Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“I didn’t say he was married, Shayne. He and this Debbie shared a pad, that’s all. I think they had a kid, too, but I ain’t sure about that. Anyway he and Debbie split. I do know that. I ran into her about a week, ten days ago. First time I’d seen her since Ralph cut. The only reason I know her, is she used to come around to the hotel sometimes, looking for Ralph. He didn’t like that. He’d blow. But she came around anyway. I guess she was real hung on the guy. Anyway, I never cooled it with them, ever. Away from the Silver Arms, I never seen Ralph or Debbie.”

“Where does Debbie live, Cal?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Okay, it’s worth fifty. My secretary will pay you as you vanish.”

“Hey, a hundred, man!”

“I’m not a dame, Cal — or hadn’t you noticed?” Shayne stood tall and wide, his large jaw set.

Cal Stone padded out of the inner office.

“Fifty, Lucy,” Shayne yelled.

And then he heard an exchange of grunts in the outer office, a rasping of feet moving fast. A male voice said, “Easy, Adonis.”

“Man, you stepped on my toes!” Cal Stone complained.

Shayne went to the open door and took in the scene. The youth and Tim Rourke of the Miami News looking squared off. But Rourke was grinning. Only Cal Stone was unhappy.

“So we crashed,” Rourke said to Cal Stone. “I was coming in, you were going out. No reason to start a war, kid.”

Lucy Hamilton put a fifty dollar bill in Cal Stone’s hand and the youth disappeared, his sandals slapping.

Rourke grinned at Shayne. “Who the hell was that?”

Shayne motioned his friend into the inner office where he explained. Rourke took it all in without interrupting. Then he shoved a hat to the back of his head and hooked a leg over the arm of the chair. He was a thin man, almost scarecrow thin, with deep-set, slate-colored eyes, a veteran newspaperman. He and Shayne had been friends for more years then either cared to count.

Rourke pinched his lower lip in thought.

“I’m here because of Melody Deans, Mike. You know that. I heard about her on the radio while I was shaving this morning, called the office. What they have is sketchy. I’m going over to see Painter, of course, but I wanted to hear it from you first. Now, about this Las Vegas angle. You’re hurting, huh?”

“I lost my contact when Elmer Fletcher died, Tim. I know a couple of guys out there, but neither of them is Elmer. I might have to take a run out there myself. I’m thinking about it.”

“I know a guy who might do you some good,” Rourke said. “Name’s Max Wallace. He’s a columnist, one of these man-about-town things. Max has been in Vegas for centuries, knowns the town’s underwear. Are you interested?”

“Would he be?”

“Max is interested in anything that will get him a line of copy. It’s where he lives the hardest.”

“What he turns up might not be copy.”

“It will be, eventually,” Rourke said with a crooked grin. “I trust him, Mike.”

“Okay, I may give him a buzz later today.”

Shayne dug a well-thumbed phone book out of a drawer and looked up the number for the Silver Arms Hotel in Miami Beach. He had to go through three connections at the hotel before he got a manager with a crisp voice who repeated Ralph Bastone’s name as if he had just chomped on a used sweat sock. But he did have a last known address for Bastone.

It was a small, two story, faded yellow stucco building on the edge of a shopping center. There was a sporting goods store downstairs and two apartments upstairs.

Shayne and Rourke found they wanted the back apartment. Shayne rapped on the door. It was opened after a few seconds by a nicely built, slim young girl with brown hair hanging down below her shoulders. She wore blue-white jeans and a tight pullover top. She was braless and barefooted. Level blue eyes that were clear measured the two men without registering anything. She smelled of cleanliness.

“Debbie?” Shayne said.

“I don’t know you,” she replied. There was no animosity, and no fear. Just a simple fact.

“I’m looking for Ralph Bastone.”

The girl turned and yelled into the interior of the apartment, “I think we got fuzz, Art.”

The young man who appeared in the room behind her was a physical giant, taller than Shayne or Rourke. He wore faded jeans too, was bare-chested and footed, and he probably weighed 240 pounds. But there wasn’t an extra ounce of flesh on him. His chest was wide and deep, and his stomach looked hard. He had long, hay-colored hair and a groomed handlebar moustache. A blonde baby of a year or so was parked on his shoulders, tiny fat legs straddling his neck, fingers clutching the long hair.

The giant handed the baby to the girl and said, “Buzz off.”

“Come on, Art,” Shayne said. “We aren’t here to play tough.”

“I’m not playing, Red. Buzz. Ralph doesn’t live here anymore.”

“And you do.”

“Try to throw me out. Use your friend for leverage.”

“Art,” said the girl, “Let’s see what they want. I was wrong. They’re not fuzz.”

Shayne asked, “May we come in?”

“No,” said the girl.

“But you are Debbie,” said the detective.

“I’m Debbie. Who are you?”

Shayne introduced himself and Rourke.