Max Collins - Mourn The Living

“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.

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.