“The Preacher.”
“I dunno what you mean.”
“You’re a liar, McTige. And you stink from the word go.”
“Now, you look here…” blustered McTige, but Shayne cut him off fast:
“You look here while I do the talking. I know who your rabbit is and what he’s hiding from. I know you’re fronting for the Syndicate, and I hate the guts of any man who plays ball with them.”
“Wait a minute, Mike. You got me all wrong.” McTige’s blustering tone changed to a wail. “There ain’t no Syndicate mixed up in this deal.”
“I say there is.”
“But look,” pleaded McTige. “How-come you think you know so much more’n I do? Here you sit in Miami and I come in to you all nice an’ friendly with a clean deal. Cash on the barrel-head and no strings attached. And you start talking about the Syndicate. I just don’t get it.”
“Were you in the Bright Spot with The Preacher the other night looking for Fred Tucker?”
“I dropped in the joint like I said,” McTige conceded doggedly. “I don’t know about a preacher. I don’t get that angle.”
“I think you do. You’ve got a client who came to you in good faith and you sold her out for dirty money.” Shayne’s eyes glared across the desk bleakly, and his voice was harshly uncompromising:
“Miami is my town, McTige, and I don’t like it cluttered up with Syndicate killers or big-mouthed crooks flashing private badges. Get out of my office and get out of town.”
“I’ll get out of your stinking office, all right,” McTige shouted wildly. “But I’ll stick around Miami as long as I damn well please… and without asking your permission either.” He swung his burly body toward the door, but Shayne stopped him by saying coldly, “Pick up your cigar-butt from my rug before you leave.”
“Wha-at?” He turned his head, panting like a maddened bull.
“Your cigar-butt.” Shayne pointed to it on the floor. “I don’t live in a pig-sty, even if you do.”
“I’ll be double god-damned…” McTige snarled through clenched teeth, hunched his shoulders and started for the door.
Shayne was in front of him before he took two steps. McTige plowed to a stop and doubled his right fist and cocked it back behind his hip.
Shayne’s fists remained unclenched, but his eyes were bleak and his lips drew away from his teeth slightly. He said, “Pick it up, McTige.”
Baron McTige wilted slowly. He blinked his eyes and mumbled something indistinguishable, and turned to pick up the crushed cigar. He dropped it into an ashtray on Shayne’s desk, and then lumbered past the rigid redhead with face averted and eyes downcast.
Shayne watched the door slam shut behind him, and then went back to his desk and sat down. He was pouring more cognac in the two nested cups when the door swung open violently and Lucy whirled inside. She exclaimed, “Why didn’t you hit him, Michael? He was the most awful lout…”
Shayne grinned and waggled his forefinger at her. “A man of great perception, I thought.”
“Michael Shayne!” She stamped her foot angrily. “If I ever told you some of the things he said…”
“He knows a beautiful secretary when he sees one. Come on and admit you were secretly flattered.”
“By that… oaf?”
“All right,” said Shayne pleasantly. “Come out and have dinner with me, and I’ll flatter you.”
“And then deposit me safely at home and slip off to the Bright Spot without me.”
“Why, no,” said Shayne, studying her approvingly. “You’re a big girl now. You’re invited, angel, and don’t blame me if you don’t like what you see.”
6
The Pink Flamingo Motel was situated a little distance off The Tamiami Trail on the western outskirts of the sprawling city. It had been constructed in the late Forties when land prices were soaring and building supplies were again available after the long period of war shortages, and the city seemed to be inevitably spreading westward.
Somehow, though, the westward expansion had stopped short of the tract of land on which the motel was built, and there was an expanse of uninhabited, unattractive, palmetto-covered land between it and the garish lights of newer and more attractive motels and roadside spots that clustered along the Trail closer in that marked the real western gateway to the city.
Thus, inevitably, standing isolated and sadly alone, the Pink Flamingo was passed up by the majority of tourists arriving from the West Coast, and its meager clientele consisted of those who turned off at the sagging roadside sign in the hope of finding cheaper accommodations than would be available farther on, and a nightly smattering of local residents attracted by its isolation and absence of bright lights, seeking a discreet rendezvous with illicit love where no questions would be asked and the likelihood of embarrassing encounters with acquaintances would be reduced to a minimum. These latter, of course, invariably arrived to take possession of their cabins after darkness had fallen, so that during daylight hours the grounds were likely to be almost completely deserted.
The man who sat alone in cabin number 3 liked it this way. He had changed his address five times since arriving in Miami three weeks ago, gravitating each time downward to cheaper and less populated living quarters. It wasn’t that Steven Shephard lacked the funds to stay wherever he wished in the city that is notorious for its high-priced living accommodations. Any one of the luxury hotels along Miami Beach’s oceanfront would have gladly welcomed Shephard as a guest to remain as long as he wished.
He liked the Pink Flamingo Motel. It suited him perfectly. Now, as he sat despondently on the edge of a rumpled bed in one drab cabin and watched daylight disappear outside the dirty windowpane across the room, he wondered fuzzily if he would ever get up the courage and the energy to leave the welcoming arms of the Pink Flamingo. Because he did feel oddly welcome there. There was a depressing aura about the place that fitted his mood perfectly.
It took him warmly and comfortably into its embrace each night when he returned from one of his increasingly less frequent jaunts into the city’s night-life. With a bottle of whiskey to nibble on (Steven Shephard was not really a drinking man) and with a noisy refrigerator stocked with the simplest of food supplies, a man could comfortably doze away the hot, silent days without recourse to thinking, staying just drunk enough to stifle any active pangs of conscience, and to blank out the fears and the questions that arose when he let himself peer into the uncharted future.
Steven Shephard was a man of about forty. Slightly over medium height, perhaps a little less than medium weight, with light brown hair that receded from both temples. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache and neatly pressed gray slacks and fresh white shirt that he had put on at noon that day after showering, and a neat bow tie.
There were no lines of great character on his face. He looked like a man who had made few decisions in his life, who had drifted somewhat aimlessly but probably pleasantly along middle-class and orderly avenues of existence, not asking or demanding much from life, and therefore suffering few disappointments.
In the open closet beyond the end of the bed, a conservative sport jacket and a light tan summer suit hung neatly on hangers. Beneath them was a somewhat scuffed, brown suitcase and a pair of dark blue bedroom slippers. A pair of brown and white striped cotton pajamas and a black rayon bathrobe were hung on a hook from the closet door and completed all of his wardrobe that was visible.
On the top of a cheap bureau under the window and directly across from where he sat was an almost-empty bottle of expensive bourbon and a small framed photograph of a woman and two small children. The woman was about thirty, pleasant-faced but unsmiling. Her expression wasn’t exactly grim, but there was more than a hint of severity about the tightness of her mouth, the chiseled placidity of her unremarkable features.