You mean the crowd?”

“Yeah. It always like this?” He turned off the ignition, leaned back and fired a cigarette. As an afterthought he offered one to Vicki and she took it, speaking as she lit it from the match Nolan extended to her.

“It’s always crowded on nights when they have dances. The Eye runs four a week, and this is the biggest night of the four.”

“Why?”

“Tonight’s the night they let in the teeny-boppers. You’ll see as many high school age here as you will college, and one out of four of the hard-looking little broads you spot will be junior high.”

“Why’re the young ones restricted to one dance a week?”

“Because they run a bar—Beer Garden, they call it—on the other three nights. Serve beer and mixed drinks. And they serve anybody with enough money to buy.”

“Drinking age in Illinois is twenty-one.”

“Sure, but nobody cares. However, they don’t serve booze on the night they open the dance to high school and junior high age. Chelsey’s city fathers, pitiful guardians of virtue though they may be, even they would bitch about the Eye serving booze to that crowd.”