Mourn The Living (18 page)

“Elliot,” Nolan said.

“Mr. Webb,” he replied. The voice was nervous, even cracking into higher pitch once, but it was the voice of a man determined to regain his dignity.

“I’m not much for talking,” Nolan said. “Suppose you just keep packing that suitcase with your money and then hand it over to me.”

“And after that you’ll kill me?”

Nolan shrugged.

“You don’t have a chance, Webb.
Webb!
That’s a laugh. You’re Nolan, I know you’re Nolan, you think the Boys haven’t circulated your picture?”

“Pack the fucking suitcase and maybe later we’ll have time for an autograph.”

Elliot managed a smile, a smile that seemed surprisingly confident. The pieces of his composure were gradually falling back into place. “Your chances of survival, Mr. Nolan, are somewhat limited. You see, it dawned on me this afternoon just who you really were. I wasn’t positive, of course, not having seen you, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I called Charlie Franco personally. At this very moment—”

Nolan’s harsh laugh cut him off like an unpaid light bill. “Who did you call after Charlie? J. Edgar Hoover?”

Elliot’s face twitched.

“I got you figured down the line, Elliot. The double-cross you been working on the Boys is going to put you on their shit list, too—right next to me.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, Elliot, cut the talk. Back to the money.” Nolan gestured with the .38.

Elliot returned to the safe and kept on piling stack after stack of bills into the suitcase. Nolan lit a smoke and sat in the black leather chair.

A few minutes had passed when Elliot looked up from his money stacking and said, “Want to tell me how you got it figured?”

Nolan lifted his shoulders. “The way I see it, you took on this piddling operation for the Boys because at the time you had nothing better to do. If you were already working for the Boys, you might not’ve had a choice. The job was meant to make George Franco look and feel like a part of the organization. To help save face for the Franco name. And as time went on, you got bored with it, figured a way to make some easy money and retire to a life of luxury.”

Nolan leaned forward in the chair, casually keeping the .38 leveled at Elliot. “The Chelsey operation was pulling in pretty good money, for what it was. Money made mostly off college kid pleasures, booze and pep pills and some LSD for the supposed hippies. Bagmen from Chicago came in every six weeks and picked up the profits. Around thirty G, I suppose, for each six week period.”

“More like twenty G,” Elliot corrected.

“Okay.” Nolan’s information on that point had come from the initial talk with Sid Tisor, so it figured the take was only twenty G per six weeks. That damn Sid always did exaggerate.

“The thing is,” Nolan continued, “you had a prime connection. A musical junkie named Broome who could get the stuff for you. So you decided to break in an extra source of personal revenue—hard narcotics—without telling the Boys about it.”

Elliot had the suitcase full now and he closed the lid. “All right, Nolan. I’ve been directing a little traffic in drugs. You blame me? I was getting table scraps off this set-up. They paid my bills, sure set me up good with this house and everything. But my cut of the ‘piddling’ action was puny.”

“No wonder you got greedy. You make good money from the Chelsey narcotics trade?”

“What do you think? I’ve been supplying dealers from cities in three states. There’s enough profit to go around, Nolan. You could have a nice cut, too.”

Nolan nodded. “One hundred percent is a nice cut.”

“Don’t be a glutton about it. This isn’t the Boys’ money, it’s mine! Your grievance is with the Boys, not with Irwin Elliot! I’m like you, Nolan, out to take the Boys for a ride.”

Nolan shook his head no. “Forget it. You’re part of the Boys. Maybe you’re worse.”

“We could be partners . . .”

“Hey, I put nothing past you, not after you wasted your three partners tonight.”

“No. Dinneck and Tulip did that—”

“Dinneck and Tulip got banged up earlier tonight. They didn’t kill Saunders, Broome and George. You did. Three murders in one night, a gentleman like you. And just to clean house. What’s the world coming to?”

Elliot’s laugh was almost a cackle. “You’re amusing, Nolan, you really are. Yes, I murdered those morons tonight. When the Boys find out three of their Chelsey men were murdered with a .38 and that Nolan was in town, they’ll blame you, not Irwin Elliot. And when they find out I’ve vacated the premises, they’ll assume I was just frightened of what you’d do to me. By the time they figure out what was really going on in Chelsey, I’ll be in South America.”

“I don’t think so,” Nolan said. “Hand me the suitcase. And no fun and games.”

Elliot scowled, tossed the suitcase at Nolan’s feet.

“How much is there, Elliot?”

“Near a quarter million dollars.”

“Not bad. How long you been planning this?”

“Long enough. I knew all along I’d have to get out sooner or later, because once the Commission got wind of narcotics action they hadn’t sanctioned, I’d be a marked man. I wanted to wait near the end of a six week period so I’d have the Boys’ twenty thousand take, too. And it took me a while to liquidate my stocks and bonds . . . I don’t keep this much in cash on hand all the time, you know.”

“You’re not stupid, Elliot,” Nolan said, “just not smart. You got the Boys who’ll be after you. New York’ll want your hide. And the feds will want a piece, too. You’re going to be a popular boy. I’m considering not killing you. It might be fun to tie you up and leave you here and let everybody fight over you.”

A voice from behind them boomed, “Drop the gun, Webb, will ya drop it now?”

Nolan turned and saw a very battered Tulip standing in the doorway of the den, holding a .45 with an incredibly steady hand.

