“One more question,” said Shayne, “Does Ralph have a family in town?”
“His parents are dead,” said the girl. “He has a brother, Renfro, a fink. But he isn’t around here, never has been to my knowledge. Last I knew he was in Las Vegas. But he could be dead by now too. He’s that kind. Somebody has or will kill him. Everybody tires of roaches sooner or later.”
“Debbie, thanks,” said Shayne.
“For what?” said the girl, sounding as if she really wanted to know.
But Shayne was tracking. Melody Deans had lived and worked in Vegas. The previous night, at the Cassandra, she had been trailed or was accompanied by a kid named Ralph Bastone who had a brother who hung his trousers in Vegas.
Was it a tie?
In Shayne’s convertible, Rourke said sagely, “I think Max Wallace is about to get a workout.”
Lucy Hamilton was out to lunch when they returned to the office and Max Wallace was asleep in Las Vegas.
“What the hell,” he grumbled in Shayne’s ear, “we gotta rest sometime out here.” He came awake fast as the Miami detective outlined what he wanted.
“Melody Deans, Renfro Bastone, Flora Ann Perkins,” Wallace repeated. “Those names aren’t in lights, that much I can tell you already, friend. Okay, I’ll see what I can smell out.”
Shayne left numbers for a return call and then looked up a San Diego number in Lucy’s special book of phone listings. Stan Smith operated a large investigative agency in San Diego and was a longtime contact. He greeted Shayne cheerily and then listened without interrupting as the detective outlined what he needed.
“It could be tough, Stan,” Shayne said. “Bastone might’ve just been an overnight guest at this Lamplighter, and I can’t give you an exact date when he was there. On the other hand, he could’ve been sleeping, there semi-permanently. He asked for money to be sent there.”
“I never heard of the place, Mike,” Stan Smith said, “so it isn’t one of the biggies out here. But if it still exists, and if they keep books, I’ll have something for you by five, your time, this afternoon. You want me to call you or—”
“I’ll be in touch, Stan. I’ve got some moving around to do.”
“Now where?” Rourke asked as Shayne put the phone together.
“A cheese on rye and then Gentry,” said the redhead. “I’m hungry.”
Will Gentry was stuffed with information. Albert Deans had checked out. He was what he said he was: a semi-retired Iowa farmer, living in Miami. The only mystery about him was his bank accounts. He seemed to have several.
“And speaking of bundles, Mike...”
Gentry sat back, let it hang as he chomped on the stub of his evil-smelling black cigar. His stare was flat, his heavy features sour.
“There are very interesting little stirrings around town,” he said finally. “The informers are whispering among themselves. Word had drifted in that certain people in Las Vegas are hot. It seems your Melody Deans may have been carrying a bundle, $500,000, and she got hit.”
VI
“Skim money?” Mike Shayne snapped.
Gentry shrugged, tilted the cigar stub.
“If Melody Deans was bringing in skim money, it could only have been going to one guy, Antonio Cicerone.”
Antonio Cicerone built recreation areas from Florida to Texas. Antonio Cicerone gave handsomely to the United Fund, the Heart Fund, and any other fund man might concoct. Antonio Cicerone was chairman of the board and president of Recreation Investment Corporation. Antonio Cicerone belonged to two country clubs, three tennis clubs, a boat club, and was square in the middle of the fight to preserve the Everglades.
Antonio Cicerone also was the biggest live mobster in all the southeast United States, headquarters: Miami.
“Painter’s already tried to see him,” Gentry said.
“And Antonio is out of town.”
“Isn’t he always?”
“But is he?”
Gentry shifted in his chair, wiggled the cigar stub. “No.”
“On the other hand, Will, Antonio didn’t hit her.”
“That right? You never heard of the doublecross, huh?”
Shayne shook his head. “If she was pulling a run on him, why would she show here? She’d have cut straight for Madrid.”
“Okay, so she was bringing the stuff in, somebody on the outside knew, and that somebody got to her.”
Shayne continued to wag his head. “No good, either. Antonio would’ve had an army meeting her plane. Once the stuff was here, he’d take over. Thirty seconds inside International terminal, and she’d be clean. Will, if Melody Deans was carrying skim money, it’s original destination wasn’t here.”
“All I’m telling you is what I hear,” Gentry said. He paused, then added, “Goddamnit, Mike, informers don’t manufacture these things! There’s half million involved!”
Shayne stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“To see my old friend, Antonio Cicerone. Where else?”
Gentry became busy with a stack of folders on his desk. But Shayne knew that while he was heading out of the police station, Gentry already was alerting his stakeouts at Recreation Investment Corporation.
Outside, Tim Rourke said, “Okay if I tag along, Mike?”
Shayne hesitated. “I might have more luck alone, Tim.”
“Yeah. Okay, I’ll buzz over and see our friend, Painter. Talk to you later.”
The RIC Building stood tall and shiny in mid-afternoon sunshine, ten stories higher than any of the other gleaming high rises in the lush district of Miami. Steel and glass, with a penthouse on top, it had been constructed so that Antonio Cicerone could look down on people and things. Antonio liked stature.
Shayne was familiar with the building. He’d been all the way to the top on a day when Antonio Cicerone had been squirming under the threat from kidnapers of having his grandson’s heart delivered to him by U.S. Mail.
The gutty kidnapers had been hitting the mob, snatching a hood here and there, demanding and getting ransom cash. Then they’d snatched Cicerone’s grandson and the Big Man had turned to the private eye for help. Shayne had delivered the boy intact and the kidnapers on a platter.
It was why he felt he had an in as he turned into the RIC Building. No Cicerone heavy was going to tread on The Deliverer. They’d walk lightly.
He crossed the posh lobby on quick strides. Out of the corner of one eye he saw a neat young man in a three hundred dollar suit gently ease away from a tiny cigar counter blonde. Out of the corner of the other eye he saw a short young man, also immaculate in a three hundred dollar suit, leave a deep chair.
They met at the self-service elevator. The door slid open silently, allowed two chattering secretaries freedom. Shayne stepped into the elevator.
The two young men stepped in behind him. They faced the front in unison and Shayne punched the button for the penthouse floor. The elevator door slid shut. Neither of the young men reached for a button. Neither said anything as they stood slightly behind and flanked the redhead. The elevator whisked them skyward.
Shayne was acutely aware. He knew, for instance, that in the lobby two new young men had immediately replaced the ones who were riding with him. He knew that all around the building, at every entrance, other young men lolled and were being flashed the message: potential trouble going up in the elevator. But he also knew that none of the young men were armed. Hoods were gentlemen these days. Besides, Antonio Cicerone did not allow guns in his personal vicinity.
When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, he stepped into the plushness of a large foyer and also stopped. The move surprised the goons. The one on his right brushed him in stride and slid off. The other one managed to dance around him. They were where he could see each now and he took the .45 from his shoulder holster and dangled it from an index finger shoved through the trigger guard.