“So you ain’t figurin’ right,” said Bart.
“She had family?”
Bart looked dumbfounded for a moment, then grunted. “Naw, no kin I know ’bout. You figured wrong ’bout me goin’ to any damn funeral. Can’t stand them.”
“I’ve been told Abby had a son.”
“Yeah, guess so. But he was killed.”
“You didn’t know him?” Shayne leaned forward.
“I never saw the dude in my life. Only heard ’bout him. Man, how I heard ’bout him!”
“From Abby.”
“Tell you true, Shayne,” said Bart, “I never was sure in my mind she really had a son. He could’ve been just ’nother one of her stories.”
“Yeah, I guess she liked to tell tales.”
“Oh, Chris’! The woman was goofy, I tell you true! She had more wild stories ’bout herself than... well, she was wiggly in the head, tha’s all! Man got so he just let her rattle, never paid no mind, just let the words go in one ear, out the other.”
“Nobody paid any attention to Abigails talk, huh?” Shayne asked.
“Nobody on this street, tha’s sure!”
“She ever tell you the one about the Peking Man?”
“Huh? Naw... naw, don’t think I heard that one,” Bart said.
“Or how she might have a little green dropped on her in the next few days?”
“Yeah... oh, yeah! Now that one I’ve heard! It’s all she was babblin’ ’bout recently, how she was gonna be in riches fast, move out of the neighborhood. Yeah, she’d seen this ad in the newspaper and... Chris’, I dunno! I turned her off! Although...” Bart hesitated, then almost managed a sly grin. “...tell you true, Shayne, when you and your newspaper buddy showed here yesterday afternoon, I thought for a second or two the old gal was on somethin’.”
“Just for a second or two, huh?”
“She was nuts!” Bart said.
“Know Charlie Knowles?” Shayne asked suddenly.
“Sure,” Bart nodded. “Who don’t?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, him and Abby been sleepin’ together. Guess Charlie puts cotton in his ears. Say, maybe Charlie killed her!”
“Why would he?” Shayne asked.
“No reason I know of, tha’s sure, but—”
“Charlie and Abby, a couple of December playmates, right?”
Bart simply shrugged.
“Could it be they just happened to have apartments in the same building, were friends?” Shayne asked sarcastically.
“Room,” said Bart, missing the sarcasm. “No apartments in that joint. And ain’t you heard, man? Abby Galloway invented sex! Made the first dirty flick ever turned out! Was the first girl to pose all nude for a mag! Had this massage joint years ago, long before massage joints ever were heard of. She—”
“Is Charlie Knowles a regular here?” Shayne interrupted.
Bart sobered. “He’s a dry gulch. No booze.”
“What’s his building number?”
“Down the street to the right, 4520, second deck. But you’re nuts goin’ down there this mornun. There’s fuzz all over the place, like moss.”
“Somehow they don’t frighten me, Bart,” Shayne said, turning to the front door. Rourke and Foster fell in beside him. Foster was somber. A twinge of a grin played at the corners of Tim Rourke’s mouth.
Then Shayne saw the kid entering the Red Fish. He had been in a booth with two other men the previous afternoon. Now the youth slid into the bar, almost as if he were dodging someone, and then he stopped short. He stared at Shayne and his eyes and mouth rounded in surprise.
Shayne was immediately alert. The boy stood rooted and stared. It was as if he was anchored. But Shayne sensed that he was near panic.
Shayne leaped forward. The boy yelped and turned to dive out the door. Shayne clamped both huge hands on the back of the boy’s jacket and spun him into the interior of the Red Fish.
The boy reeled off balance. Shayne had to dodge around a table, but Rourke had a straight shot at the kid and was moving in. Then the boy went into a crouch and came around fast. He was snarling and Shayne saw the light reflected from metal now clasped in the youth’s hand.
The redhead bellowed an alarm. He was too late. Rourke already had made his move. The youth brought the knife blade down in a vicious cutting swipe. Rourke screamed and peeled off, diving across the top of a table and clamping his head with both hands as chairs scattered.
VII
Mike Shayne went into a crouch, feet widespread, arms up, bent to 45-degree angles at the elbows, palms flat, fingers spread. The kid was loose, knees flexible, springy, the knife held close to his thigh, his other hand held up, palm out.
His lips were drawn back from very white teeth and dark eyes held a wild gleam. He looked cornered, but not trapped. He never would be trapped as long as he was on his feet and he had that knife in his hand.
Shayne figured he could bring the holstered .45 out from his ribs, open the kid’s skull without taking another step. On the other hand, the boy was swift. He could move in fast. Or he might even throw.
Shayne watched the boy’s eyes for a telltale hint of his next move. The boy remained balanced on the balls of his feet, crouched, springy. He could go right or left, forward or back, easily. He was experienced. He was waiting for Shayne to make the move: charge or back off.
The boy obviously felt in command now. He was in his kind of fight. He probably had been reared with a knife blade in his hand, and he felt as if he excelled. And it probably was good reasoning. In his mind. He was still alive after twenty-some years, wasn’t he?
Shayne inched to his left. The boy went right. Shayne stepped back. The boy stepped forward, kept the same distance between them. Shayne went to his right. The boy went left. Shayne indicated a step forward. The boy didn’t move, crouched slightly lower, sucked a breath, held it. Shayne didn’t take the step.
And then from somewhere Randolph Foster yelled: “My God, what—”
The boy flinched. His knife hand went out slightly and his eyes left Shayne for an instant. Shayne faked left and stepped to the right. He brought his hands down to go in low. But the boy leaped in place and brought the knife high, flashing it in a face-high semi-circle. Shayne yanked his nose back from the gleaming tip.
The boy brought the knife back in a reverse slash and then went deeper into his crouch and pointed the tip up toward the detective’s abdomen. Shayne backed off, was tempted again by the weight of the .45 on his ribs. He now knew the boy would not throw.
But he wanted the boy alive.
The redhead stood straight suddenly, shoved his hand inside his coat. It brought the boy up. His eyes rounded and spittle formed on his lower lip. It was as if he suddenly realized the redhead might be carrying a gun. He leaped forward, shot the knife in low. Alley training ground technique had been briefly blunted by surprise.
Shayne, grinned savagely, stepped to the right, away from the slash, brought his hands down and clamped the knife wrist. He went down on his knees in a twisting move as he lifted the boy’s arm high. His back was into the youth now, and he brought the boy’s wrist down sharply. The kid yelled and flipped off to the side, the knife dropping from his fingers.
Shayne went after him, captured the back of his jacket in one hand and... the seat of his pants in the other. He pitched the boy straight forward into a booth seat. The boy went headlong, out of control until the top of his skull smashed against the walk Shayne leaped into the air and came down with an extended knee smashing against the boy’s spine. The boy howled and writhed. Shayne caught his hair and yanked his head, keeping his knee jammed down tight.
Then he took out the .45 and jammed the muzzle against the boy’s ear. “Talk!” he snarled.