Mourn The Living (7 page)

“My name’s Webb. Care if I sit?”

“I don’t care period.”

Nolan sat. He looked at Davis, caught the man’s eyes and held them. “You look like a man who got pushed and didn’t like it.”

Davis shook Nolan’s gaze and stared into his glass of bourbon. “I said I don’t know you, Webb. I think maybe I don’t want to know you.”

Nolan shrugged. “I’m telling people I’m a magazine writer, Mr. Davis. But that’s not who I am or why I came to Chelsey.”

“Why, then? You come to drop out and turn on?”

“I’m a private investigator,” Nolan told him. “From Philadelphia. I been hired by a client . . . who’ll remain nameless of course . . . to contact a Mr. George Franco.”

Davis said, “You know something, Webb? You don’t look like a private investigator to me. You look like a hood. You got something under your left armpit besides hair, your fancy suit isn’t cut so well that I can’t tell that. What’s it you’re after in Chelsey? You got a contract on Franco?”

“No. What if I did?”

“I wouldn’t give a damn.”

“You getting shoved around by the Boys, Mr. Davis?”

“The boys? What boys are those?”

So, Nolan thought, maybe Davis doesn’t know about the Chelsey hook-up with the Chicago outfit; maybe he’s just a small-town newsman getting pressured by “local hoods.”

Nolan said, “Let me put it this way . . . are George Franco and his associates telling you what to say in the
Globe
?”

“You mean what not to say, don’t you? Sure, they’re tellin’ me, and they got some pretty goddamn persuasive ways of telling, too.”

“I want Franco’s address.”

Davis downed the dregs of the bourbon. He smiled; one of his front teeth was chipped in half. “I’ll get it capped one of these days,” he said, gesturing to it with the emptied shot glass. “For a while I’m leavin’ it like this, so I can look in the mirror when I get up mornings and think about what a chicken-shit I am.”

Nolan said, “Franco’s address.”

Davis shook his head. “It’s not an address. It doesn’t exist, not officially, anyway. It’s a fancy penthouse deal, only it’s above a drug store. Berry Drug, right down on the square, across from the courthouse and cannons. There’s a fire escape in back that’ll lead you to a bedroom window.”

“Any bars on it?”

“Nope. Just a regular glass window. They don’t bother protecting fat George that much. Thinks his place is a real secret.”

“Is it?”

“It was.” He grinned his air-conditioned grin. “But it looks like the secret’s out, doesn’t it?”

Nolan dropped a twenty on the table and left.

He drove back across the bridge and parked his car several blocks away from Berry Drug. He went into a hardware store and bought a glass-cutter, then walked to the courthouse lawn. He sat on one of the benches by an old man who smelled like a urinal and watched the drug store for about an hour. A black-haired whore in a short black shift came out, then a thin man in a powder-blue suit went in and came back out in less than ten minutes.

After a while Nolan strolled around behind the drug store and climbed the fire escape and used the glass-cutter on the window. It was broad daylight, but the ’scape was at an angle and Nolan figured a daytime attack would be less expected.

He slipped into the plush red-carpeted flat, and crept over to the bed, where an extremely fat man in a silk dressing gown lay on his stomach, half-asleep and talking to himself.

Nolan got out his .38 and, after a brief exchange of conversation, introduced himself to George Franco. “My name’s Nolan.” It was four fifteen p.m.

Back in Peoria Sid Tisor was wondering if Nolan had reached Chelsey yet.

2

NOLAN STROLLED
over to the bar, laid his gun on the counter and helped himself to a shot of Jim Beam. He glanced over at George, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, his plump fists clenching the bedspread. George’s forehead was beaded with sweat; his mouth hung loosely above two double chins.

Nolan asked George if he wanted a drink.

George tried to answer yes but couldn’t spit it out.

Nolan, seeing an open bottle of Haig and Haig on the counter, poured a healthy glass of Scotch and dropped in an ice cube. He retrieved his .38 from the counter and took the glass of Scotch to George, who grabbed for it and began sloshing it down.

Nolan dragged a chair to the bed and sat.

“Let’s talk, George.”

“You must be out of your mind!”

“You’re not the first to suggest that.”

“What are you doing here? What do you want?”

Nolan shrugged. “I just want to ‘rap.
’
”

“When my brother Charlie finds out about you bein’ in Chelsey . . .”

