Mourn The Living by Max Allan Collins Page A

who was lying on the bed in ski pants and bra, sticking her shapely ass out at him in defiance, or so it seemed to Dinneck. She was staring at the door in a wistful sort of way, apparently wishing the man called Webb—whom she’d been paid to seduce and pump for information when he came calling on her—had taken her up on her offer.
    Bitch, Dinneck thought. What the hell was it to her? She could obviously use the extra twenty-five he’d offered her. What was the difference if she gave Dinneck a quick roll in the hay?
    “I suppose,” Dinneck said bitterly, gnawing on a toothpick, “it’s something else again when Broome tells you to diddle than when you diddle on your own.”
    “Oh,” she said, not bothering to look back at him, “are you still here?”
    Dinneck wanted her and he wanted her bad and he wanted her bad right now. “All right, baby, fifty bucks, that’s tops, fifty bucks!”
    “Take your fifty bucks and stick it.”
    “You bitch, you little bitch, if Broome okays Webb, why the hell not me?”
    “What gives you the idea Broome okayed it?”
    “You’re Broome’s woman, aren’t you?”
    “Part-time. I’m my own woman full-time.”
    “Well, if Broome didn’t ask you to give Webb the treatment, who the hell did ?”
    “The same guy that sent you, dummy.”
    “You mean Elliot?”
    “That’s right. God, you’re brilliant.”
    Elliot had sent Dinneck to the girl that morning, to watch over her in case Webb got rough when he came calling. Late the night before, after washing their wounds from the pool battle with Webb, Dinneck and Tulip had reported their findings from the ransacking of Webb’s motel room to Elliot. In a notebook in Webb’s suitcase had been a list of names, one of which had been Lyn Parks. Since Lyn Parks supposedly belonged to Broome, one of Elliot’s hippie-town peddlers, Dinneck had assumed Elliot had gotten Broome’s permission before unleashing the Parks girl on Webb. Of course, Broome was a pretty weird character and probably wouldn’t give a damn who did what to his woman.
    Dinneck chewed on his toothpick, thought for a while longer, then said, “How do you happen to do direct business with Mr. Elliot?”
    “We’re acquainted.”
    “You sell your goodies to him, too, do you?”
    “I don’t sell myself, scumbag. I might rent out now and then, but as far as you’re concerned there’s no vacancy.”
    “Your business connection with Elliot wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain ‘One-Thumb’ Gordon, now, would it?”
    “How did you know that, you little bastard?” The girl was surprised to hear the name, as she should be, because it was the name of her father, who was an associate of the Boys. It was a well-kept secret that she was the uncontrollable offspring of Victor “One-Thumb” Gordon. She had threatened to expose her daddy’s Family ties unless he left her alone but well provided for.
    “How the hell did you know about that?” she asked again.
    Dinneck said, “Shut up, shut your damn mouth,” and wiped his sweaty forehead.
    What a goddamn fool mistake that was, he told himself, letting information slip like that! He had gotten mad at the bitch and let his temper flare up and expose a piece of his cover. He had to remember to play smalltimer, and he hadn’t had any trouble in playing it till now. But if any of them—especially Elliot or anyone close to Elliot—saw through him, then he was washed up. If Elliot didn’t get him, Dinneck had no doubt his other employers would.
    And that Webb, that son of a bitch, had he seen through the hick routine? He remembered the swimming pool and how Webb had held him under water till his lungs had nearly burst. Where had he seen that face before? As soon as he took care of his job in Chelsey, Dinneck promised himself he would take care of that bastard Webb. Whoever he really was.
    Dinneck walked over to the bed and looked at the girl and thought to himself that if it wasn’t for the lousy clothes