“You don’t think the questions will be confined to Surfside?”
“We’re all in the same boat. Our security measures are much the same. We use many of the same people. We deal with the same unions, the same politicians, some of the same cops. If they ask me did I ever pay you, Mike Shayne, any money, I can say absolutely not. That one is easy. A couple of seasons back, I had a kennel situation I was going to bring you in on, but we straightened it out without calling in outside help. That’s just the sort of thing these inquiries are going to rake up. All I see ahead is trouble.”
“I think I may have thought of a way to get you off the hook.”
“Is that so,” Nash snapped. “What’s it going to cost me?”
“This would be barter. I need the loan of some equipment and a couple of technicians.”
“What kind of equipment?”
“I want to tie some of your closed-circuit cameras into the Surfside system. Would that be possible?”
“Complicated, but not impossible. I’ve got a full setup sitting here doing nothing. Now tell me why.”
“If I could answer that, I wouldn’t have to do it. I’m somebody else who’s going to be asked questions under oath, and not just by an investigating committee. By a grand jury. Don’t know and don’t remember-those are the two answers they don’t like to hear. Sometimes it’s the small man who didn’t cooperate who gets the longest term.”
“But we all know it’s the best legal system in the world. So cooperate, Mike. Why not? Geary’s dead. Nobody’ll blame you.”
“No, I’ve got to do it another way. If I can blow the whole thing open, there may be enough fallout so they’ll forget about me. There was a hell of a lot of money loose up there. Apparently Geary himself was taking six thousand a night.”
“Six thousand!”
“And that would be six thousand times what?”
“One hundred and eighty programs a year. That’s the million-dollar handle we’re always hoping to hit. You don’t mean out of the cash register? Here in Miami?”
“Where else?”
Nash waited a moment. “Mike, when I was trying to decide whether to take this call, I called my lawyer. He said absolutely not. But my old man was almost always right about people, so I’ll trust you to take this for what it is, which is guesswork. I’ve had a theory about the Surfside concessions. Assume that somebody’s involved in an illegal business, making good money. He can’t spend it freely because he hasn’t paid taxes on it.”
“Are we talking about Tony Castle?”
“Mike, Tony Castle would fit, but I’m not giving you facts. I’m giving you a supposition. Suppose that such a person or group of persons bought control of a concessions company and made a deal with Surfside and similar operations. Pick a figure. Say that if Geary put his concession business out to bid, he could get a contract for three million. Instead, he negotiates a contract with J. T. Thomas for four. That soaks up the track’s profit, but who cares? The extra million will be paid back somewhere offshore. Castle-if you want to use Castle as an example-could take it out of the skim from his Nassau casino. There’s no income tax in the Bahamas. Geary would set up a company and sign a service contract with the casino, so it would look legitimate. Do you follow me, Mike? Castle washes a million dollars of illegal money in Florida. Surfside doesn’t earn a profit, and so doesn’t owe the United States any income tax. Geary gets the million tax-free in the Bahamas. One of those lovely deals that benefit everybody.”
“Then why is Castle’s name in Geary’s book?”
“I didn’t know it was. It shouldn’t be.”
“Painter’s holding it back, to keep the story alive another day.”
“That’s in character. But I’m not trying to explain everything, Mike. If I understand your idea, you want to lay down enough smoke so people will forget to ask you about that three thousand a month. Castle is still a big name in Miami. If you bring in his head, you’re home free. The trouble is, he’s got sense enough to stay out of Miami.”
“Everybody makes mistakes. Yeah-I’d like his head. He put a team on me last night, and as far as I can tell, the contract is still open. But I don’t want to narrow this down to one man. I really want to take the lid all the way off. It’s like stopping an oil-well fire with dynamite. One bang, and it’s over. And of course I’d want everybody to know that I couldn’t have done it without full cooperation from Mr. Bobby Nash.”
“Who was delighted,” Nash said more happily, “to help expose the rascals who are threatening the integrity of the sport. Cameras? You’ve got them. But we’d better get together so you can tell me exactly what you need.”
Shayne arranged to meet him later, and continued to work through his calls. He took on a Spanish-speaking private detective named Gonzales and told him to go to work on the Surfside assistant kennelmaster, Ricardo Sanchez. Then he called Rourke again to see if he had heard from Frieda.
“She just hung up, Mike. I gave her your number, and she’s probably calling you now. I’ll get off the line.”
The phone rang the instant the line was open. “Michael,” Frieda said. “I’m in Castle’s casino. I’ve been playing roulette. So far I’m two hundred ahead, and I think it’s a good omen. The box was just delivered, and everybody’s behaving according to the script.”
“You’re being inconspicuous, I hope.”
“They welcome the public. Of course it’s a little dead right now, but I’m with some friends I made on the plane. We’re all drinking Bloody Marys.”
Her voice changed, becoming completely serious.
“Which isn’t the reason I’m calling, is it? I hired a boy to hand the box to the doorman and run like hell. Your name seems to be known down here. The doorman gave it to another flunky, and when he carried it in to Castle, he was holding it as though he knew there was something bloody inside, like an ear. I think Castle had already heard the news from Miami. He’s had people coming and going. A long pause after the box went in. Then three new men arrived from somewhere outside the casino, at a fast walk. I’d better get back now, because I can’t see the door of the office from here.”
“Sounds very good so far. Do you have a car?”
“Yes, but the parking is murder. If he leaves in a hurry I may not be able to get out in time to see where he goes.”
“To the airport, I hope. Do what you can, and go easy on the tomato juice. Don’t forget you’re outnumbered.”
“I’m aware of that, believe me.”
Shayne called Rourke back to report that the ear had been delivered, and to ask him to stay at his office phone so Frieda could call if she had more news. Then he called the Miami Beach police and was put through to his one friend on that force, a black detective named Barnes.
The identification had just come in on the man Shayne had shot in the Surfside men’s room. He was from California, and had earned a long list of demerits there, mainly for robberies with violence. The other two men involved in the skirmish, Shayne was told, hadn’t stayed around to give an explanation of themselves. One had been tentatively identified as a local problem named Angelo Paniatti.
“And that takes off some of the pressure,” Barnes told him, “but Painter still wants to hear it from you. When he couldn’t find you at the hospital he broke a perfectly good cigar into three pieces. I know he’d appreciate it if you stopped in.”
“That would just be a replay of yesterday,” Shayne said, “and we both have better things to do with our time.”
“Mike, about this sudden turnaround by Parker and Hamzy, this second car they think they remember. It turns out you and Tim Rourke were in asking for them last night. Is this just to get Painter thinking about something else, or is there anything to it?”
“I have a witness, of sorts. I don’t know whether to believe him or not. It might help to have a cop along when I talk to him again. Can you meet me in the St. Francis parking lot in about twenty minutes? He should be waking up just about now.”