Mourn The Living by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online

fifties. “Make it a nice room.”
    “Yes, sir!” The manager eyed the registration. “Are you a newspaperman, Mr. Webb?”
    “No,” Nolan said. “I’m with a new magazine out of Philadelphia. Planning a big first issue. It’s going to be on the order of Look , except monthly.”
    “Really?” The manager’s eyes went round with interest. Nolan smiled inwardly; he hoped everybody would bite his line as eagerly as this guy did.
    “Come with me, Mr. Webb,” the manager said. He turned to a younger copy of himself, most likely his son or kid brother, and snapped, “Take over, Jerome.”
    Jerome took over and the manager followed Nolan back outside to the Lincoln.
    “We can park your car, if you like.”
    “I’ll park it.”
    The manager told Nolan where the room was and turned and walked briskly toward the far end of the yellow building. Nolan got into the Lincoln and drove it into the empty space near the door the manager was entering. He liked the looks of the motel, well kept-up, with separate balconies for each room on the upper story, private sun porches for the lower. He got out of the Lincoln, took his suitcase and clothes-bags from the trunk, then locked the car.
    He met the manager at the head of the stairs and followed him to room 17. It was large, smelled fresh and was mostly a pastel green. The spread on the double bed was a darker green and the French doors leading out to the balcony were ivory-white. Nolan looked in at the bath and shower, found it clean and walked out on the balcony, which afforded him a view of the wooded area to the rear of the motel. There was a color TV. Nolan said it would do.
    “If you need anything else, just call down to the office and ask for me—Mr. Barnes. Oh, and there’s a steak house across the street. And the pool is just down the hall.”
    “If you’re fishing for a tip, I already slipped you an extra thirty-five.”
    The little man looked hurt, but he didn’t say anything; he just forced a weak smile and started to leave. Nolan immediately regretted falling out of character. He had to make himself be decent to people, even insignificant ones.
    “Hey,” Nolan called softly.
    The manager, halfway down the hall by now, turned and said, “Yes, Mr. Webb?”
    “Com’ere, Mr. Barnes.”
    Nolan reached into his front shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Barnes, who accepted it. He lit one himself, smiled his tight smile at Barnes in a semblance of good will.
    “Mr. Barnes, the assignment I’m on for my magazine is important to me. A big opportunity. I could use your help.”
    Barnes grinned like a chimp. “I’ll be happy to assist you, Mr. Webb.”
    “I wonder if maybe there’s somewhere in town reporters might hang out.”
    “Well. . . several bars come to mind. There’s a fairly good restaurant where the Globe guys go to talk. Called the Big Seven.”
    “Where is it?”
    “It’s down the hill from the football stadium, by Front Street bridge.”
    “Big Seven, huh?”
    “Yes, it’s a sports type hangout. The Chelsey U football team is in the Big Seven conference, you know.”
    “Any place else?”
    “Some bars downtown. Dillon’s, maybe, or Eastgate Tavern. What you going to write on, the hippies?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Well, Hal Davis did a big write-up on the anti-draft demonstration last week. Hippies, yippies, the whole SDS crew. A bunch of ’em slaughtered a live calf on the steps of the student union, then tossed it at some Dow Chemical people who came down to C.U. to interview seniors for jobs.”
    “Interesting. He didn’t happen to do a write-up on that girl who fell off the building a while back?”
    “Don’t know, Mr. Webb. There was a write-up on that, but I can’t remember any details. Say, I’m saving my old Globes for a paper drive one of my kids is on. If you want to look at some of ’em, I could bring up a batch.”
    “Fine. Bring them up for the past couple months and you got another ten