Max Collins - Mourn The Living

This novel was written around 1967 or ’68, and is — in a sense — the first book in the Nolan series. But the first Nolan novel to be published was Bait Money (1973); and, as of this writing, five more books about the character have appeared over the years — most recently Spree (1987).

While Nolan has been inactive since, readers frequently inquire about his future; this novel, obviously, refers to his past, but perhaps those same readers will be pleased to encounter this “new” Nolan tale. From time to time, Hollywood has expressed interest in my thief and most recently an Italian company made serious cinematic noises; and I’m currently considering making my own independent film based on one of the novels. So I’m pleased to have this opportunity to bring Nolan’s first adventure, at long last, into book form.

Written during my undergrad years, Mourn the Living was set aside when an editor suggested that he would like to see either certain rewrites (with which I did not agree) or the author’s next book. I followed the latter course, figuring that Mourn would be published later on; but the subsequent series initiated by Bait Money differed from this first novel — among other things, Nolan aged ten years and acquired a youthful protégé, Jon. Also, times had changed so rapidly that the novel’s hippie-era time frame, so topical when I’d written it a few years before, seemed hopelessly dated.

It may sound unlikely, but I had forgotten about the book — at least in terms of it being a commercial property — until Wayne Dundee interviewed me for his fine small-press magazine Hardboiled . In the course of the interview, I mentioned the existence of Mourn the Living to Nolan fan Wayne, who expressed an interest in serializing it in Hardboiled .

So, twenty years after the fact, I found myself doing the necessary line-editing on the first Nolan novel. Too much time had elapsed for me to undertake any major rewriting. While the novel was recognizably mine, I realized I was a different writer, several decades down the road; and, like any good editor, I attempted to respect the wishes and intent of the young writer who wrote it.

I hope readers will enjoy meeting the younger Nolan, sans Jon, in his first recorded adventure. As for the time period of the book being dated, I am pleased that enough years have gone by for me to present it, unashamedly, as a period piece.

My thanks to Wayne Dundee, for nudging me and giving Mourn an audience at last; to Ed Gorman, who brought out the first edition, in hardcover for Five Star in 1999; and to my wife Barb, who patiently transferred the moldy, water- damaged manuscript onto computer disc for my editing.

Max Allan Collins

The Nolan problem bothered Frank Rich, but there was a brighter side to the unpleasant coin: he’d been able to bring his mistress into his home for the first time.

Rich shifted nervously in bed, the sheet wet with his uneasiness, causing his brown-tressed bed partner to groan in displeasure at his restless turning, tossing.

“Am I bugging you, Nance, hon?”

She pulled the covers up and over her head and answered his question by peeping one runny mascaraed eye above them, rolling it round as though she were a comic in blackface. Then she gave him another groan and turned over on her stomach, apparently wishing she’d never traded those second-rate clubs she used to sing in for the bed of an insomniac.

“Sorry, hon,” Rich soothed, patting the blankets where they sheathed her well-formed backside.

“Get to sleep, Frankie,” she growled, “okay?”

“Sure, hon, sure.”

Damn her, he thought. An empty-head like her didn’t understand, couldn’t understand a thing like Nolan.

Nolan.

Rich shifted again, feeling weak-gutted and foolish that the mere name of a punk like Nolan could run a chill across his spine. He had just closed his eyes and blanked his mind for the n th time when a knock at the bedroom door shot him out of bed like he’d been jabbed with a needle.

He shouldn’t have jumped, he knew he shouldn’t have, he knew it would be Reese. Reese, the man he had stationed downstairs in the library, Reese coming up to make his hourly report.

“Yes, Reese,” he said, his voice surface-cool. “How’s it going?”

“Dull, Mr. Rich. No sign of nothin’.” Reese was big, like a medium-sized barn, and he was much tougher than his smooth pink facial complexion and much smarter than his baby blue, lamb-dropping eyes. Rich had confidence in Reese’s knowing when and when not to make use of the object which caused the slight bulge beneath the big man’s left shoulder.

“That’s fine, Reese, we want it dull, don’t we?”

“You sure you want me to keep comin’ up on the hour like this?”

“Yes, Reese, it’s best you do. This way I know you’re still down there, alive and well.”

Reese glanced over toward the double bed where Nance was sitting up, the pinkness of her making a pleasing contrast against the sheer blue nightie. She was looking pretty and looking pretty disgusted.

Reese said, “You ah, you’re sure I might not be breakin’ in on somethin’... personal?”

Rich forced a smile. He liked Reese, but the man thought too much. “No chance of that. Just go on back downstairs, Reese, and keep an eye open for anything out of the ordinary.”

“Yes, Mr. Rich.”

Rich closed the door on Reese and went back to the bed. He stood before it momentarily, then turned away, starting toward the door.

From the bed Nancy looked up, her sleep-filled eyes prying themselves open. She said, “Where you going, sugar?”

“To the can, hon, don’t worry about me, just get some sleep.”

“Brother... this Nolan must be a pretty damn tough character to shake you up this way.”

Rich’s face reddened, his hands clenched into fists. “Why the hell don’t you just shut your mouth and go to sleep ?”

Then, explosion past, the blood ran from his face and the fists became hands again. He smiled shyly, like a kid who’s just said his first bad word, and said, “I’m sorry.”

Nancy said nothing.

Rich’s face hung. “I’m sorry, hon, really I am. I wanted these few days here at the house to be a nice change for you from all the... well, you know, secrecy. I realize how tired you must be of sneaking around all the time. When this Nolan thing came up, I finally had a legit sounding excuse to get the wife out of town for a while. You got to admit it was a good excuse.”

“Only it’s not an excuse,” she pouted. “First you tell your fat old hag that it’s too dangerous for her to stick around, then you invite me over. I guess that shows how much concern you have about my welfare.”

“Hon!” Rich was exasperated. “Don’t get upset just because I’m acting a little jumpy! There’s no chance at all of this Nolan showing up around here. He’ll try for the casino, or maybe one of the offices. Not here.”

“Sure. That’s why you been having Reese share our evenings.”

Rich started to answer her, then decided against it. He turned away and went to the door and left the room.

In the bathroom Rich stripped down and appraised himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

He thought he had a damn fine build for a man past fifty: strong legs, trim waist, solid chest. There were some wrinkles, sure, and a little sag here and there, but a lot of men years younger, he felt confident, would trade him bodies gladly. Still had a touch of tan left, too, from that two-week summit conference with the Boys in Miami last summer.