“I’d like to get back to Max’s accident.”
“I’m telling you something, mister. You know the yell when the dogs break? You don’t hear that yell at the horse tracks. Only reason a horse is running, there’s a man on his back giving him a buzz with a battery. A dog runs because he’s a chaser. A killer. The crowd knows that. They’re yelling for their dog to catch the rabbit and bring him home for supper. A dog’s no good until he’s been schooled on live hares. Sometimes you’ll get a dog that can run but he won’t chase. So you put a rat in a tin can and hang it around his neck. A hole in the can so the rat can bite your dog in the neck, and he’ll bite and bite until the dog is near crazy. Then you let the rat go, and the dog will be on him in a flash, and from that minute on he’s over his namby-pamby ways.”
“You were asleep in the back seat of Max’s car. When did you wake up?”
“You wouldn’t expect me to sleep through, would you? Crash, bang. Then the big whoosh. And that’s all I saw because my big ambition in life, if you want to know, is to stay alive to enjoy the end of it.”
“Did you see the papers today? If Max was so honest, where did he get the money to pay off those people?”
“You don’t know dogs, and you don’t know business. What do you think? He had accountants. What looks like a profit to you or me, they’ll take that figure and move it from here to there, and presto Caruso, it’s a loss. All kinds of ways, like the different ways to slow down a dog. Gypsy ways, we call them, though the only gypsies in dog racing are in England and Ireland. We got an Irish dog in the Classic tomorrow night-no, the night after-and that’s why we call it the International. One hundred thousand in augmented purses. Don’t worry, we got it. It’s in escrow, is the expression they use. One of the things the gypsies would use was a touch of wintergreen. You could tell a wintergreened dog by the bald patches where it took off the hair. Or a piece of chewing gum under the tail. I wouldn’t do nothing like that to a dog.”
“Do you know the name Tony Castle?”
At that the hand stopped moving and fell to his side and gripped his thigh.
“The medicine’s wearing off. I need some more medicine. Nurse!”
“Did Castle loan Max the money for the renovations?”
“Ask the accountants. What have you got in that pocket, a bottle? Because now’s the time! Finish it up. They’ll take it away from you. I been in hospitals before.”
When they pulled up at St. Francis a moment later, Dee was holding his leg with both hands and moaning and complaining. Shayne got out by himself and walked into the emergency room.
“Is Dr. Almani still on nights?” he asked a nurse.
“I think so. I’ll have them give him a call.”
Shayne sat on a bench while the young resident unwrapped Dee’s leg and prepared him for X ray. Before they were ready for Shayne, Rashid Almani came in-a slender, olive-skinned Pakistani who was preparing for a career in forensic medicine after he returned to his native country. His teeth flashed when he saw Shayne on the bench. Shayne had spent ten days in this hospital the previous summer, after a car chase that had ended with three vehicles wrecked and Shayne the only participant still alive.
“Michael! You’ve been staying too healthy. I’ve missed our talks.”
“I’ve got something to talk about now. Can we use this side room?”
“Surely.”
Shayne closed the door after they went in. He sat on the examining table while Rashid looked at the wound.
“It went deep. Lie down, Michael. We have some work to do here.”
“I want to arrange something first. Didn’t you say you’re going home fairly soon?”
“In two weeks. I am looking forward to it, and I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Maybe you’ll be willing to do something for me. I had to shoot somebody, and that always leads to lots of questions. You know Painter.”
“That self-righteous man. I listened to the radio news.”
“I want to be in such bad shape that he can’t get in to talk to me. Besides a knife wound, a gunshot wound in the leg. A. 45-caliber slug, from a distance of two yards. It smashed the main legbone, and you had to do some major stuff to put it all back together. I’m under heavy sedation. Totally out of the picture for the next couple of days.”
“That would be breaking various hospital regulations. I assume you are asking me to do this because it’s important?”
“I think so.”
“And those who knifed you, or who caused you to be knifed. They will believe that you are now harmless.”
Shayne had forgotten how quick the Pakistani was. “That’s the main thing.”
Rashid considered. “I think I will do it, but you must allow me to go through certain motions. There is so much paperwork. If I admit you for a smashed leg, I must treat you for that. And that way there will be less lying. No one will X ray you to see if it truly happened. When you wish to leave, we can take off the cast. I have been wondering all evening how you would prove the falsity of that listing.”
“What listing?”
“Your name among the other payments by the dead man, Geary. A difficult problem.”
Shayne looked at him. “Rashid, are you serious? You don’t think Geary paid me that money?”
“I consider it highly unlikely. Are you a blackmailer? No, certainly not. Do you take bribes? I would doubt it very much. Are you a political go-between? Why should you accept such disagreeable low-paid work? A fixer of dog races?”
Shayne laughed. “Rashid, do you realize that you may be the only person in Dade County who gave me the benefit of the doubt?”
“The story was carefully designed to convince. The question then becomes, is it a forgery by the police?”
“I saw the book. I don’t know Geary’s handwriting, but it looked legit.”
“Then Geary himself, for some private reason, mixed your name in with the rest. He is dead. How do you find out what was in his mind? Indeed, a most difficult problem. So if I can help you with a small deception, I am happy to do so. You are losing blood, Michael. Is there anything else?”
“Yeah. Call WCGN. That’s the news station. Tell them Mike Shayne has been treated at St. Francis emergency for wounds incurred in the gunfight at Surfside. Give them some technical details about what kind of cast you put on. That ought to do it.”
Chapter 9
Frieda Field was in her late twenties, trim, blackhaired. She was the widow of a private detective, killed a few years before as a result of not having been quite careful enough. Frieda had decided to continue the agency, and with occasional help from Shayne, she had managed to do fairly well in a business where women usually type the letters and answer the phones. Shayne started using her because he had worked with her husband, and continued because she turned out to be very good. She also became one of his best friends.
He called her as soon as Rashid finished with him. The phone in her apartment didn’t answer. He was considering whom to get instead, when she walked in, in a long dress and silver earrings, with a pint of cognac, not one of the medicines dispensed in even the best-run hospitals. She kissed him.
“I heard it on my car radio. Mike, when there are three of them, and they all have guns and all you have are your fists, what’s wrong with waiting for reinforcements? You don’t have to prove anything. I’ll still like you.”
“I didn’t know there were three. I only knew about two, and I thought I had one of them taken care of. I’ve been trying to call you. I’ve got a job for you. Martell’s, I see. Get some glasses.”
She went to the bathroom and came back with two tumblers. “How bad is it, Mike? That radio announcer makes a big point of sounding semihysterical, but I didn’t think you’d be up to cognac tonight. This was for tomorrow. They aren’t letting anybody in to see you, supposedly. That was to discourage Painter?”