Read Mourn The Living for Free Online Page B

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.
    “Who . . . who the hell’re you? You work for me? I never seen you before.”
    “Think. You’ve seen my picture.”
    “I . . . I don’t know you.”
    The man sat on the edge of the bed, prodded George with the .38. “My name’s Nolan.”
     
     

 
     
     
     
    Two
     
     
    1
     
     
    NOLAN ARRIVED in Chelsey, Illinois, a few minutes past noon. He let a Holiday Inn go by, and a Howard Johnson’s, then picked a non-chain motel called the Travel Nest. It was a pleasant-looking yellow building, an L-shaped two stories; its sign promised an indoor heated pool, color television and a vacancy. Nolan pulled into the car port outside the motel office and went in.
    “Yes sir?” The manager, a middle-aged man with dark, slightly thinning hair, gave Nolan a professional smile.
    Nolan said he’d need a room for a week, filled out the registration, using the name Earl Webb. He listed his occupation as journalist and his hometown as Philadelphia. The manager asked if he wished to pay the $65 room rate when he checked out or . . .
    Nolan gave the man two