Shayne sat. He started to light a cigarette, then thought better of the move. He stuffed the cigarette in his shirt pocket, touched the butt of the .45. He grunted, slouched lower behind the steering wheel.
The Miami night was warm, quiet. And the street and sidewalks ahead of him looked peaceful. Wandering people looked relaxed. But they were little more than shadows in the reflections of the neon and the street lamps. They could be simmering, waiting to pounce. It was that kind of neighborhood.
The detective thumbed back his hat and kept a sharp eye on the people. He didn’t like sitting where he was. For one thing, it was obvious that he was waiting or looking for someone. And that made people on this street nervous. But, more importantly, he could be an easy target, a pigeon with his head outlined against the street light.
He shifted in the seat and a voice at his open window said, “Just sit calm.”
Shayne froze, the fingers of his right hand curled reflexively as if gripping the butt of the .45. But he already knew one thing: he wasn’t going to be gunned down, not at the moment. The owner of the voice wanted something else.
“You’re Shayne?”
“I’m Shayne.”
The man remained outside the car and slightly behind the detective. “We talk straight, okay?”
“Straight, yeah.”
“I’m looking for a missing stiff, and I’m told you might have it.”
“Might, if I hear cash numbers.”
“Shayne, you go on breathing. That’s enough. No questions about how you got the stiff. No hard feelings about three boys who were knocked down.”
“Prepared speeches stink.” “Shayne?”
The detective heard the tick. He couldn’t see the gun but he knew a muzzle had been tapped against the side of the rent car.
“Consider,” said Shayne.
“Consider what?”
“Your boss. What does he want? A stiff shamus, or a stiff shipped in from South America?”
The shadow outside the car shuffled.
“There’s a pay phone inside the bar, Bird. I’ll take two thousand for the corpse, one for storage expenses, one for having to put up with you, and — well another big one just to make all of this come out in round numbers. Five grand. I think that’s round enough. You want to make the call? I’ll wait.”
“Shayne—”
The redhead started the motor of the rent car. Outside, the shadow danced, then snapped the gun muzzle down on the edge of the open window. “Okay! Hold it!”
Shayne turned off the ignition key.
“Bastard!” Bird hissed.
And then he moved swiftly around the front of the rented car and across the sidewalk, a tall, almost gawky figure who stuffed his gun out of sight just before entering the bar.
Shayne waited impatiently, the .45 pushed under his thigh now, the butt near his fingers. Two questions were answered: Bird was a hired man. And the corpse was valuable as hell to somebody.
Bird returned and got into the front seat of the car beside Shayne. “Okay, you get your five in cash. But we deliver the stiff. I go with you.”
Shayne grunted. “Did you leave your heater in the bar?”
Bird jumped, snapped his head around. He stared straight into the muzzle of the .45. Shayne grinned. “First class guns who get the drop frisk a man, Rookie. Who’s your boss?”
Bird was jerky but he didn’t frighten easily.
“Jump,” he snarled.
Shayne tapped Bird’s nose with the muzzle of the .45.
The kid had guts. He growled, “Hit me and what have you got?”
“All I want is a name, and you can fly, pal.”
Bird made an obscene gesture with his finger and clamped his jaws.
Shayne debated. He could open up the kid’s nose, spill blood. But where would he be? Bird was tough. He wasn’t about to talk.
“Okay,” the detective said, reaching inside Bird’s coat and snaking out the heater, “tell your man the ante just went up. It’s now ten. I’m in the phone book.”
He shoved the young hood out of the car and zoomed off. He knew he had stirred hornets. They’d be buzzing his way.
V
Mike Shayne drove to the apartment hotel where he lived. It was almost ten o’clock now. It had been a long afternoon and early evening, and he hadn’t eaten. He suddenly was hungry. He’d savor a couple of cognacs, shower, allow a steak taken from the refrigerator to thaw. He had some phone calls to make. He’d bring Lucy up to date and then fill in Rourke. The newspaperman probably was dancing like a puppet by now. Shayne grinned briefly on the thought. Rourke didn’t like dangling. The detective turned his thoughts to Will Gentry. He wondered if the police chief was back in the city.
Caught up in his thinking, he rolled down the ramp into the underground garage of the apartment building and into his stall. He locked the sedan, turned and stared at the large man who stood six feet away. The large man wore a dark suit, gold colored shoes and held a carbine.
And there was a strong smell of chloroform.
An arm snaked around Shayne from behind and a sponge was slapped against his nose and mouth. He had a brief look at a huge diamond ring and then he doubled forward with a snap, attempting to throw the weight that had slammed against his spine. He already knew the goon with the gun wasn’t going to trigger a shot. These boys wanted him alive.
The man on his back should have been a rodeo rider. He stuck. And the sponge remained glued against the detective’s face. He drove elbows back and found ribs, but all he got was a deep grunt. He went down, the guy riding him.
Shayne rolled onto his back, the attacker under him. The attacker locked strong thighs around Shayne’s middle, hooked his ankles. Shayne sat up, thrashing fiercely, flailing with his long arms. And, for just an instant, a face he recognized was before him, maybe twenty yards deep in the garage. Then the face disappeared behind a row of cars.
But Shayne knew how he had been marked. The face belonged to a two-bitter called Sneaky Pete. And Sneaky Pete would carve out a child’s eyes for a quarter.
Shayne concentrated on the hand holding the sponge. He clawed. His attacker yowled. But the guy continued to cling. And then Shayne felt himself pitching over on his nose again. He didn’t understand how the guy could have pitched him so easily, but he suddenly was finding relaxation in the chloroform fumes too. He breathed deep, dragging the fumes into his lungs.
After all, it’d been a long day.
He came awake slowly. Everything swirled. And there was a nauseating stench. He rolled, groaned.
The stench was choloroform. He finally recognized it. And slowly memory returned. Two goons, one with a carbine, another with a sponge. Strangers. And the face of Sneaky Pete. Not a stranger.
Shayne struggled up into a sitting position. But all he got was blurred images. He might be staring at a chair, he might not be. Maybe that other lump was a table, maybe not. And that long dark thing, what was that? A couch?
He shook his head savagely but he had to sit for what seemed an eternity waiting for the fog to lift. Gradually, he realized he was sitting on thick, pale green carpeting. And then he saw the gold-colored shoes. They were planted far apart and solid on the carpeting, the toes pointed toward him. He followed legs up to a seated man who sat in an expensive leather chair, a carbine across his lap. The man had a wide face, flat nose and dead eyes, but he looked freshly-shaved and manicured.
Shayne swung his eyes to the left, found another man. He was younger, dark hair long, neat in attire and body. He looked athletic, was tanned, and seemed relaxed as he sat with elbows braced against the arms of a leather chair, fingers interlaced and propping his chin. A large diamond ring and two dark eyes gleamed at Shayne.