Authors: Max Allan Collins
Jon watched him leave, the door shut and lock behind him. He sat on the bed and wondered if there would be any good books in the box. You never knew when you were going to luck onto a find. If that cousin was older than Walter, why
those comics could be early fifties or before, and that meant there could be some good shit in . . .
Jesus Christ Almighty!
Goddamn comic book fever! He slammed a fist into his thigh. It was a blindness that came over him; all collectors feel it, he supposed, but he felt it deep. No logic to it, or reason. Just the fever.
You’re an asshole,
he told himself, meaning it.
Your uncle’s dead, murdered by this creep and his old man, and you’re all of a sudden grateful to him, you’re his buddy, just because he’s got some moldy old comic books he’s going to show you. You’re trapped in a room somewhere, held prisoner by a senile old Mafiosi and his loving kid, probably going to get your balls shot off any minute, and all you can do is slobber at the mouth over the chance of seeing some old comics. You goddamn idiot. Shape the fuck up.
“Okay,” he said aloud, after a moment.
He was okay. The fever was in check. He was sane again.
He formed his plan. He would sit on the edge of the bed, wait for his buddy Walter to stroll in with the box in his hands, and as the guy was putting the box down on the bed, Jon would kick him in the side of the head. That would do the trick.
Get ready, he told himself.
He got ready.
The door opened and in Walter came, arms full of an aging cardboard box, falling apart at the sides.
Now’s your chance,
Jon told himself,
don’t blow it, asshole.
“Here they are,” Walter said, coming over to the bed with the box.
Jon braced himself, his leg was tensed and ready to kick, and he noticed the comic on top of the stack in the box.
An EC.
“Vault of Horror” number 18.
What a beautiful cover! A couple kissing by a wishing well, out of which was crawling an oozing, decomposing ghoul. What an artist that Johnny Craig was. Jon didn’t have
that issue; it was an early one, kind of hard to find.
He grabbed hold of the box and settled it in his lap and started flipping through titles. They weren’t all EC’s, but many of them were; there was an early one, “Crypt of Terror” 17, worth probably sixty bucks, and some rare science-fiction titles like “Weird Fantasy” and “Weird Science.” Jesus, here was a “White Indian” with Frazetta art! What a find! The box was a treasure chest. This was fantastic.
“Enjoy yourself,” Walter said.
And was out the door.
Nolan got out of the car. He moved slowly, but he was alert, and his movements were both deliberate and fluid. You would never guess he’d just driven well over two hundred miles in under three hours. He stood and looked in the window of the shop; a hanging wooden sign, with the words “Karen’s Candle Corner” spelled out in red melted wax, dominated a display case of candles and knicknacks, while in the background faces on posters seemed to stare out of the dim shop like disinterested observers.
He watched in the reflection of the window as the black Chevy pulled in behind his tan Ford, and wondered if anyone in the world besides cops and hoods still drove black Chevys.
Greer got out of the car, made a real effort to shut the door silently but it made a noise that echoed in the empty street. It was three o’clock in the morning (a bank time-and-temperature sign spelled it out just down the street) and downtown Iowa City could have been a deserted backlot at some bankrupt Hollywood studio. The sky overhead was a washed-out gray and the streetlamps provided pale, artificial light.
Nolan watched Greer approach in the reflection. The dark little man yawned, stretched his arms, scratched his belly. Greer had discarded the Felix-dictated sporty ensemble and now had on an ordinary, rumpled brown suit, such as a fertilizer salesman might wear. A common sense outfit, Nolan thought, encouraged; maybe Greer wasn’t such a hopeless schmuck after all.
As for Nolan, he was wearing the same clothes he’d worn all day: yellow turtleneck, gray sports jacket, black slacks.
The only wardrobe change he’d made before leaving the Tropical was taking his jacket off long enough to sling on his worn leather shoulder rig. Like Nolan, the holster was old but dependable, and he felt good having a Smith and Wesson .38 with four-inch barrel snuggled under his arm.
Greer walked up to Nolan and they looked at each other in the reflection.
Greer said, “You move right along, don’t you?”
Nolan shrugged.
Greer said, “What were you trying to do, lose me?”
Nolan said, “If I was trying to lose you, you’d be lost.”
