?”
“You mean what not to say, don’t you? Sure, they’re tellin’ me, and they got some pretty goddamn persuasive ways of telling, too.”
“I want Franco’s address.”
Davis downed the dregs of the bourbon. He smiled; one of his front teeth was chipped in half. “I’ll get it capped one of these days,” he said, gesturing to it with the emptied shot glass. “For a while I’m leavin’ it like this, so I can look in the mirror when I get up mornings and think about what a chicken-shit I am.”
Nolan said, “Franco’s address.”
Davis shook his head. “It’s not an address. It doesn’t exist, not officially, anyway. It’s a fancy penthouse deal, only it’s above a drug store. Berry Drug, right down on the square, across from the courthouse and cannons. There’s a fire escape in back that’ll lead you to a bedroom window.”
“Any bars on it?”
“Nope. Just a regular glass window. They don’t bother protecting fat George that much. Thinks his place is a real secret.”
“Is it?”
“It was.” He grinned his air-conditioned grin. “But it looks like the secret’s out, doesn’t it?”
Nolan dropped a twenty on the table and left.
He drove back across the bridge and parked his car several blocks away from Berry Drug. He went into a hardware store and bought a glass-cutter, then walked to the courthouse lawn. He sat on one of the benches by an old man who smelled like a urinal and watched the drug store for about an hour. A black-haired whore in a short black shift came out, then a thin man in a powder-blue suit went in and came back out in less than ten minutes.
After a while Nolan strolled around behind the drug store and climbed the fire escape and used the glass-cutter on the window. It was broad daylight, but the ’scape was at an angle and Nolan figured a daytime attack would be less expected.
He slipped into the plush red-carpeted flat, and crept over to the bed, where an extremely fat man in a silk dressing gown lay on his stomach, half-asleep and talking to himself.
Nolan got out his .38 and, after a brief exchange of conversation, introduced himself to George Franco. “My name’s Nolan.” It was four fifteen p.m.
Back in Peoria Sid Tisor was wondering if Nolan had reached Chelsey yet.
2
NOLAN STROLLED over to the bar, laid his gun on the counter and helped himself to a shot of Jim Beam. He glanced over at George, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, his plump fists clenching the bedspread. George’s forehead was beaded with sweat; his mouth hung loosely above two double chins.
Nolan asked George if he wanted a drink.
George tried to answer yes but couldn’t spit it out.
Nolan, seeing an open bottle of Haig and Haig on the counter, poured a healthy glass of Scotch and dropped in an ice cube. He retrieved his .38 from the counter and took the glass of Scotch to George, who grabbed for it and began sloshing it down.
Nolan dragged a chair to the bed and sat.
“Let’s talk, George.”
“You must be out of your mind!”
“You’re not the first to suggest that.”
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Nolan shrugged. “I just want to ‘rap. ’ ”
“When my brother Charlie finds out about you bein’ in Chelsey . . .”
Nolan lifted the .38 and let him look down the long barrel. “Your brother isn’t going to find out, George. And neither are any of your associates.”
George’s eyes golf-balled. “You . . . you think you can threaten me? Me? I’m a Franco!”
Nolan, his mouth a grim line, said, “So was Sam.”
George Franco looked into the flint grey eyes of the man who had murdered Sam Franco. He swallowed hard.
Nolan lowered the .38. “I won’t hurt you unless I have to. I got a hunch this deal doesn’t have a lot to do with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
Nolan finished the whiskey, went back and poured another. “I’m here to look into a matter. The matter may concern the Chelsey operation
“You mean what not to say, don’t you? Sure, they’re tellin’ me, and they got some pretty goddamn persuasive ways of telling, too.”
“I want Franco’s address.”
Davis downed the dregs of the bourbon. He smiled; one of his front teeth was chipped in half. “I’ll get it capped one of these days,” he said, gesturing to it with the emptied shot glass. “For a while I’m leavin’ it like this, so I can look in the mirror when I get up mornings and think about what a chicken-shit I am.”
Nolan said, “Franco’s address.”
Davis shook his head. “It’s not an address. It doesn’t exist, not officially, anyway. It’s a fancy penthouse deal, only it’s above a drug store. Berry Drug, right down on the square, across from the courthouse and cannons. There’s a fire escape in back that’ll lead you to a bedroom window.”
“Any bars on it?”
“Nope. Just a regular glass window. They don’t bother protecting fat George that much. Thinks his place is a real secret.”
“Is it?”
“It was.” He grinned his air-conditioned grin. “But it looks like the secret’s out, doesn’t it?”
Nolan dropped a twenty on the table and left.
He drove back across the bridge and parked his car several blocks away from Berry Drug. He went into a hardware store and bought a glass-cutter, then walked to the courthouse lawn. He sat on one of the benches by an old man who smelled like a urinal and watched the drug store for about an hour. A black-haired whore in a short black shift came out, then a thin man in a powder-blue suit went in and came back out in less than ten minutes.
After a while Nolan strolled around behind the drug store and climbed the fire escape and used the glass-cutter on the window. It was broad daylight, but the ’scape was at an angle and Nolan figured a daytime attack would be less expected.
He slipped into the plush red-carpeted flat, and crept over to the bed, where an extremely fat man in a silk dressing gown lay on his stomach, half-asleep and talking to himself.
Nolan got out his .38 and, after a brief exchange of conversation, introduced himself to George Franco. “My name’s Nolan.” It was four fifteen p.m.
Back in Peoria Sid Tisor was wondering if Nolan had reached Chelsey yet.
2
NOLAN STROLLED over to the bar, laid his gun on the counter and helped himself to a shot of Jim Beam. He glanced over at George, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, his plump fists clenching the bedspread. George’s forehead was beaded with sweat; his mouth hung loosely above two double chins.
Nolan asked George if he wanted a drink.
George tried to answer yes but couldn’t spit it out.
Nolan, seeing an open bottle of Haig and Haig on the counter, poured a healthy glass of Scotch and dropped in an ice cube. He retrieved his .38 from the counter and took the glass of Scotch to George, who grabbed for it and began sloshing it down.
Nolan dragged a chair to the bed and sat.
“Let’s talk, George.”
“You must be out of your mind!”
“You’re not the first to suggest that.”
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Nolan shrugged. “I just want to ‘rap. ’ ”
“When my brother Charlie finds out about you bein’ in Chelsey . . .”
Nolan lifted the .38 and let him look down the long barrel. “Your brother isn’t going to find out, George. And neither are any of your associates.”
George’s eyes golf-balled. “You . . . you think you can threaten me? Me? I’m a Franco!”
Nolan, his mouth a grim line, said, “So was Sam.”
George Franco looked into the flint grey eyes of the man who had murdered Sam Franco. He swallowed hard.
Nolan lowered the .38. “I won’t hurt you unless I have to. I got a hunch this deal doesn’t have a lot to do with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
Nolan finished the whiskey, went back and poured another. “I’m here to look into a matter. The matter may concern the Chelsey operation
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