Shayne said wryly, “There are betting systems that lose money a little more slowly.”
The croupier raked in her chips and she pushed her chair back and said to him, “Thank you for a pleasant evening, George.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Peralta. And good night.”
She turned to Shayne and asked challengingly, “Who wants to lose money slowly?”
Shayne shrugged. He took her arm and said, “I’ll buy you that drink.”
“Several drinks,” she amended, moving her rounded hip against his thigh as they went toward the archway.
“As many as you want.”
The door of the manager’s office was open, and Alexander Griffin stood on the threshold watching them go by together.
NINE
Outside the archway, Shayne hesitated, glancing down at his companion. The entrance to the cocktail lounge was directly in front of them. Laura Peralta squeezed his arm and turned him toward the outer doorway.
She said throatily, “Take me some place, Mike. Some place that’s rancid and depraved. You do know about the seamy side of life, don’t you?”
He grinned down at her, fumbling in his pocket for half a dollar and his hat check which he exchanged with the girl at the counter for his Panama. He told her gravely, “I’ll try to think of a joint that fits those descriptive adjectives.”
“Take your car,” she told him. “I think I’m going to get drunk tonight.”
“What about yours?”
“They’ll drive it home for me and leave it. Jimmy,” she called out to a parking lot attendant, “see that my car gets home.”
“Sure, Mrs. Peralta,” the attendant replied cheerfully, and Shayne led the way around a row of parked cars to Timothy Rourke’s nondescript heap. He said, “It sounds like a regular thing.”
She said, “If you mean do I usually go off with some man and leave my car here, the answer is ‘no,’ Mike. On the other hand,” she went on composedly as he opened the door for her, “I am a very favored customer and they take very good care to see that no harm comes to me. Which includes driving me home and depositing me there whenever I get too tight to drive myself.”
Shayne went around and slid in under the wheel. “I can understand why you’re a very favored customer,” he told her grimly.
She put her hand tightly on his biceps as he stretched out his arm to turn on the ignition. “Why don’t you kiss me, Mike? Why don’t you pretend that I’m your best girl? And then let’s just see what happens.”
He said, “All right,” and turned slowly to slide his right arm around her shoulder. She pushed up against him and lifted her face with closed eyes and open lips, and her fingers circled the back of his neck urgently.
She worked her open lips and her tongue against his mouth, and Shayne’s arm tightened roughly about her shoulders. She was a hunk of passionate, quivering woman flesh, and both of them were breathing hard and unevenly when they slowly drew apart. The tips of her fingers trailed around the side of his neck and along his jaw, and moonlight glinted in her wide-open eyes as they stared into his for a full thirty seconds. Then she laughed lightly and turned and moved away from his encircling arm and composedly took a cigarette from her handbag. “That’s the first time I’ve been kissed in the front seat of a little, old, battered-up car for a good many years, Mike Shayne.”
“Like it better than a Cad?”
“Much better. Though I don’t get kissed in Cads very often these days either.” She flicked on a lighter and held it while Shayne put a cigarette in his mouth, lit his and then her own. She closed the lighter and dropped it back into her bag, inhaled deeply and then blew out a thin stream of smoke.
Shayne made no move to turn on the ignition again. He folded his arms across the steering wheel and asked, “What’s this all about, Laura?”
“All what?”
“Everything.” His voice was angry. Then he gentled it. “Do you enjoy gambling?”
“Not particularly. It’s a way to kill a few hours when one is married to Julio.”
“An expensive way… following your system at roulette.”
“Julio can afford it.”
“All right.” Shayne doubled his fist and rapped his knuckles against the wheel. “We’ll pass that one for a moment. How about your act just now?”
“My act, Mike?” She sounded genuinely confused and hurt. “Don’t you think I enjoyed kissing you?”
“I think you enjoyed it all right.” Shayne hesitated a moment, reaching up to tug at his left earlobe. Then he asked flatly, “What do you want from me, Laura?”
“I told you inside. I want to bust loose tonight. I want to forget I’m Mrs. Julio Peralta. I want to go some crazy place…”
“That’s rancid and depraved,” Shayne finished for her when she hesitated. “Any specific suggestions?”
“Yes.” She rolled her window down a little and spun her cigarette out. “It was like the answer to a prayer when you showed up at the house tonight. The redoubtable Mike Shayne. The big, tough redhead who really knows his way around the back alleys of this town. So I made a quick play for you, Mike.”
“That was obvious,” he growled. “Why?”
“Do you happen to know a place called Las Putas Buenas?” she parried.
Shayne said, “Yes,” then added after a pause, “Now I know where you got those adjectives.”
“Is it rancid and depraved, Mike?” She sounded delighted.
“Do you know any Spanish?”
“No.”
“Skip it. What about Las Putas Buenas?”
“I want you to take me there. I had hoped,” she added in a small voice, “that after kissing me you wouldn’t insist on asking so many questions. Maybe if we tried it again…?” she added hopefully.
Shayne turned his head to look at her. He said, “If we try it again, Laura, we’ll more likely end up at my place.” He hesitated. “What’s all this got to do with an emerald bracelet?”
“I don’t know, Mike. Honest to God, I don’t know. But I’m frightened.”
“Because you’re afraid the bracelet will be recovered?”
“That’s a strange thing to say.”
Shayne growled, “Lots of strange things are happening tonight. So… you’re frightened. Why?”
“I received an anonymous note this morning.”
“My God, someone is certainly on a writing spree. What did yours say?”
“Mine? Were there others?”
Shayne said, “Skip it for now. Was it typewritten or printed with pen and ink?”
“Neither one. It was scrawled in a heavy black pencil… almost illiterate. It said: Go to the bar called Las Putas Buenas in Miami alone tonight between ten and twelve. Sit at a table and order cerveza. You will regret it, if you don’t! Mike! What does it mean?” Laura’s voice became tremulous and she put out her hand to grasp his arm tightly.
He said, “Why don’t you tell me?”
“But I don’t know. I don’t know what it means.”
“Let me see the note.”
“I don’t have it,” she confessed. “I tore it up. I wasn’t going to pay any attention to a thing like that. But I kept thinking and thinking. Who wrote it? Why? What would happen if I don’t go?”
“So you decided to ring me in as an escort?” Shayne’s voice was harsh.
“It came to me this evening when you were at the house,” she confessed. “I’d feel safe with you.”
“It said to come alone,” Shayne reminded her.
“I know. I thought you could drop me off and I’d go in alone. Then, when you came in and pretended not to know me, no one would know why you were there. I wouldn’t be afraid, knowing you were there, Mike.”
“How much of this were you going to tell me if I hadn’t dragged it out of you?” demanded Shayne.
“I don’t know. I was sort of feeling my way.”
“Why did you use the adjectives ‘rancid’ and ‘depraved’ when you first described the sort of place you wanted to go to?”
“I honestly don’t know, Mike. I’ve been racking my brains all day trying to remember where I ever heard of Las Putas Buenas. I know I have. I know it strikes some chord. My best guess is that I once heard either Nathaniel or Felice mention the name. I can’t recall the context, but I have the vague impression it’s a very low-down sort of joint.”