you’re involved in. And it may not.”
George was trembling, like a huge bowl of fleshy gelatin. “What . . . what do you want from me?”
“Information.”
“What kind?”
“Different kinds. Let’s start with a name. Irene Tisor. What does that name mean to you?”
“A girl, that’s all.”
“What about her?”
“She fell off a building.”
“Is that all you know about her?”
“She was on LSD.”
“Did she fall?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said she fell.”
“She could have.”
“Was she pushed?”
“I don’t know.”
“What connection does your operation have with her death?”
“She got the LSD from one of our sellers, I suppose. So we put on some pressure to cover it up. We didn’t want feds coming in and bothering us.”
“What kind of pressure, George?”
“I don’t know.”
“Had you ever heard the name Irene Tisor before?”
“No . . . I got a brother-in-law named Tisor. You probably knew him from Chicago. Sid Tisor?”
“I heard the name before,” Nolan said.
“You don’t suppose Irene Tisor was a relative? His kid or something?”
“You tell me.”
“Naw, I don’t think so. Back in the old days, Sid was nicer to me than a lot of people; we keep in touch. Just last week we talked on the phone and he didn’t say a word about any relative of his being killed in Chelsey.”
Nolan grunted noncommittally. Well, looked like George didn’t connect Irene to Sid. But then how much did George really know about the operation?
“What kind of money you getting for one hit of LSD?”
George said, “I don’t know.”
“You selling pot?”
“Sure.”
“How much is a lid going for?”
“I don’t know.”
“You selling heroin?”
“I don’t know.”
“What percent of your income’s from selling alcohol to underage buyers?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about barbiturates? Amphetamines?”
“I don’t know.”
Nolan rose, balled his fist and resisted the urge to splatter fat George all over the fancy apartment. He holstered the .38 and got out his cigarettes. Lighting one, he said, “You don’t have a goddamn thing to do with the operation, do you, George?”
George’s face flushed. “I do so ! I . . . I . . .”
“You what?”
“I supervise! I do a lot of things . . . I . . .”
Nolan ignored him. “Who’s the boss?” George didn’t say anything. “Somebody’s got to run the show. Who is it?”
George remained silent.
Nolan took out the gun again, disgustedly. “Who, George?”
George’s face turned blue.
“I’m going to have to get nasty, now, George.”
“It’s Elliot!” he sputtered. “Elliot, Elliot.”
“Elliot. He’s your . . . secretary?” Nolan searched his mind for the expression Tisor had used in describing the position.
“Yes, my financial secretary.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Irwin Taylor Elliot.”
“Where’s he live?”
“In town, on Fairport Drive. It’s a fancy residential district. High rent.”
“What’s his address?”
“I don’t know . . . but it’s in the phone book.”
“He’s got a listed number?”
“He’s got a real estate agency that fronts him.”
“Is there anybody else with power in town?”
“Just Elliot’s cousin—the police chief.”
“That’s handy. What’s his name?”
“Saunders. Phil Saunders.”
Nolan drew on the cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke. “If you’re holding out any information, George, it’s best you tell me now.”
George shook his head no. “I don’t know nothing else.”
“You’re a good boy, George.” Nolan walked around the room for a few minutes, playing mental ping-pong. Then he said, “How do you get in this place . . . besides up the fire escape?”
“Through a door next to the can downstairs, in the drug store.”
“Fitting. Any of your men down there?”
“During store hours there’s always either a clerk or an assistant pharmacist on duty downstairs to watch out for me.” George’s
George was trembling, like a huge bowl of fleshy gelatin. “What . . . what do you want from me?”
“Information.”
“What kind?”
“Different kinds. Let’s start with a name. Irene Tisor. What does that name mean to you?”
“A girl, that’s all.”
“What about her?”
“She fell off a building.”
“Is that all you know about her?”
“She was on LSD.”
“Did she fall?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said she fell.”
“She could have.”
“Was she pushed?”
“I don’t know.”
“What connection does your operation have with her death?”
“She got the LSD from one of our sellers, I suppose. So we put on some pressure to cover it up. We didn’t want feds coming in and bothering us.”
“What kind of pressure, George?”
“I don’t know.”
“Had you ever heard the name Irene Tisor before?”
“No . . . I got a brother-in-law named Tisor. You probably knew him from Chicago. Sid Tisor?”
“I heard the name before,” Nolan said.
“You don’t suppose Irene Tisor was a relative? His kid or something?”
“You tell me.”
“Naw, I don’t think so. Back in the old days, Sid was nicer to me than a lot of people; we keep in touch. Just last week we talked on the phone and he didn’t say a word about any relative of his being killed in Chelsey.”
Nolan grunted noncommittally. Well, looked like George didn’t connect Irene to Sid. But then how much did George really know about the operation?
“What kind of money you getting for one hit of LSD?”
George said, “I don’t know.”
“You selling pot?”
“Sure.”
“How much is a lid going for?”
“I don’t know.”
“You selling heroin?”
“I don’t know.”
“What percent of your income’s from selling alcohol to underage buyers?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about barbiturates? Amphetamines?”
“I don’t know.”
Nolan rose, balled his fist and resisted the urge to splatter fat George all over the fancy apartment. He holstered the .38 and got out his cigarettes. Lighting one, he said, “You don’t have a goddamn thing to do with the operation, do you, George?”
George’s face flushed. “I do so ! I . . . I . . .”
“You what?”
“I supervise! I do a lot of things . . . I . . .”
Nolan ignored him. “Who’s the boss?” George didn’t say anything. “Somebody’s got to run the show. Who is it?”
George remained silent.
Nolan took out the gun again, disgustedly. “Who, George?”
George’s face turned blue.
“I’m going to have to get nasty, now, George.”
“It’s Elliot!” he sputtered. “Elliot, Elliot.”
“Elliot. He’s your . . . secretary?” Nolan searched his mind for the expression Tisor had used in describing the position.
“Yes, my financial secretary.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Irwin Taylor Elliot.”
“Where’s he live?”
“In town, on Fairport Drive. It’s a fancy residential district. High rent.”
“What’s his address?”
“I don’t know . . . but it’s in the phone book.”
“He’s got a listed number?”
“He’s got a real estate agency that fronts him.”
“Is there anybody else with power in town?”
“Just Elliot’s cousin—the police chief.”
“That’s handy. What’s his name?”
“Saunders. Phil Saunders.”
Nolan drew on the cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke. “If you’re holding out any information, George, it’s best you tell me now.”
George shook his head no. “I don’t know nothing else.”
“You’re a good boy, George.” Nolan walked around the room for a few minutes, playing mental ping-pong. Then he said, “How do you get in this place . . . besides up the fire escape?”
“Through a door next to the can downstairs, in the drug store.”
“Fitting. Any of your men down there?”
“During store hours there’s always either a clerk or an assistant pharmacist on duty downstairs to watch out for me.” George’s
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