change.”
“What’s he doing here?”
Nolan stared out into the darkness and said, “You tell me.”
“How?”
“Start with the man who runs this place.”
“The manager, you mean?”
“Not the manager. The owner.”
“As a matter of fact . . . I have heard the owner’s name. I’ve heard Broome mention it. It’s Francis, or something like that.”
“Franco?”
“Yes, I think that’s it.”
Nolan withheld a smile. “Fat George.”
“I believe his first name is George, at that.”
A waitress came to the table, put down paper placemats and gave them water and silverware. She handed them menus and rolled back the paper on her order blank.
Vicki asked for a steak sandwich, dinner salad and coffee, and Nolan followed suit. They ordered drinks for their wait, Vicki a Tom Collins, Nolan bourbon and water.
Nolan sat, deep in thought, not noticing the silence maintained between them until the drinks arrived five minutes later.
Vicki cupped her drink, looking down into it, and said, “Do you want me to talk about Irene now?”
“That’d be fine.”
“Well . . . she was wild, Earl, not real bad or anything, but a little wild . . . I guess you could blame that on her father.”
“He isn’t what I’d call wild.”
“But . . . isn’t he . . . a gangster?”
“The deadliest weapon Sid Tisor ever held was a pencil.”
“Oh. Well, anyway, Irene and I used to be quite close. You have to be, to live together, share an apartment and all. Both of us were artistic, using that same balcony studio in the apartment. Some of those paintings on the apartment walls are hers. Once in a while she wouldn’t show up at night, she’d sleep over with some guy or other—no special one, there were several—but that was no big deal, I’m no virgin either. It was just this year that it started getting kind of bad. Not with guys or anything. It was when she started getting in tight with some of these would-be hippies. I went along with a lot of it, because some of these people are witty and pretty articulate. Fun to be with. For example, they meet upstairs here during the day, and put articles and cartoons and stuff together and put out a weekly underground-style newspaper, called the Third Eye .”
“What you’re trying to say is they’re not idiots.”
“Right. I’m friendly with some of them. If you leaf through some back copies of the Eye you’ll see some of my artwork. But not all of these Chelsey hippies are well, benign. Some of them are hangers-on, bums, drop-outs, acid-heads. Like this Broome creep who runs the band here. Irene fell in with characters like Broome this last month or so, and I saw less and less of her . . . she was experimenting that final week or so, with pills mostly. And she kept saying, threatening kind of, that she was going to try an LSD trip.”
“And?”
“She did, I guess.”
“You think it was suicide?”
“Her death? I think it was an accident.”
“Oh.”
“You sound almost disappointed, Earl.”
“To tell you the truth, Vicki, I don’t give a damn one way or another. I’m just doing Sid Tisor a favor.”
She looked at him, shocked for a moment. “But you knew her, didn’t you? Don’t you care what happened to her?”
He shrugged. “She’s dead. It begins and ends there. Nothing brings her back, it’s all a waste of time.”
She squinted at him, obviously straining to figure him out. “You came to this stinking little town to risk your life when you think it’s a waste of time?”
Nolan drew on the cigarette. “You don’t understand. It’s a debt I’m paying. Also, there’s a chance for me to make some money off the local hoods. But I’m not doing this for me, I’m doing it for Sid Tisor. He cares, and that’s what counts.”
“Because you owe him.”
“Because I owe him.”
Their meals were brought to them and they ate casually, speaking very little. She watched him, beginning to understand him better.
He paid the check and
“What’s he doing here?”
Nolan stared out into the darkness and said, “You tell me.”
“How?”
“Start with the man who runs this place.”
“The manager, you mean?”
“Not the manager. The owner.”
“As a matter of fact . . . I have heard the owner’s name. I’ve heard Broome mention it. It’s Francis, or something like that.”
“Franco?”
“Yes, I think that’s it.”
Nolan withheld a smile. “Fat George.”
“I believe his first name is George, at that.”
A waitress came to the table, put down paper placemats and gave them water and silverware. She handed them menus and rolled back the paper on her order blank.
Vicki asked for a steak sandwich, dinner salad and coffee, and Nolan followed suit. They ordered drinks for their wait, Vicki a Tom Collins, Nolan bourbon and water.
Nolan sat, deep in thought, not noticing the silence maintained between them until the drinks arrived five minutes later.
Vicki cupped her drink, looking down into it, and said, “Do you want me to talk about Irene now?”
“That’d be fine.”
“Well . . . she was wild, Earl, not real bad or anything, but a little wild . . . I guess you could blame that on her father.”
“He isn’t what I’d call wild.”
“But . . . isn’t he . . . a gangster?”
“The deadliest weapon Sid Tisor ever held was a pencil.”
“Oh. Well, anyway, Irene and I used to be quite close. You have to be, to live together, share an apartment and all. Both of us were artistic, using that same balcony studio in the apartment. Some of those paintings on the apartment walls are hers. Once in a while she wouldn’t show up at night, she’d sleep over with some guy or other—no special one, there were several—but that was no big deal, I’m no virgin either. It was just this year that it started getting kind of bad. Not with guys or anything. It was when she started getting in tight with some of these would-be hippies. I went along with a lot of it, because some of these people are witty and pretty articulate. Fun to be with. For example, they meet upstairs here during the day, and put articles and cartoons and stuff together and put out a weekly underground-style newspaper, called the Third Eye .”
“What you’re trying to say is they’re not idiots.”
“Right. I’m friendly with some of them. If you leaf through some back copies of the Eye you’ll see some of my artwork. But not all of these Chelsey hippies are well, benign. Some of them are hangers-on, bums, drop-outs, acid-heads. Like this Broome creep who runs the band here. Irene fell in with characters like Broome this last month or so, and I saw less and less of her . . . she was experimenting that final week or so, with pills mostly. And she kept saying, threatening kind of, that she was going to try an LSD trip.”
“And?”
“She did, I guess.”
“You think it was suicide?”
“Her death? I think it was an accident.”
“Oh.”
“You sound almost disappointed, Earl.”
“To tell you the truth, Vicki, I don’t give a damn one way or another. I’m just doing Sid Tisor a favor.”
She looked at him, shocked for a moment. “But you knew her, didn’t you? Don’t you care what happened to her?”
He shrugged. “She’s dead. It begins and ends there. Nothing brings her back, it’s all a waste of time.”
She squinted at him, obviously straining to figure him out. “You came to this stinking little town to risk your life when you think it’s a waste of time?”
Nolan drew on the cigarette. “You don’t understand. It’s a debt I’m paying. Also, there’s a chance for me to make some money off the local hoods. But I’m not doing this for me, I’m doing it for Sid Tisor. He cares, and that’s what counts.”
“Because you owe him.”
“Because I owe him.”
Their meals were brought to them and they ate casually, speaking very little. She watched him, beginning to understand him better.
He paid the check and
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