Greer yawned again, said, “Wish to hell you’d’ve stopped for coffee.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Listen, what’s happening? What are we doing in Iowa City, for Chrissake?”
“I’m going to talk to a woman. This is her place.” He pointed to the floor above the shop, where the lights were on. “She’s a civilian, so don’t go waving guns around.”
“What do you take me for?”
Nolan said nothing.
“Hey, why don’t you go fuck yourself, Nolan? I don’t like being here any more than . . .”
“Shut up. Don’t be so goddamn defensive. Are you still pissed off because I made a fool of you this afternoon?”
“Well, I . . .”
“I did that because I didn’t want Felix sending anybody with me, I wanted to be left alone with this. But Felix sent you anyway, so let’s forget about that.”
Greer sighed, grinned, said, “Okay. I’ll just stay in the background and do what you tell me to.”
“Good.”
Between the candle shop and a record store was a doorway, beyond which were steps. Nolan and Greer went up them. When they got to the landing, they found two doors; one was labeled “Karen Hastings,” the other was blank. Nolan knocked on the labelled door.
A voice from behind the door said, “Who is it?” The voice was female and firm, masking the fear pretty well.
“Nolan. Jon’s friend.”
The door opened tentatively, the night-latch chain still hooked. The face that peeked out was haggard but pretty, framed by long, curly brunette hair. “You’re Nolan?”
“Yes.”
“How . . . how do I know that?”
“You don’t; unless you recognize my voice from the phone.”
“Prove you’re Nolan.”
“How?”
“What’s Jon’s hobby?”
“Pardon?”
“Jon’s hobby, what is it?”
“He collects funny books.”
She unlatched the door. She was a little startled by seeing Greer in the background. Nolan glanced back over his shoulder at Greer, who in the darkness of the stairwell looked somewhat like the gunman he was.
“Don’t worry about him,” Nolan said. “He’s here to help, too.”
“Okay, come in, both of you.”
They stepped in and were hit by the coolness of the air-conditioned apartment. Nolan looked the woman over quickly: she was nicely built, kind of busty, pretty face accented by a large but sensual mouth; she wore a clinging black dress with cream-color sandals. Her clothes and free-flowing hair were styles befitting a girl twenty or younger, though she was thirty or more. A singularly attractive woman, Nolan summed her up as, though too old for a kid like Jon.
“Heard anything from Jon?”
“No,” she said, regret in her face. “Not a word. What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find out.”
“You got here fast. That was an Illinois area code, wasn’t
it? I looked it up. What’d you do, drive it straight?”
Nolan nodded, exchanging a brief smile with Greer.
“Well, sit down, I’ll get you some coffee.”
“We’ve got some things to do, maybe you shouldn’t waste time . . .”
“It’s already ready. I’ll just go in the kitchen and pour it out. Besides, both of you look dead on your feet. Excuse me.”
She left and Nolan and Greer took seats on the sofa. The walls were paneled in deep rich brown, and cluttered with paintings and such; the theme of the wall opposite them was Camelot: brass knight’s heads, crossed broadswords, an oil painting of a surreal castle in blues and grays. The furniture ran to antiques, with thick, colorful candles stuck on everything that wasn’t moving. Nolan had two immediate impressions: first, she got stuff wholesale as a shopkeeper and consequently had more decorative shit than any ten people needed; and second, she had a very feminine idea of how to make a room look masculine. He wondered why she was trying to compensate for the lack of a live-in male.
She came back with coffee, which was strong and black. Greer sipped it and smiled and said, “Thanks, ma’am,” like a shy cowboy in an old movie.
She sat next to Nolan on the sofa and said, “Can we do anything? I’ll do whatever you want me to. I feel I can . . . trust you. You’re the man Jon speaks about, aren’t you? He never mentioned your name, until tonight, anyway . . . but you’re the man he talks about, the older man he looks up to, respects. Am I right?”
Nolan felt strangely touched, both by the woman’s open concern for Jon, and her telling of Jon’s affection for him. He was having trouble fighting the notion that Jon was dead, and the woman’s small emotional outburst chipped at his personal wall.
“I thought you were,” she said, nodding, though he hadn’t replied.
“Are you willing to take some risks?” Nolan asked her.
“Of course, anything . . . but I have a child here, my son
Larry, and . . . I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”
“Could you send him to a friend’s place?”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning.”
“I know. Could you do it?”
