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 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 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.