“
Now
, Webb.”

Nolan let the gun plop to the soft carpet.

“All right, you fucker . . . I got a score to settle with you.”

Tulip’s six foot frame lumbered over to him, the arm Nolan had wounded earlier hanging limp as a dead tree limb, brown with dried blood. Nolan couldn’t tell if Tulip had ever gotten that shot of H he’d needed so badly hours before; all Nolan knew was that Tulip seemed in full control as he raised his good arm and aimed the .45 at Nolan’s head.

There was a blur of movement in the doorway and a familiar voice cried, “Tulip! Stop, Tulip, it’s me!”

Tulip smiled, turned away from Nolan and faced the door.

The slug caught Tulip in the stomach, hard, and Tulip lay down like a hibernating bear. He looked up at the smoking nine millimeter in the hand of Dinneck and said, “What the hell did you do that for?” Then Tulip closed his eyes and stopped breathing.

“Thanks,” Nolan said.

“Saving your life wasn’t the point,” Dinneck said. “But Tulip was Elliot’s man, and I needed him out of the way.” This he said even as he stepped over the big dead man.

“Allow me to introduce myself, gents. My name is Dinneck, but you also have the right, I think, to know who I represent.”

Dinneck sat down on a black leather couch and let the nine millimeter take turns staring at Nolan and Elliot.

“I’m a native New Yorker,” he said, and coughed, his throat raspy. “My employers heard some rumors about dope traffic in this part of the country. Around Chelsey to be exact.”

Dinneck rose, stepping over the corpse of his ex-partner.

“I work for the Commission.”

4

“WON’T YOU
sit down, Mr. Webb?” Dinneck asked, his hoarse voice dripping sarcasm. “I have some business to take care of with Mr. Elliot here, before you and I settle our personal differences.”

Nolan said, “Your ball game,” and sat back down in the black leather chair. The gun Elliot had dropped at Nolan’s command a few minutes before lay unseen behind the closed suitcase of money. Elliot seemed to have forgotten it, and Dinneck didn’t know about it. Nolan would make his move for the .38, but not yet. Dinneck was in the mood to talk, so Nolan would listen and watch while he waited for the right moment to move.

Dinneck stroked his throat, which was visibly bruised from both Lyn Parks’ assault and Nolan’s blows of earlier that evening. He looked weak, he looked pale—almost as pale as Elliot.

“Mr. Elliot,” Dinneck was saying, “I was assigned to you by my employers to work undercover until I had enough on you to be convinced positively of your guilt. Which I am. I placed a long-distance call this afternoon to a gentleman in New York who gave me instructions as to what to do about you. You see, my employers don’t take it kindly when somebody opens up a business without a franchise.”

“You never saw a thing,” Elliot snapped. “You weren’t involved with the narcotics operation at all. None of the men the Boys sent me were.”

“That’s right. You used me for strong-arm work. Beat people up, pressure them. Like I did with that reporter, Davis, who skipped town. Watched over people, like Mr. Franco . . . the late Mr. Franco, now, I hear. And Broome and Saunders, too. My, my, but you were a busy little fella tonight. Yes, I ran your errands, and you were careful to keep me away from your narcotics set-up. Instinct maybe.” Dinneck coughed, caressing his throat; talking was obviously painful to him, but he couldn’t resist. He coughed again and glanced pointedly at Nolan, who sat motionless, silent, like an obedient school-boy. Then he returned his gaze to Elliot.

“You got to remember Chelsey’s a small town, Mr. Elliot,” Dinneck said. “Junkies and pushers aren’t hard to pick out in a town this size. And the college punks have big mouths, like to brag about getting their kicks. Your bosom pal Broome was a pusher and a junkie both, he could’ve worn a sign it was so obvious. And my own late partner, here, was paying half his salary back to put in his arm.”

Sweat was streaming down Elliot’s face; his confident tones turned back into the high-pitched squeaking he’d used when Nolan first came into the den. “There’s a quarter million in that suitcase, Dinneck! Take it and let me go. I’ll never say a word.”

Dinneck smiled. “You don’t cross the Commission and live, Elliot. If I did that, even if I killed you and kept the money, my life’d be as worthless as . . . as yours.”

Elliot was shaking his head no as Dinneck brought up the nine-millimeter; then Elliot remembered something. “Nolan,” he said, “you don’t know he’s Nolan!”

Dinneck hesitated. He lowered the nine-millimeter, puzzled. “Nolan? What the hell are you talking about? What is he talking about, Webb?”

“Search me,” Nolan said.

“He isn’t Webb, he’s Nolan,” Elliot spewed. “There’s a quarter million on his head.”

“We got quarter millions up the ass tonight,” Nolan said.

Dinneck coughed, covering his mouth with his hand. “Shut up, Webb . . .” He coughed, coughed again. “Okay, Elliot, okay. This guy here, this Webb, he’s Nolan? The guy that resigned the outfit by shooting one of the Francos?”

Elliot nodded and didn’t stop nodding. “That’s him, he’s the one, a quarter million dollars.”

Dinneck gave them both a broad, toothy smile. “That’s nice to know, children—that’s real comforting to know.”

“Look, I told you and I didn’t have to,” Elliot said, his eyes filled with desperation. “Give me a break. Don’t kill me, don’t shoot me.”