Max Collins - Mourn The Living

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?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the number?”

“CH7-2037. Why?”

“Is it bugged?”

“I don’t think so. Why would they bother checking up on me?”

“You got a point.” Nolan repeated the number to himself silently. “You’ll be hearing from me now and then, George.”

George looked pleadingly at Nolan. “Look, I don’t know anything. You aren’t gonna get any good out of hurting me. You... you aren’t gonna... do anything to me... are you?”

Nolan hunted for an ash tray, found one, stabbed out his cigarette. “I won’t touch you, George, unless you cross me. But finger me and you’re dead.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t...”

“I should put a bullet in your head right now, when I think of it. You’re a bad risk.”

“Oh, no, you can’t...”

“I can, and I have. I killed six men in the past eight years. Not to mention the ones I left wounded.”

“I never did anything to you, Nolan...”

“Don’t sic anybody on me and we’ll get along fine. But you tell your brother about me, or that Elliot, or anyone else, and you’ll die wishing you hadn’t.”

“Nolan, I wouldn’t...”

“Shut up. You don’t think I’m working alone, do you?”

“What?”

“I got three men watching you,” Nolan lied. “They’ll kill you the moment anybody puts a hand on me. So getting rid of me would only assure you of dying.”

George lay back on the bed and moaned. He looked like a beached whale, only whales didn’t sweat.

Nolan finished his whiskey and headed for the window.

The national anthem woke Nolan and he sat up on the bed and checked his watch. Quarter after twelve. He had returned to the Travel Nest after eating at the steak house across the way and watched television until it put him to sleep. Now he felt wide awake; and his shoulders, his back, felt tense.

He got out of the now-wrinkled tan suit and put on his black swim trunks. He grabbed up a pack of cigarettes and matches, draped a towel over his shoulders and headed down the hall.