“Can’t it wait till morning?”
“No,” Shayne snapped, with another quick switch in tone. “And don’t cry about it — good shylocks are on twenty-four-hour call.”
Downstairs, he decided he ought to know where he was at, and he smoothed and counted the money he had taken from the girls. It came to eleven hundred dollars. After all his activity, he had less than when he started in Miami.
He smoked a cigarette while he thought about it.
He was in the lobby. Ever since sitting down he had been monitored by a squarely built young man with a badly scarred face and the meaty hams of a football player. He wore the standard blazer, with a badge giving his name as Mr. Valenti. When Shayne put his money away and started for the casino, Valenti followed.
The crowd was smaller, less intense. The dealers and stickmen were swallowing yawns. Shayne approached the blackjack table. The dealer looked up and met his eye with a glitter. The setup made Shayne vaguely uneasy, and he went past.
He studied the play at the dice tables, hoping to see a pattern. Wherever he looked, the house appeared to be winning.
Soon the general weariness and staleness had its effect on Shayne. He yawned widely, then pulled himself together with an effort, and went to the cashier’s window to change his money into chips. A man ahead of him was doing the opposite, emptying his pockets of chips and changing them back into money. He had won heavily.
“Do you mind if I ask what game you’ve been playing?” Shayne said, interested. “Maybe you left some of that luck at the table.”
The winner guffawed happily. He was smaller than Shayne, with considerable facial hair — heavy eyebrows, a full moustache, and unpruned sideburns. He was so myopic that his eyes looked fishlike behind the thick-lensed glasses.
“I spread it around,” he said. “That’s my system. Move fast and stay in front of the law of averages.” He stuffed his pockets with bills. “Not that I really believe that. Scientifically speaking, they’ve got you by the short hairs. I know that. Tonight I happened to be the exception.”
Shayne hesitated, and forced an unconvincing smile. “Have a drink with me, will you? Maybe some of your luck will rub off.”
“I’ll be happy to, friend, but don’t expect any secrets. I rattle the dice and let fly. That’s my secret.”
Shayne introduced himself as Hank Morrison of New York City. The lucky winner proved to be a hotel-supplies salesman from Chicago, named Gregory Nash, and he had been betting expense-account money, which, as everybody knows, isn’t the same as real money. After the drinks were served, he showed Shayne pictures of his wife and three children, and the outside of his house in a Chicago suburb. The two girls were getting good grades in school, but for some reason the boy never seemed to feel like studying.
Shayne nodded mechanically, only half-listening. He had two cognacs while Nash sipped a watery Scotch. He slumped over his glass, more and more gloomy. Nash paid for the drinks with a credit card and stood up.
“You know you saved me some money?” Shayne said. “Talking about those kids of yours. I never had children. I was married once, but it didn’t work out. I’ve been trying to fake it, but I’m fundamentally a loser. The hell with it for tonight. They’ve taken me for all the bread they’re going to get out of me until I get optimistic again. The way I feel now, that may be never.”
Nash, like all winners everywhere, showed little sympathy. Shayne went to the elevator with him. As soon as the door slid shut, Shayne took out his gun and touched him in the small of the back. The man didn’t realize immediately what was happening.
“Goddamn it,” Shayne said, “I’ve got a revolver here. Take a look. You won’t get hurt if you’re sensible.”
The salesman glanced down. When he saw the gun, he recoiled so violently that he twisted all the way around with his hands raised.
“Now, don’t get excited,” Shayne said irritably, prodding him. “I just want you to understand I’ve got to have ten thousand bucks.”
Nash’s glasses shook on his nose. “The first time I ever really won—”
“Listen to me carefully. The thing to get through your head is that I have to have it. Do you hear me? I thought I could win it, but I see it isn’t my night. If I don’t get it, I’m dead.”
Nash had pressed the button for four. The elevator reached that floor and stopped. Shayne stabbed another button and the car went on.
“Put your hands down,” Shayne told him. “If somebody gets in, stand there and don’t make a sound. You said it’s expense-account dough — that’s what gave me the idea. You won’t miss it.”
“You can have it. You can have it.”
“I know that, but there’s something else, and that’s what I’ve got to make plain to you. This is a goddamn island. I don’t want you to report this. I’ve never been busted for anything over a misdemeanor. That’s the way I want it to stay. If they get me on this, it’s a first offense, and I’ll be out in eighteen months. Your name’s Gregory Nash, and you live at three-nine-four-seven Maple Drive in Englewood, Illinois, and you work for the Ideal Hotel Products Company. When you had your credit card out, I memorized it. Don’t turn me in, or I’ll come visit you.”
The man moistened his lips. “Leave me fifty for cabfare.”
“I’m going to leave you a hundred and your credit card. You’ll get home O.K. Give Mrs. Nash a big wet kiss from me.”
The salesman was no longer shaking. He cleaned out his pockets and his wallet, keeping nothing back except five twenties. “Because here or at the dice table, what’s the difference. I had a fun-filled evening, and it didn’t cost me a cent.”
“That’s the way to look at it,” Shayne said approvingly, taking the money. “And you got a fellow citizen out of a bad hole.”
He stopped the elevator at four, and Nash scurried out, glad to find himself still alive. Then Shayne returned to Zito’s floor and forced Zito to open the door again to accept payment. He fell several hundred short, and Zito offered to write it off, but Shayne insisted, “No, I understood the terms. I’ll panhandle for it if I have to.”
“Mike, don’t borrow any more money from me, all right?”
“Don’t worry about that.” Shayne blew an explosive breath and made a wide gesture. “I think we ought to have a celebration. I’ve got a chick downstairs. Do you want to come down, or should we come up?”
“Neither,” Mercedes said firmly from the bed.
“It’s been a long day,” Zito said apologetically. “I’m exhausted.” Clapping Shayne on the shoulder, he urged him toward the door. “You got lucky finally, and that makes me happy. Personally, I’m glad we handled this between the two of us. Get some maintenance on the haircut while you’re here, Mike. There’s a good barber. And tell you what — buy yourself a new shirt, a new pair of slacks, and put it on my bill.”
“Larry, I hope I’ll always deserve your respect.”
“You do, Mike. You will.”
They shook hands. Shayne made an occasion of it, prolonging the handshake long after Zito wanted to let go.
“In my book, Larry, you’re tops.”
“Yeah, thanks, Mike. Now, good night.”
“Pleasant dreams,” Mercedes called from the bed, and added, “You paid him. But you didn’t pay me, did you?”
Downstairs, Sarah was sitting up in bed reading a paperback mystery. This was the first time Shayne had seen her with glasses on, and she removed them hurriedly.
“You didn’t think I could do it, did you?” Shayne said with satisfaction. “I got the goddamn shylock off my back. I’m even.”
“Mike, darling, that’s marvelous!”
“And if you’re friendly,” he said, smiling, “and don’t make any waves, I’m going to give you back your jewelry.”