Max Collins - Mourn The Living

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.

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.