She nodded. “I’ll have to make a phone call.”
“Make it.”
She left again.
Greer said, “Nice-looking woman.”
Nolan said, “Yeah.”
“No bra,” Greer said.
“No kidding,” Nolan said.
That ended that line of conversation.
“Good coffee,” Greer said.
“Good coffee,” Nolan said.
She came back and said, “I’ll have to get Larry ready.”
“How old is he?”
“Ten.”
“Is he a cripple?”
“No.”
“Tell him to get himself ready. Can he walk where he’s going?”
“I . . . I think so. It’s just two blocks.”
“Good. Go tell him and come back.”
This time she was gone thirty seconds, no longer.
“Now what?” she said.
“I want you to make another phone call.”
“All right.”
“I want you to call that doctor back. Do you think he’ll recognize your voice?”
“Not if I don’t want him to.”
“Good. Do you know his name?”
“No. Jon didn’t leave me his name, just the number.”
“Get the phone book.”
She did.
“Now look up the number of a Dr. Ainsworth. Okay? Got it? Now, is that the number Jon left you to call?”
She nodded.
“Good. Have you heard of Ainsworth? Know him?”
“I don’t know him,” she said. “Know of him. Girl friend of mine got a nice, quiet abortion from him. I heard he’ll help you if you get into a drug jam, and without reporting anything to the cops. He does valuable work, but word is he’s a real pirate.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“I can plug it into a jack right here in the living room, if you like.”
“Do that.”
She did, and Nolan told her what to say.
She was excellent. She did better than Nolan had hoped, weaving his basic material into a piece of drama fit for stage or screen. Her voice was best of all, a pleading, whining thing that sounded like the voice of a girl far younger than this mother of a ten-year-old boy. She said, “Is this Dr. Ainsworth? . . . It is? Oh, wow, thank God, thank God, I got you, mister . . . I mean, Jesus, I’m sorry I woke you, but I need you, Christ, we need you bad . . . I’ll try to calm down, but it isn’t easy, you know, I mean my boyfriend, I’m afraid he’s OD’ed, Jesus, can you help? . . . Bad shape, he’s really bad, I mean I’m fucked up myself, you know? But I know he’s bad, really bad and you got to help, I heard from a girl friend of mine you’re okay, you’ll help out and keep the trouble down as much as possible . . . I mean, I got money, we both got money, that’s no problem, we just don’t want any hassle with cops, but if you won’t help I’ll call whoever I have to to get help, I mean you got to get here fast . . . oh, Christ, hurry, mister, please . . . You’re beautiful. Bless your soul, man.” She gave him her address, blessed him again, and hung up.
“Nice going,” Nolan said.
“Really good,” Greer said.
“Thanks,” she said, almost blushing, “I just hope I didn’t overdo. I was a little nervous.”
“That probably helped,” Nolan said.
“Either of you guys want more coffee? I know I do.”
Nolan said, “Yeah.” So did Greer.
She got up and went after it.
While she was gone, a small boy not much over five feet tall walked into the room, an overnight case in his hand. He was wearing blue jeans and a red-and-white striped tee-shirt and he had big brown eyes and a headful of red hair and more freckles than Doris Day.
“I’m going now, Mom!” he hollered.
She rushed into the living room, kissed him on the forehead and said, “Be a good boy, Larry, don’t cause Mrs. Murphy any trouble.”
“I won’t, Mom.”
“Be sure to thank her for letting you stay with Tommy, and apologize for bothering them so late.”
“I will, Mom.”
“You’re a good boy.” She kissed him on the head again and went back to the kitchen.
“How ya doin’, sonny?” Greer asked the kid.
“Bite my ass,” the boy said, and went out the front door, slamming it behind him.
“Little bastard,” Greer said.
“I kind of like him,” Nolan said.
The boy’s mother came back and refilled their coffee cups.
They waited for Ainsworth.
Fifteen minutes later, the knock came at the door. They had had time to drink their cups of coffee and bring a chair in from the kitchen and Karen had found the rope Nolan had asked for.
Nolan said, “Let him in,” and Karen nodded yes.
Greer had his gun out, on Nolan’s request. Nolan had both big hands unencumbered. Greer stood behind the
door, so that he would be hidden when Karen opened it. Nolan stood to the other side, flat against the wall.