Mourn The Living by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page A

bucks.”
    Barnes smiled. “Don’t bother, Mr. Evans. Glad to help, you being a real writer and all.” Then he trotted off after the papers.
    Good, thought Nolan. This way he wouldn’t have to go down to the newspaper and ask to see back files. It wouldn’t pay to show his face claiming to be a writer when he didn’t have enough knowledge or a solid enough cover to fake it around pros.
    He eased out of the tan suitcoat, hung it over a chair and started to unpack, leaving most of his things, including a spare .38 Colt and several boxes of ammunition, in the suitcase. He hung his clothes-bags in the closet and thought about taking a shower, but then decided against it. He was too tired for that, so he flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes. He yawned, stretched his arms behind him, brushing against the phone book on the nightstand in back of him. He pulled the book down from the stand and looked up the Globe ’s number.
    When he got the newsroom Nolan asked to speak to Mr. Davis. Mr. Davis was not in, was there a message? No message, he could call Mr. Davis later.
    There was a knock and it was Barnes with the papers. Nolan thanked him and took the stack from him and laid it on the bed.
    He leafed through the papers till he came to one published the day after Irene’s death. The notes Tisor had given him were fairly complete, but any extra information might help. Besides, Tisor hadn’t even come to Chelsey to pick up the body; Irene Tisor’s body had journeyed home by train.
    There were three articles on the death, one published the evening after she died, one the next evening and one the evening after that. The article printed the evening after her death wryly commented that “certain factions in Chelsey have made LSD, among other items, easily accessible to C.U. students.” The by-line read Hal Davis. The other two articles, under the same by-line, played down the incident, largely ignoring the LSD and its implications and labeling the death “apparent suicide.”
    A white-wash job.
    And Nolan could guess who was holding the brush.
    The Chelsey arm of Franco-Goldstein enterprises was trying to slip the LSD part of the story under a rock to keep federal men out. This meant, one way or another, the Family branch in Chelsey had gotten to Hal Davis.
    Nolan lit another cigarette and remembered George Franco.
    Would it be stupid to reveal himself to a Franco?
    Nolan had never met George and had only seen him once, at a cocktail party some years ago at Sam Franco’s. Nolan knew George by reputation, though, and from what he’d heard about the younger Franco, it should take only a few screws put to him to make him tell his life story. George had made a name for himself as a coward, and not a smart coward at that. Some meaningful threats might both pry information from George and keep his mouth shut about Nolan’s presence in Chelsey.
    Nolan tried the Globe again, couldn’t get Davis, then got up from bed and, phone book under his arm, left the room, grabbing his tan suitcoat from the chair. He went out to the Lincoln, climbed in and roared toward Chelsey.
    As he drove through the shaded residential streets, Nolan felt Chelsey was more a postcard than a city. He had heard there was a slum in Chelsey, but that he would have to see to believe.
    In seven minutes he reached the downtown area. It was a typical small-town business district, built around a square, with all the businesses enclosing a quaint crumbling courthouse which stood in the center collecting dust. There were people bundled warmly against the cold Illinois wind, rushing up and down the sidewalks, visibly pained to move that quickly. Birds and bird-dung clung to the courthouse and Nolan wondered why the hell they didn’t fly south or something. At first Nolan didn’t see any old men in front of the courthouse, as he expected there to be, but after he parked his car and walked half-way around the square, he saw them at last. They were sitting in the