Nolan lifted the .38 and let him look down the long barrel. “Your brother isn’t going to find out, George. And neither are any of your associates.”

George’s eyes golf-balled. “You . . . you think you can threaten me? Me? I’m a Franco!”

Nolan, his mouth a grim line, said, “So was Sam.”

George Franco looked into the flint grey eyes of the man who had murdered Sam Franco. He swallowed hard.

Nolan lowered the .38. “I won’t hurt you unless I have to. I got a hunch this deal doesn’t have a lot to do with you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Nolan finished the whiskey, went back and poured another. “I’m here to look into a matter. The matter may concern the Chelsey operation you’re involved in. And it may not.”

George was trembling, like a huge bowl of fleshy gelatin. “What . . . what do you want from me?”

“Information.”

“What kind?”

“Different kinds. Let’s start with a name. Irene Tisor. What does that name mean to you?”

“A girl, that’s all.”

“What about her?”

“She fell off a building.”

“Is that all you know about her?”

“She was on LSD.”

“Did she fall?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said she fell.”

“She could have.”

“Was she pushed?”

“I don’t know.”

“What connection does your operation have with her death?”

“She got the LSD from one of our sellers, I suppose. So we put on some pressure to cover it up. We didn’t want feds coming in and bothering us.”

“What kind of pressure, George?”

“I don’t know.”

“Had you ever heard the name Irene Tisor before?”

“No . . . I got a brother-in-law named Tisor. You probably knew him from Chicago. Sid Tisor?”

“I heard the name before,” Nolan said.

“You don’t suppose Irene Tisor was a relative? His kid or something?”

“You tell me.”

“Naw, I don’t think so. Back in the old days, Sid was nicer to me than a lot of people; we keep in touch. Just last week we talked on the phone and he didn’t say a word about any relative of his being killed in Chelsey.”

Nolan grunted noncommittally. Well, looked like George didn’t connect Irene to Sid. But then how much did George really know about the operation?

“What kind of money you getting for one hit of LSD?”

George said, “I don’t know.”

“You selling pot?”

“Sure.”

“How much is a lid going for?”

“I don’t know.”

“You selling heroin?”

“I don’t know.”

“What percent of your income’s from selling alcohol to underage buyers?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about barbiturates? Amphetamines?”

“I don’t know.”

Nolan rose, balled his fist and resisted the urge to splatter fat George all over the fancy apartment. He holstered the .38 and got out his cigarettes. Lighting one, he said, “You don’t have a goddamn thing to do with the operation, do you, George?”

George’s face flushed. “I do
so
! I . . . I . . .”

“You what?”

“I supervise! I do a lot of things . . . I . . .”

Nolan ignored him. “Who’s the boss?” George didn’t say anything. “Somebody’s got to run the show. Who is it?”

George remained silent.

Nolan took out the gun again, disgustedly. “Who, George?”

George’s face turned blue.

“I’m going to have to get nasty, now, George.”

“It’s Elliot!” he sputtered. “Elliot, Elliot.”

“Elliot. He’s your . . . secretary?” Nolan searched his mind for the expression Tisor had used in describing the position.

“Yes, my financial secretary.”

“What’s his full name?”

“Irwin Taylor Elliot.”

“Where’s he live?”

“In town, on Fairport Drive. It’s a fancy residential district. High rent.”

“What’s his address?”

“I don’t know . . . but it’s in the phone book.”

“He’s got a listed number?”

“He’s got a real estate agency that fronts him.”

“Is there anybody else with power in town?”

“Just Elliot’s cousin—the police chief.”

“That’s handy. What’s his name?”

“Saunders. Phil Saunders.”

Nolan drew on the cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke. “If you’re holding out any information, George, it’s best you tell me now.”

George shook his head no. “I don’t know nothing else.”

“You’re a good boy, George.” Nolan walked around the room for a few minutes, playing mental ping-pong. Then he said, “How do you get in this place . . . besides up the fire escape?”

“Through a door next to the can downstairs, in the drug store.”

“Fitting. Any of your men down there?”

“During store hours there’s always either a clerk or an assistant pharmacist on duty downstairs to watch out for me.” George’s face twisted bitterly for a moment. “Sure do a hell of a job protecting me, don’t they?”

“Swell,” Nolan agreed. “You got a phone here?”