Mourn The Living Read Online Free PDF Page B

sorts, who really runs the show. I don’t know the guy’s name, but he’s no dummy.”
    “Where do you get your information?”
    “George is my brother-in-law, remember?”
    “Does he know Irene’s related?”
    “He might have met her when she was a kid, but he doesn’t know I have . . . had a girl who went to Chelsey. At least as far as I know he doesn’t. That dumb asshole doesn’t know much of anything.”
    “I’ll grant you that, Sid.”
    “Look, George talked to me on the phone last week, social call, you know? I pumped him a little. They’re pulling in at least six grand a week.”
    “Sid, it’s my life you’re trading bubblegum cards against.”
    “Don’t forget you owe me, Nolan, remember that! And there’s going to be close to forty thousand in it for you, I swear.”
    “At six grand a week, how do you figure? The Boys send in a bagman every Wednesday and take the last week’s earnings back to Chicago. That’s s.o.p. with the Family. I know these set-ups, Sid.”
    “But they don’t come in weekly! Chelsey is so close to Chicago they don’t bother sending a man every week.”
    “How often do they pick it up?”
    “Every six weeks. But I don’t know where they keep it till then.”
    “How about the local bank?”
    “Nope, I checked it. They must keep it on ice somewhere.”
    “So there ought to be around forty thousand in this for me, Sid, that right?”
    “I think so, Nolan. Maybe more.”
    Nolan thought for a moment. Then: “What makes you think this operation in Chelsey has anything to do with your daughter’s death?”
    “Damn it, Nolan, I figure if they didn’t do anything outside of sell that cube of LSD she’s supposed to have swallowed, then they killed her, didn’t they? Besides, because she was my kid she knew things about the Boys and the connection they had to Chelsey. If she let any of that slip to the wrong person, it could have got her killed. And . . .” Tisor’s eyes were filmed over and he looked down at his hands, folded tightly in his lap.
    “And what?”
    “Nolan, I have to know why she died. I have to know.”
    “It’s enough she’s dead, Sid.”
    “No, it isn’t! She was the only thing I had to show for my entire life, she was the only thing I had left to care about! I’m not like you, Nolan . . . I can’t let go of something that important with a shrug.”
    There were a few moments of silence, while Tisor regained a modicum of control. Nolan sat and seemed to be studying the thin ropes of smoke coiling off his cigarette.
    “If I find out Irene was murdered,” Nolan said, his voice a low, soft monotone, “and I find the one who did it, what am I supposed to do?”
    “That’s up to you, Nolan.”
    “You expect me to kill somebody?”
    “I know you, Nolan. I expect if anyone needs killing, you’ll take care of it.”
    “I’m not making any promises, you understand.”
    “I understand, Nolan.”
    “All right, then. Get some paper and write down every speck of information you got on Irene and Chelsey. The college, her friends, the Boys’ operation, George, everything you know about it. And put in a recent snap of Irene.”
    “Right.” Tisor got a notebook and a pen and Nolan smoked two cigarettes while Tisor filled up three pages for him. Tisor gave Nolan the notebook, then went to a drawer to find a picture of his daughter.
    “Here she is,” he said, holding a smudged Polaroid shot.
    “That’s old, Sid—nothing newer? This is what she looked like when I knew her.”
    “She got prettier in the last couple years since you saw her. I had her nose fixed, did you know that?”
    “No.” She’d been a dark-haired girl, beautiful but for a nose that could have opened bottles, and it was nice that Sid had got it bobbed for her, but Nolan hardly saw it worth talking about when she was dead.
    Tisor’s eyes were cloudy. “They . . . they told me on the phone that . . . she . . . she fell ten stories . . . it was awful. They sent her