Free Mourn The Living by Max Allan Collins Page A

Chicago.”
    “You get this month’s check okay?”
    “Huh? Oh. All right, so he sends me a little bread to help out. Big deal.”
    Nolan nodded to Bonnie Parker’s picture. “You’re lucky Bonnie and Clyde were before their time, Zig-Zag.”
    “Huh?”
    “They were in the banking business, too.” Nolan turned and left the room, went down the stairs and out the ex-frat.
     
     
    5
     
     
    IT WAS ALMOST NOON now and Nolan, sitting behind the wheel of the Lincoln, looked back on a morning of interviews in Chelsey’s quote hippie colony unquote. It had gotten him nothing more than a few scraps of information and a bad taste in his mouth.
    He glanced over Sid Tisor’s notebook of information on daughter Irene. He had gone through the six male names in the notes—Zig-Zag and five others like him, and now all that remained were the two female names, Lyn Parks and Vicki Trask. There were probably dozens of Irene’s friends her father hadn’t known about—all Tisor had was a handful of names culled from Irene’s occasional letters.
    Lyn Parks lived at the Chelsey Arms Hotel. Nolan parked a block away and walked toward it, passing several clusters of long haired men and women wearing the latest thing in wilted flowers, plastic love beads and Goodwill Store fashions. The block was run-down but distinctly not tenement—secondhand stores, burger joints, head shops—though in Chelsey, Nolan had a hunch this would be as close to a slum as he would get.
    The Chelsey Arms Hotel had seen a better day. Its theater-style marquee bore faded red lettering that didn’t spell anything, and there was a worn carpet leading to double doors which said CAH proudly but faintly. Once in the lobby Nolan saw that the Arms was somewhat ramshackle but hardly in danger of being condemned; he’d stayed in worse. A desk clerk, in a rumpled gray suit, seemed to be trying to decide whether Nolan was a cop, or a salesman looking for female companionship.
    There were Chelsey-style flower children all over the lobby, and Nolan sat in a chair across from two of them who were curled as one on a couch. Then he noticed the man standing by the cigar counter, pretending to look over the paperback rack.
    Tulip.
    Nolan got up and strolled to one of the pay phones to make his first contact with Vicki Trask. He would have to lose Tulip before he met with the girl, Irene’s roommate, the most important name on Tisor’s list. Nolan didn’t imagine it would make too great a first impression to have Tulip barge in and turn his visit into a brawl.
    He looked her number up in the book, dropped a dime in the slot and dialed.
    A soft but somehow icy voice answered. “This is Vicki.”
    “Miss Trask, my name is Earl Webb. I’m a friend of Sid Tisor, Irene’s father.”
    “Yes, of course. How is Mr. Tisor?”
    “He’s upset about his daughter.”
    “Well, I can understand . . . please send him my deepest sympathy.”
    “I’m afraid I’m asking for more than sympathy, Miss Trask.”
    “Oh?”
    “I’m an investigator and I’m looking into Irene’s death. As a favor to Sid.”
    “I see . . . that’s generous of you, mister, uh . . . what was it?”
    “Webb.”
    “Well, Mr. Webb, are you trying to say you’d like to see me and talk about Irene?”
    “Yes.”
    “Right now I’m on my lunch break and I’ll be going back to work in a few minutes, so . . .”
    “Where do you work?”
    “I’m a clerk at the bank.”
    “Would dinner be possible?”
    “Mr. Webb, I don’t even know you . . .”
    “I’m ugly as sin. How about dinner?”
    The voice till now cold turned warm in a gentle rush of laughter. “I must admit your voice is very intriguing . . .”
    “What do you say?”
    “. . . all right.”
    “Good.”
    “Might I suggest the Third Eye? The food isn’t bad, the drinks are suitably damp. And you could do a little investigating on the side. That’s where Irene spent much of her spare time, you know.”
    “That’d be fine. Stop by