The phone book listed only one McCord, Edward on the east side of the Intercoastal Waterway. As Shayne turned into Ponce de Leon Trail, he grinned at what the super-rich passed off as the fountain of youth. Lavish, columned houses amidst immaculate landscaping had sprung up overnight. Everything ready for a nouveau riche jetting in from East Orange or Bluefield — all he needed was a toothbrush and, of course, two million dollars.
McCord’s home, the largest, perched on the end of the cul-de-sac. Set behind an army of recently planted royal palms, the pink stucco palace made a definite statement about the ex-lawyer’s bank account and his taste.
Shayne reached out and rang the bell in front of a huge wrought-iron gate. An Hispanic voice came through the speaker. “Name?”
“Michael Shayne.”
“Business?”
“Personal.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Look, pal, I’m a P.I. out of Miami, and I need to see McCord urgently.”
“Mr. McCord is not in at the present. You will have to return later.”
His Irish temper starting to simmer, Shayne was surprised by a horn from behind him. Looking in the mirror, he spotted a virgin-white Mercedes and a blonde with a look in her blue eyes that made a liar out of the car’s color.
“Move the antique, fellow,” she ordered in a husky voice. “I’m in a hurry.”
Shayne got out of the Buick and walked back to her convertible. He noticed she was in her early twenties. “Maybe you can help me, miss.”
Without looking up, the well-tanned blonde in a low-cut tennis dress that would have caused even Borg to default, said simply, “Not interested.”
“I have a friend,” Shayne persisted, “who could be in trouble, and...”
She reached into her purse. “If I write you a check for that piece of junk, will you move it?”
Shayne grabbed the car door with both of his huge hands. For the first time the woman looked into the detective’s ruggedly handsome features. “On second thought,” she purred, flashing a smile that must have instantly turned small boys into men, “perhaps we could negotiate a deal. Mr...?”
“Shayne. Mike Shayne.”
A familiar Hispanic voice from the gate area interrupted them. “This creep bothering you, Miss McCord?”
The big detective turned to see two burly men who with their muscles bulging against their t-shirts looked like they lifted weights between skull-cracking sessions.
“Are you bothering me, Mr. Shayne?” she asked in a sultry tone.
He grinned. “That’s up to you.”
“He’s bothering me, Fernando.”
The larger of the two reached out for the redhead’s shoulder. “Man, you’d better move. See, it’s about time for me and Carlos here to put out the trash.” He smiled. “Come to think of it, me and my kid brother ain’t had no morning workout yet.”
Shayne started their session ahead of schedule. Spinning quickly, he locked both hands and caught the huge Cuban in the solar plexus. As Fernando doubled over in pain, Shayne simultaneously brought his right knee up into his opponent’s chin and his knotted hands down on the man’s back. Fernando screamed like a whipped dog and began cursing in Spanish.
“Pig,” yelled Carlos, rushing Shayne from behind. His charge caught the detective by surprise as did his speed for a big man. Shayne was only half-turned as the raging bull caught him and drove him across the Mercedes’ waxed hood. Before he could recover, Carlos’ sledgehammer right knocked him to the hot tar. Then the redhead felt a steel-toed shoe dig into his ribs.
Shayne rolled with the kick, but the Cuban kept coming.
“Nice move,” the blonde called. Shayne caught a quick glance of her entranced face. “Kick him again.”
When Carlos’ foot came, Shayne was ready. He grabbed it and twisted till he heard something pop.
“My knee,” whelped his adversary.
As Carlos toppled to the pavement, Shayne got to his knees. He drew back his fist, but a slightly recovered Fernando leaped on his back, wrapping his steely arms around the redhead’s throat. Shayne stood up, gasping for breath as the Cuban tightened his death grip like a boa constrictor.
“Crush him,” the girl squealed. Turned on, she was out for blood.
Shayne started to spin, then stumbled backwards toward the Buick. With all his strength, he drove the husky Cuban into the Buick’s nose.
Fernando’s grip loosened and he screamed like his brother. With everything Shayne had left, he drove his right fist into Fernando’s face. He heard the Cuban’s nose crack, and the fight was over.
Hoisting the limp body over his shoulder, he pitched it into the Mercedes’ empty seat. The other bodyguard staggered toward the car, and Shayne just shoved him across the luggage area.
“You’d better take your watchdogs to the vet,” he said to the blonde.
“To the victor belongs the spoiled,” she said, her breasts heaving with excitement.
The redhead looked her in the eye. “I’ll settle for a little information. I was told your father’s out of town, Miss McCord. Where can I get hold of him?”
“Daddy and a few of his friends have taken a week off from the grueling rigors of polo to go over to the West Coast for some business.”
“Where exactly?”
“Manasota — no, Mangrove Key, an island off some little town — Portocall I think Daddy called it. A little south of Sarasota. That’s all I know.”
“Thanks for showing me how the other half lives,” Shayne said as he started for the Buick.
“Couldn’t I tempt you with a few pina coladas, a little swim, and... whatever?”
“If I’m ever into tennis or masochism, I’ll look you up.”
As Shayne got into his car, the blonde sulked, “What am I going to do if that guy comes back snooping around? Daddy got rid of the dogs and gave the help the rest of the week off. He cut off my allowance, so I can’t even go anywhere.”
Shayne’s ears perked up. “What did the snooper look like?”
“Skinny guy in a suit that doubles as a sleeping bag. Drove a car that was more beat up than that thing you’re in.”
Shayne headed the Buick west. He tugged at his earlobe. The cold trail was getting warmer.
IV
Even though the temperature and the humidity were in the eighties, Shayne normally would have enjoyed the drive cross state. But before he had reached West Palm and wound past Lake Okeechobee, he realized the longer it took him to find Tim, the greater the chances something bad had happened to his friend. So his accelerator was close to the floor as he passed Fort Myers and turned up 41.
Portocall was a tiny fishing village just below Venice, the kind of place that was usually gobbled up by tourists and retirees tired of the fast lane. Shayne pulled into the town and onto its only paved road. At the end of the street he spotted the sole sign of life. RUDY’S seemed to be everything the town needed — gas station, restaurant, general store.
As Shayne dragged himself out of the car, a black kid who had been sweeping the rotting stoop said, “Watch your car, mister?”
The detective looked around, then laughed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this isn’t exactly downtown Miami.”
The kid smiled and gestured at the Buick’s Dade County plates. “Just tryin’ to make a big city dude like you feel at home.”
“Where can I find the law around here?” Shayne had decided on the ride over to get all the help he could.
“You mean. Mr. Rudy. Sometimes he be the cook, sometimes the mayor, sometimes the hardware clerk. C’mon! I’ll introduce you to Chief of Police Rudy.”