Brett Halliday
I Come to Kill You
1
St. Albans is a small, lovely island with some of the finest sand beaches and most voracious sand fleas in the Caribbean, an airstrip, a picturesque though decrepit fishing village, a booming casino.
Michael Shayne, the big, red-headed private detective, arrived on St. Albans one night in mid-February, his only luggage a dispatch case with a broken handle. He had been drinking heavily for days, and showed it.
Disembarking from the plane, he did something that would have puzzled his friends in Miami, who knew his ability to keep his quickness and coordination even after consuming improbable amounts of brandy. His shoelaces were untied. He tripped on the top step of the ramp and lurched forward against another passenger. The corner of Shayne’s dispatch case hit the man in the small of the back, slipped from Shayne’s grasp, and broke open. Shayne sawed at the air, and probably would have gone all the way down, knocking over people like dominoes, if the girl he was traveling with hadn’t grabbed his arm and pulled him into balance.
“Watch that top step,” he told her with drunken dignity. “It’s treacherous.”
He gathered his belongings, the dirty socks, shaving cream, gun, and loose ammunition, and repacked the dispatch case. Refusing further help from the girl, he continued down the ramp by himself. She was laughing at him.
“Solid ground,” she said when they reached the tarmac. “No bones broken.”
“These goddamn airlines ought to figure out a better way to get off their planes. Baby, you know what we need? We need a little kinky sex. Then we need a couple of drinks. Then we need some more sex.”
He spoke loudly, getting amused looks from some of his fellow passengers, looks of suspicious disgust from others. The girl seemed slightly embarrassed. “Michael, you’re bragging again.”
Meeting her in a bar at the International Airport in Miami, Shayne had been interested to learn that they shared the same destination. Her name was Sarah Percival, she told him, and she worked in a travel agency. Their plane had a balky engine. While the ground crew labored to fix it, Shayne and the girl had a drink together, then another, then a third. When their flight finally departed, hours later, they weren’t on it. They were in a room Shayne had rented at the airport hotel.
With careful planning and mutual encouragement, they managed to make the plane the following night, though in the last-minute rush Shayne cut himself shaving. They had passed a pleasant and busy twenty-four hours, cut off from the pressures and concerns of the outside world. But just before leaving the room to rejoin the rat race, Shayne took out his money and slowly and carefully, his lips moving, counted it to see how much he still had. It came to $1,185.
“Honey?” Sarah said, watching him. “If you’re wondering about me, don’t. Everything’s paid for. That’s the thing about the travel business. Not knowing what might happen, I reserved a room with a double bed.”
“Yeah, good,” Shayne said absently. He squared the bills and returned them to his money clip. “If I told you how much I grossed last year, you wouldn’t believe it. But it came and it went. It came and went. And now those Internal Revenue bastards…” He stood up. “The hell with it. Let’s fly.”
After the single moment’s awkwardness getting off the plane, Shayne steadied. In the taxi on the way to the hotel, he told Sarah a somewhat incredible story, which happened to be entirely true, of how Dominick De Blasio, the Mafia don in Miami, had stolen the casino from the New York group that put up the initial grease, and ousted the original British investment syndicate.
“And they’ve got a goddamn diamond mine here,” he said. “It’s the only wheel in town. They don’t do Las Vegas business, but they don’t have that Vegas nut. No entertainment budget, no tax problem, but the same house percentage. The same suckers bringing money.”
“And I was under the impression,” she said, smiling, “that you came here to gamble.”
“I came to play blackjack. And if you see me wandering off in the direction of the roulette tables, do me a favor — hit me with a bottle.”
“Why blackjack?”
“It’s on a short percentage. They can be taken. I’ve done it a few times… You aren’t interested in this.”
“In making money? Of course I am, Mike.”
“Blackjack. You watch the cards and count them as they come out. You don’t have to be a mathematical whiz — just click them off in the back of your head. Then when you get down near the bottom of the deck, you have a better idea where you are. It smoothes out the odds.”
“I don’t get it.”
He tried again. “Say you’re looking for a seven or under. Anything over seven will bust you. There are seventeen cards left. Eleven are over seven, six are under. So you stand. Do you follow me?”
“Maybe part of the way.”
“And the dealer’s not betting his own money, so he doesn’t have the same desire. He won’t have to go on food stamps if Mike Shayne walks away with ten or twelve grand.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
Shayne sat forward. “Driver, stop the car.”
The driver, startled, put on his brakes and swerved to a stop. Shayne had the door open. He reached out and rapped a highway post.
“Not that I’m superstitious or anything,” he said, coming back in. “Go ahead, driver. They don’t put any wood in cars. Go on, it’s all right. On top of that,” he told Sarah when they were underway again, “you know you need luck. You hit streaks in any kind of gambling. And the way you have a big night is, get your streak early, push it hard as long as it’s running, and the minute you feel the turn, get the hell out or they’ll beat you to death on the way down.”
She slid her hand inside his shirt. “We won’t let that happen tonight.”
“I need to hit big,” he said. “I think I’m beginning to get the feeling. All that nice money, lying there waiting for me.”
“Then why don’t you kiss me?”
He was knocking his fist against one knee, staring ahead. After a moment he took a deep breath, threw his arm across her body, and kissed her hard enough to hurt her mouth. She responded by pulling him closer. The long, deep kiss drained off some of the tension that had built up during their talk about percentages.
The lobby was empty except for several broad-beamed American ladies feeding the half-dollar slots, and they were part of the furniture of such places. Shayne let Sarah walk ahead to the desk. She was a girl who liked to move quickly, with a pleasant swing. She was tall and lean-shanked, with long blonde hair that was crinkly to the touch. Her clothes and luggage were expensive, and she wore a square-cut diamond she couldn’t have bought with what she earned at a travel agency. She had exceptional legs, exceptional skin, and considerable style. Naked, she was a little too thin for Shayne’s liking, but she made up for that with agility and inventiveness in bed.
Becoming impatient quickly, he joined her at the desk. She was signing the registration card. He put his hand on her buttocks, and her muscles tightened. The pen put a jagged squiggle on the card.
“Michael,” she murmured.
“Testing your reflexes,” he said. “They seem to be O.K.”
“Do you have a reservation, sir?” the clerk asked. “I hope so, because everything’s taken.”
“My motto is,” Shayne said, his hand still on Sarah, “the Lord will provide.”
She had been assigned a room in a poolside bungalow. Shayne tipped the bellman and sent him away. She looked around with little enthusiasm.
“Crummy, isn’t it?”
He tossed his dispatch case on the bed. “All they care about is the cash flow in the casino. These are casino people, not hotel people.”