Max Collins: Mourn The Living

There were disadvantages, George realized that. People still didn’t like him. They never had, they never would. It was a kind of reverse magnetism he possessed. His woman, for example. You can only buy a woman from the neck down, he told himself over and over again, but you can never buy the head, except for the mouth of course. And his men, the ones who were supposed to protect him, they didn’t like him. And his chef didn’t like him — the chef could stand George, and seemed to kind of like him, but that was only because George was a good eater and, as such, a pleasure to cook for.

Hell, he thought, not even his brothers had liked him.

Not to mention his father.

But Momma ( requiescat in pace ) had liked him.

The best move he had ever made was being born of that sweet woman. Being born of the woman had made him the son of Carlo Franco ( requiescat in pace ), a big man in Chicago “business.” And the brother of Charlie Franco and Rosie Franco ( requiescat in pace ) and Sam Franco ( requiescat in pace ), who didn’t like him but provided for him. Especially after Poppa died and Charlie and Sam took the reins of the “business.”

Charlie and Sam looked out for their younger brother very well, in spite of their lack of brotherly love for him. Back in ’58 they had put him on the board of directors of the business — made him one of “The Boys.” But when George fumbled away over a half million dollars in his treasurer capacity, in a virtuoso display of incompetence, he was replaced by Lou Goldstein.

George cursed Goldstein as regularly as he ate. That goddamn Jew! What would Poppa ( requiescat in pace ) think about a Jew being one of the Family, for Christ’s sake!

But even George knew that Goldstein could keep good books. And Goldstein was a veteran of the “business” with a talent for seeing to it that other people kept good books. George, on the other hand, had trouble carrying a number over to the tens column.

George rose from the bed and headed for the bar a few steps away; he needed a fresh bottle of Scotch. Another disadvantage of wealth, George decided, was it made you waddle when you walked. Especially when you tipped the scales, as George did, at an even two hundred and eighty. When he walked on the plush red carpet, he left tracks that took their time raising into place again.

As he stood at the bar pouring a shot of Scotch, he heard a knock at the door. He glanced at his watch and said, “It’s open, Elliot,” and downed the Scotch. Time for Elliot.

A man entered the room, a man as thin as George was heavy. He wore a powder blue suit, tailored, with a blue- striped tie. His face was bony and pockmarked, and his large black horn-rimmed glasses made his head seem small. Behind the lenses of the glasses were watery blue eyes. His teeth were very white.

“How are things going for us, Elliot?”

Elliot was George’s financial secretary — the strong prime minister to George’s weak queen. Elliot said, “Things are fine, Mr. Franco.”

George poured another shot, said, “You want anything?”

“Ginger ale would be fine.”

George poured a glass, dropped a few ice cubes into it and left it on the bar for Elliot to retrieve. He headed for the bed, where he sat among the unmade sheets, wondering why Elliot never drank hard stuff, wondering why he never smoked, or never seemed to have any interest in women. Maybe he was queer, who could tell about the guy?

Elliot went after the ginger ale, then found a chair.

George, sitting on the bed, said, “How’s the college kid trade? They still buyin’ what we’re sellin’?”

“Business is good, Mr. Franco.”

“How about the feds? You said last time there was a rumor about feds.”

There had been a rumble that federal men were going to look into the Chelsey situation because of some unfavorable publicity concerning local college kids and LSD. There had been a girl who had jumped from a building while on a trip. There had been four trippers, it had been reported, who were in the hospital after having eaten magic sugar cubes and then deciding to stare at the sun. A day of sun-gazing, supposedly, resulted in all four going blind.

“It’s still just a rumor about the feds,” Elliot said. “Nobody paid much attention to the girl who went off the building, and the story about the sun-gazers going blind turned out to be a fake. Just one of those stories that got started.”

“That’s good to hear,” George said. “No trouble about the girl who fell off the building?”

“No, it’s blown over. Phil got the thing played down.”

Phil Saunders was Elliot’s cousin; he was also the police chief in Chelsey.

“What was that girl’s name?”

“Tisor,” Elliot said. “I think that’s it. Tisor.”

“Coincidence,” George said, gulping his Scotch. “My sister married a guy named Tisor. Used to work under Goldstein.”

“Is that so.” Elliot was tapping his foot, not nervous, just anxious to bid George goodbye. At least that was the way George interpreted it.

George leaned back on the bed and waved his arms with a flourish. “You’re doin’ a good job, Elliot, and I’m gonna put in the word for you with my brother Charlie.”

Elliot’s smug smile stung George. Skinny little shit! Smirking little bastard! I’m George Franco, and you’re nobody!

“Just keep up the good work,” George continued, murdering Elliot over and over again in his mind.

“I have your allowance, Mr. Franco.”

That damn condescending tone!

“Leave it on the bar, Elliot.”

Elliot nodded, got up from the chair and laid down his empty glass and an envelope on the bar. The envelope contained two hundred dollars, George’s allowance for the next week. There were bank accounts George could draw upon, and his expenses were taken care of by Elliot on Charlie Franco’s orders; but to simplify things for George, this spending money was allotted him. Pin money.

“See you, Mr. Franco.”

“Goodbye, Elliot.”

Elliot left silently.

George stared at the ceiling and pounded a fist into the soft bed. Then he sighed and rolled over on his stomach.

Yes, it was a good life for him. His only real job was to keep out of Elliot’s way. It was perfectly all right for him to pretend that he was Elliot’s superior, Elliot went along with it pretty good, but his direct orders from brother Charlie were to stay the hell out of Elliot’s operation.

Kissing ass didn’t bother him too much. Not when it stayed relatively painless, like this.

Not when he was safe, content.

After all, wasn’t he the smart one? Hadn’t his brother Sam ( requiescat in pace ) got himself all shot to hell by that crazy animal named Nolan? Wasn’t Charlie scared crapless all the time for fear death’ll strike him down like Sam, either through this Nolan clown or some other maniac connected to the family “business”?

George chuckled. He was the smart Franco. He stayed away from trouble in a little town in Illinois, getting fat on fine foods, getting drunk on good booze and screwing nice- looking broads. He got nowhere near the fireworks, yet he got all the benefits.

Look at poor Sam ( requiescat in pace ). Shot down like a common criminal! And to think that psychopath Nolan was still running around loose, gunning for brother Charlie.

“No sir,” George said aloud, “none of that crap for me.”

“None of what crap for you, George?”

George rolled over and looked up. He hadn’t seen the man enter, he hadn’t heard him either. He was a tall, mustached man, his brown hair graying at the temples, dressed in a tailored tan suit and holding a .38 Smith & Wesson in his hand.