Max Collins - Mourn The Living

Dinneck reached into his pocket and withdrew a brown carrying case about the size of a small picture frame. He snapped it open and the light of the room caught the reflection from the tip of the hypodermic needle within the case and tossed it around.

“You a user, Elliot? You take the stuff yourself, or do you just sell it?”

“I’m no user, you know that. And I don’t smoke or drink or womanize, either.”

“Well good for you. You’re just all virtue and no vice, aren’t you?”

Nolan said, “Get it over with.”

Dinneck said, “Don’t be so anxious, dead man. Your turn’ll come soon enough.” He walked over to Elliot, shoved him hard against the wall, then held the hypo up and said, “You ever hear of a mainliner?”

Elliot didn’t answer.

“Of course you have. You’re in the business, aren’t you? A mainliner is a shot of H, right in the old blood-stream. Into a nice fat juicy vein. My employers are of the opinion that a person dealing in drugs ought to get first hand view of what he’s selling. Now that’s only good business, isn’t it?”

Elliot plastered himself against the wall. “You... you’re going to give me an overdose! You’re going to kill me with that thing!”

Dinneck nodded. “And the cops will find a poor slob who just misjudged and popped too big a cap for his own good.”

Elliot began to scream and Dinneck slammed his fist into the man’s temple. Elliot slid to the floor and lay there, a puddle of flesh.

Dinneck took a rubber strap from one of his coat pockets, kneeled over, bared Elliot’s right arm and tied the strap around it. The hypo was already loaded and it was no trouble for Dinneck to jam the needle into a throbbing, bulging vein and press his thumb down on the plunger.

Nolan leaned over, ready to go for the .38 that waited for him of the floor a few feet away. Dinneck caught the motion from the corner of his eye and sank his heel into Nolan’s hand just before it had reached the gun. Then he kicked the .38 across the room, at the same time backhanding Nolan, who flopped back in the chair and waited for a second chance that would probably never come.

Elliot was semi-conscious, crying softly and spasmodically. Dinneck kicked Elliot’s head once and put him out.

“He won’t be waking up,” Nolan said.

Dinneck tossed the hypo to the soft carpet. “Not in this world.”

“How much did you have in the hypo?”

“Enough. Enough horse to kill a horse. Hah, horse, hell, a herd.” Dinneck laughed some more, but the laughter turned into a racking cough.

Nolan thought, keep coughing, pal, come on, got to make another try for you.

“My eastern employers didn’t pay me to kill you, Nolan, but somehow I don’t think they’ll mind. You’re a thorn in the Boys’ side, and the Boys are part of the Commission, after all.” Dinneck slipped his free hand into his coat pocket and popped a toothpick into the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I can use the money. Quarter million’s gonna go a long way. It’ll hurt, you know, handing in Elliot’s suitcase of bills.”

“I didn’t figure you killed for free.”

Dinneck hefted the .38. “You got a point. I’m strictly a contract man, and all my contract work’s done for the Commission. A loyal soldier. But in your case, I’d make an exception, even if there wasn’t a quarter million on your head.”

“You talk too much, Dinneck,” Nolan said, “for a man with a sore throat.”

Dinneck grinned. “Two-hundred fifty G’s is gonna soothe that fine.”

The nine-millimeter came up and faced Nolan, and Nolan knew his move had to be fast and good and now...

The shot came from the doorway, a thunderclap that couldn’t happen, slamming into the wall between them.

Mitchell stood in the doorway, a Police Special smoking in his fist. “Hold it right there!”

But Dinneck didn’t do anything of the kind.

He whirled and dropped to one knee, bringing up the .38 to try to blast Mitchell out of the door. Nolan heaved the suitcase of money at Dinneck’s hand, knocked the automatic flying, and the mouth of the suitcase jumped open and vomited bills. Nolan sliced through the drifting green bills and drew his foot back to kick in Dinneck’s head. Dinneck, scrambling after the nine-millimeter, saw Nolan’s foot coming and grabbed it and spun Nolan around and threw him over on his back. Mitchell was still in the door, forced to hold fire because of all the movement.

Nolan landed hard, on his own .38, where it had been kicked away by Dinneck minutes earlier. Nolan rolled over, scooped it up and looked up into Dinneck’s face and Dinneck’s gun.

Nolan squeezed off a single shot, then rolled away, ready to squeeze off another. But it wasn’t necessary.

The slug had caught Dinneck in the throat, and the small blue hole that marked its entry appeared just under the man’s adam’s apple. The nine-millimeter tumbled from his hand, and Dinneck did a half-turn and crashed to the floor. He used his last few seconds foolishly; he tried to speak, dredging up nothing except blood, and he tried to grasp the gun, coming up with a wad of money that wouldn’t be buying him anything. His mouth went slack, the toothpick fell away from his lips, and he didn’t have time to close his eyes before he died.

Nolan looked at Mitchell, standing there in the doorway with the Police Special in his hand; cordite-smell was in the air.

Nolan said, “Talk about cavalry,” but Mitchell didn’t react. Nolan shrugged and started picking up the scattered cash that lay over, under and around the lifeless bodies.

It took ten minutes to repack the suitcase.

Mitchell had come alone. At Vicki Trask’s he’d gotten a call from Lyn Parks saying she’d seen several of Elliot’s men go into the house, and Nolan would probably need help.

Now Nolan and Mitchell stood in the hall outside the den where the remains of Elliot, Tulip and Dinneck were inside waiting for Chelsey’s harried medical examiner. The chauffeur Nolan had clubbed over the head less than an hour before sat handcuffed and dazed in the den with the dead men. Since Mitchell was the only cop who’d reached the scene so far, Nolan was anxious to be on his way.

“I’m keeping the suitcase of money,” Nolan said flatly.

Mitchell didn’t say anything. He looked beat. He’d been up most of the night and in eleven years of police work had never run across an evening that remotely compared to this one. He was shaking his head and gazing in at the three bodies in the den.

Nolan watched the cop, who seemed practically in shock. Nolan said, “Mitchell, we made a deal. I want your word you’ll keep me out of this. Just cover up the incident as best you can.”

Mitchell nodded, his eyes a pair of burnt-out holes. “Okay,” he conceded. “But you got to get out as soon as possible. I don’t want anybody finding out I opened the door for this massacre.”

“I’ll need an hour,” Nolan said.

Mitchell said, “Okay, okay,” not giving a damn, and stood looking into the den.

Neither man said a word as Nolan left, suitcase in hand.

When he reached the car he was met by a bubbling Lyn Parks. He let her talk, reaching an arm in the open window and grabbing the keys from the ignition. He ignored her eager interrogation and opened the trunk and stowed away the suitcase of bills, where it lay innocently with the rest of his luggage, just another piece of baggage. He got back in the car, started it and headed for Vicki Trask’s apartment, paying no attention to his talkative passenger.

He pulled up in front of the apartment and got out of the Lincoln. Looking in at Lyn Parks he said, “We’ll have plenty of time for talk later. You got a car?”