“I’m here to see Antonio,” he said.
Neither young man moved. They ignored the gun. The one on his right said, “Mr. Cicerone is not in town, Mr. Shayne. He will not be for severed days, perhaps weeks.”
“Bull. Cicerone’s here and I’m going to see him.” He put the .45 away.
Neither young man flinched. The one on his left smiled.
“Mr. Shayne,” he said politely, “perhaps you hear better on this side. Mr. Cicerone is not in town. The only reason you have been allowed this far is we like privacy, quiet. And please try to understand that you are at a distinct disadvantage, even with your weapon. You might shoot one of us but the other will crush you. Actually, what he will do is twist and turn and bend you in so many opposite directions you’ll split at the seams and spill blood and guts all over this nice carpeting. We are experts at karate. Shall we go down?”
“Out of my way, pal.” The detective took a long step forward. A closed door in the opposite wall was his goal but he didn’t get to take the second step. He suddenly was pinned.
“Tell Cicerone,” he seethed, “I want to rap about a half million dollars.”
“He has people who want to rap about a half mill every day, Mr. Shayne,” said one of the young men, not even breathing hard.
Then Shayne was released abruptly.
“Look,” said the guy on his right. The front suddenly was gone. He was plain hood now. “Cicerone ain’t gonna see you nor nobody else. So just run along and get the hell out of our hair, huh? We ain’t looking for trouble, but you’re spoiling. Man, you’re crazy, coming in here heavy. You know how the man is about cannons. So how come you do this kind of thing? Don’t take time to answer. Just get the hell out. Okay?”
The detective took another step. He was pinned again, and this time a fist slammed into his stomach, bending him slightly and forcing him to draw a breath. He attempted to flail with his arms. Neither moved. Then the .45 was snaked from its rig and the heel of a shoe cracked down on his toes. He snarled oaths and heaved.
“Gentlemen?”
The voice came out of nowhere. It stopped the action. Shayne looked around, didn’t find Cicerone. He still was alone with the two goons in the foyer. The door in the opposite wall remained closed tight. One of the goons was hefting the .45 as if testing it for weight.
“Mr. Shayne,” said Cicerone, “I’m not interested in a half million dollars.”
His voice seemed to come out of the ceiling of the foyer. The detective looked for a speaker, saw paneling only.
“The hell you’re not, Antonio,” the readhead said.
“Mr. Shayne—”
“Was the dame on the run, Antonio?”
“I’m sorry,” said Cicerone, “I don’t have the vaguest notion about what you’re talking. Please leave, quietly. I’m quite busy. Good afternoon.”
“Cicerone, she was cutting with a half mill of Vegas money and somebody hit her! Not you! I can figure that much. You’re not going to hit anyone on your own doorstep, but—”
“Good afternoon, Shayne.”
“That’s it, friend,” said the goon on the detective’s right.
“Out,” said the goon on his left.
They turned him, shoved him into the elevator. He came off the back wall with a snarl, whirled, crouched, steeled for either or both of them. His .45 was sailing toward Him. He caught it reflexively. And then the elevator doors swished shut, and he was going down — alone.
The big detective hadn’t touched a button.
Shayne crossed the lobby on angry strides. No one seemed to pay any particular attention to him, but he knew he was being watched closely. Outside in the sunshine, he stood for a few seconds on the sidewalk, ignoring the pedestrians he forced to curve around him.
He sucked several deep breaths. And then suddenly he snorted, shook his head and moved off toward the parked convertible. A seedy-looking guy abruptly matched strides with him.
“Gentry wants a report,” he said as they walked along.
“Gentry had his damn report before I left his office,” the redhead snapped.
“Figures,” said the seedy-looking character. He dropped away.
At his Flagler Street office, Lucy Hamilton said, “Michael, you’re to call Leo Peterson in Detroit.”
Shayne sailed his Panama toward an old-fashioned coat rack in the corner. The Panama settled on a hook as he went on into his inner office.
From Detroit, Leo Peterson told him, “Your mart hit town, Mike. Had a car waiting for him, went straight to his insurance building and inside.” Leo Peterson paused, then added. “He also went straight up to the roof and took off in a copter.”
Shayne slammed a fist against the edge of his desk.
“And,” said Peterson significantly, “he had a tail coming off the jet. But the guy got left shuffling his feet, just like my man.”
Shayne wondered how Peter Painter felt at the moment. There was no doubt in the redhead’s mind now that Painter had allowed Salvadore Aires to cut, put a tail on him, figuring Salvadore might lead him to some answers. But what answers? And to what questions?
And why was Salvadore Aires running?
“Okay, Pete.”
“I can keep an eye on his house, Mike.”
“Yeah, do that for a day or so, but I figure he’s traveling. Probably over to Canada.”
“Un-huh.”
Shayne put the phone together, sat contemplating Salvadore Aires’ behavior. He wished Salvadore had not run. He wished his friend had come to him. Had Salvadore, on previous trips to Miami, become acquainted with Ralph Bastone the Beach Boy? Had he hired Bastone for a kill, set up Melody Deans?
Shayne shook his head. It didn’t sound like a Salvadore Aires operation. Sal wouldn’t go with an amateur when there were plenty of pro killers around.
Shayne pondered Ralph Bastone. Where did he fit? Should he tip Painter about the kid? No. Let Painter find out about Ralph on his own. Hotel employees were alert people. One of them, sooner or later, would remember the kid who checked in immediately behind Melody Deans, in the meantime, Shayne decided, he needed time to pin down Salvadore. He hoped Aires never had heard of Ralph Bastone.
The detective glanced at his watch. Ten minutes before four. Too early to call Stan Smith in San Diego. He’d said he’d call at five, Miami time. Still, maybe Stan had been lucky, had gotten a fast line on Ralph Bastone.
“Ralphie is a louse, Mike,” Stan Smith said from San Diego. “A beautiful boy, but a louse.”
“Who says?”
“Dame named Connie Norton. She owns the Lamplighter, operates it, lives there in a little pad behind the office. The Lamplighter is small, neat, inexpensive, off the beaten path. Connie is plump, shall we say, but also neat, inexpensive and divorced. She got the motel in the settlement about six years ago. She’s forty-five or so, not attractive, not unattractive — but attracted. At the moment, to Ralph Bastone. Still, he’s a lousy louse. That’s a direct quote.”
“Is Bastone out there?” Shayne asked in a sharp voice.
“Nope, but Connie is yearning. If he comes back, he’ll get in the front door, even if he is a louse.”
“How long’s he been gone?”
“Left last Sunday. With three hundred bucks of Connie’s reserve cash. She kept it in her pad for emergencies. It’s gone now, along with Ralphie.”
“She knows why he cut?”
“Not for sure, but she’s got a hunch he’s in Las Vegas, living it up on her green. He got a call from Vegas last Saturday night. He was out at the time, had gone to the store to get a bottle — using some more of her money, naturally — and he got the call. She took a number from the operator, that’s how she knows the call was from Vegas.”