“What are you talking about—‘disappear’? She’s with me. She’s on call.” His voice climbed; the façade was rapidly chipping away. “Damn it, I’ve finally got my metabolism back into some kind of balance. You come busting in here like a runaway freight train and drag me out of a sound sleep; and now that I’m riding the benzedrine, you think you can walk out and leave me jangling…”
“This is a small thing, Oscar.”
“I’m the one who’ll decide what’s small and what’s big.”
When Shayne took a step forward, Oscar made a sudden dart and pulled the ivory phallus off its pedestal. He drew it back; but before he could start the swing, Shayne crouched and gave the goatskin rug a quick pull.
Oscar flung out both arms, his mouth wide. He went down hard. The phallus flew out of his hands and broke in two on the terrazzo floor.
“You can glue it back together,” Shayne said. “I agree; we were just getting started. I’ll be back.”
Chapter 8
He saw one of the girls ahead. Picked out by the ceiling spotlights, she was easing along in the walk they all had. Overtaking her, he asked if she had seen Mandy.
She waved her eyelashes and turned on a big, sexy, meaningless smile. “Does Oscar want her? She went out to get somebody.”
Mandy had been right. As usual, Shayne was improvising. His only purpose in coming here had been to show his incriminating photograph and see what kind of glances were exchanged, whose receptors started pulsing. A pattern was taking form. He had learned two things in the last few minutes: that Mandy Pitt was something more than a secretary and that her employer knew it.
He returned to the public party. The atmosphere in the big room was no more lively than when he passed through earlier. An ex-client, a widow whose stolen jewels he had recovered by buying them back at twenty percent of their insured value, seized one of his arms in both hands. He kissed her lightly and told her he was working.
She didn’t let go. “Mike, when are we going to have a chance to have a real conversation?”
“Soon,” he promised, without meaning it, and freed himself before having to knock her down.
The lady and Oscar had delayed him a minute too long. He reached the parking lot in time to see a pair of taillights dwindling in the direction of the causeway.
His plump friend, the plumbing supply salesman, came out of the shadows and said sulkily, “Shayne, that broad you were with…”
“Yeah, did you see her?”
“To my sorrow, I must say. I thought she was friendly enough before. All I did was ask if she wanted to dance — is that so awful? She’s one of the house girls, right? What do I have — bad breath?”
“Did you follow her out?”
“Yes, I made the mistake of following her out; and she unburdened herself of a couple of choice obscenities, which surprised the hell out of me. Now I predict they won’t let me back in.”
“Did she take off in a car?”
“With a screech of rubber. Listen, sponsor me, will you, Shayne? I was beginning to make a little headway in there.”
“I wasn’t invited, either. Did you notice what kind of car?”
“One of those Detroit monsters. What’s going on? Because I know something is. A couple of guys in another car chased her out.”
Shayne had started toward his Buick. He turned back.
“Cops?”
“Cops,” the salesman repeated, interested. “It didn’t strike me, but you know they did look a little like cops… They were already in their car when we came out; and that always looks funny in a parking lot — two guys just sitting. But it wasn’t your typical cop car — one of those low-slung MG’s — my kid has one just like it and does he go roaring around the streets of Omaha!”
“What color?”
“Shayne, I’m color-blind, sorry to say. But an MG. Those wire wheels. Say,” he said as Shayne started off again, “are you going anyplace interesting? Because I don’t feel like going back to the hotel. I’m sick of those late-at-night talk shows.”
“Sorry.”
The salesman stayed with him, dropping off only when Shayne reached his Buick, shook hands, and said goodnight.
Starting the car, Shayne flipped the switch for the mobile operator and gave her the number of Jerry Lewellyn’s truck. Lewellyn, in Bueno Vista tapping Pussycat Club calls, picked up promptly.
“Incoming call three or four minutes ago,” Shayne said. “Somebody asked for Mandy Pitt.”
“Right,” Lewellyn replied. “A man. And he told her to meet him at the drive-in the minute she could get away. He didn’t ask her; he told her.”
“A drive-in movie?”
“He just said the drive-in. She said, ‘Ten minutes,’ and slammed the phone down. It could be a hamburger place or something, but would they be open this late?”
Shayne thanked him and clicked off. He reached over to the back seat for a stale copy of the Daily News and, turning on the dome light, checked the movie listings. The drive-ins were widely scattered around the fringes of the city. All but one, the Sky-Vue in Northeast Miami, were considerably more than ten minutes away.
Shayne hurried and reached the Sky-Vue twelve minutes later. The second feature was well underway, a big Italian-made western starring a reserved young man whose icy expression never changed whether he was pistol-whipping an enemy or fondling a beautiful girl.
“I hear they’ve got a great gunfight at the end,” Shayne said as he paid his admission to a watery-eyed old man.
“They must have,” the ticket taker said. “We’re getting a lot of late business tonight.”
“I’ve got a date with somebody. Did a woman just come in by herself?”
“I’m in a kind of stupor here,” the old man said apologetically. “It’s the only way I can stand it. I’m looking right at you, but I don’t see you — know what I mean?”
Shayne cut his lights and parked in the last row. He bought a box of popcorn at the snack bar. Moving along the rows of cars on foot, he looked for an MG and a domestic sedan containing a single girl.
Warm weather drive-ins perform a useful social function, one that has little connection with the fact that movies are being projected on the big screen. There were few single spectators, male or female. At one point, seeing a girl’s head silhouetted against the glow, Shayne thought he had found Mandy. A closer look showed that she had a friend kneeling on the floor. Her eyes were partly closed, but she actually seemed to be following the movie.
It was a slow night. Fewer than half the spaces were filled. Shayne angled forward slowly.
He spotted the MG first, a yellow convertible with a black top. The microphone on the driver’s side still hung untouched on its post He couldn’t see through the raked rear window. He kept moving until he made sure there was a man in each bucket seat; then he stepped between two cars. The man at the wheel of the MG lifted his wrist into the light so he could see the time.
Mandy was parked two rows away, several cars over. Unless she too had a man on the floor, she was alone. Her car was a black Cadillac, with the club’s insignia over the license plate — a kitten sitting in a champagne glass surrounded by bubbles.
A boy put his head out of the car next to Shayne. “What do we have here — one of those ‘lookers’?”
“Go on with what you were doing,” Shayne said absently.
The boy’s girlfriend leaned over to inspect him. “Be tolerant,” she said. “We can’t all be normal. Let’s invite him to get in back and watch.”
Shayne offered his box of popcorn without looking away from the MG. “Have some popcorn on me.”
The bodies rearranged themselves. Peering out, the boy said, “Man, are you sick?”