Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“What do you want with Ralph?” she asked.

“I hear he left town about a year ago.”

“That’s right. Ralph and me didn’t click. Once we thought we would, but we didn’t.”

“How come?”

The blue eyes measured him. “Shayne, you’re not a stupid gook. You’re looking for Ralph, that means you know a little something about him. You know he’s a woman-hustler. I didn’t mind the beach work at the hotel in the daylight hours, understand? That was his job. But when it got to be all of those nights on Biscayne Bay — bull!

“I pointed him, and he went. With a green-eyed blonde from San Diego. But she must’ve gotten tired of him, or he tried to play twosies with her too. I guess he hit hard times. Anyway, about four or five months after he cut, I got a letter from him. He wanted money to come back here. If I’d had a million dollars stacked up on this living room floor I wouldn’t have sent him a dime.”

“How long ago did you get the letter, Debbie?”

“Two, three months ago. I don’t remember. All I remember is, he was staying at a motel. If it helps you any, I do remember the name of the joint — the Lamplighter. How come you’re looking for Ralph, Mr. Shayne?”

Shayne ignored the question. “When was the last time you heard from him?”

“I just told you. The letter I didn’t answer. So I guess he got the message.”

“You didn’t hear from him, see him, last night, this morning?”

“Lord, is he back in town?”

“I have reason to think so.”

The girl looked at the boy. “Trouble, Art.”

“No trouble,” he said confidently.

“Ralph might want to come around to see his child,” Shayne suggested.

“Buddy isn’t his kid,” the girl said defiantly. “Buddy belongs to me’n Art. Which: Ralph knows, incidently. Yeah, you should’ve seen ids face when I told him, Mr. Shayne. He just about flipped out. He thought I was sitting here night after night watching television, I guess. It was a bomb, letting him know how wrong he was.”

“So why do you think he might be trouble if he is in town?”

“He pesters,” said the girl. “He’s that kind.”

“He won’t show more’n once,” said Art. “And he won’t pester.”

“Mr. Shayne, you still haven’t said why you are looking for Ralph,” the girl said.

He decided he didn’t want to explain. He didn’t want these two kids involved. He lied, “A woman is looking for him. She’s heard he’s back in town. She’s retained me to find him.”

“Does she want him cold or hot?” asked the girl.

“Cold,” Shayne further lied.

“Then leave a phone number,” said the girl. “If he shows, one of us will call you.”

“One more question,” said Shayne, “Does Ralph have a family in town?”

“His parents are dead,” said the girl. “He has a brother, Renfro, a fink. But he isn’t around here, never has been to my knowledge. Last I knew he was in Las Vegas. But he could be dead by now too. He’s that kind. Somebody has or will kill him. Everybody tires of roaches sooner or later.”

“Debbie, thanks,” said Shayne.

“For what?” said the girl, sounding as if she really wanted to know.

But Shayne was tracking. Melody Deans had lived and worked in Vegas. The previous night, at the Cassandra, she had been trailed or was accompanied by a kid named Ralph Bastone who had a brother who hung his trousers in Vegas.

Was it a tie?

In Shayne’s convertible, Rourke said sagely, “I think Max Wallace is about to get a workout.”

Lucy Hamilton was out to lunch when they returned to the office and Max Wallace was asleep in Las Vegas.

“What the hell,” he grumbled in Shayne’s ear, “we gotta rest sometime out here.” He came awake fast as the Miami detective outlined what he wanted.

“Melody Deans, Renfro Bastone, Flora Ann Perkins,” Wallace repeated. “Those names aren’t in lights, that much I can tell you already, friend. Okay, I’ll see what I can smell out.”

Shayne left numbers for a return call and then looked up a San Diego number in Lucy’s special book of phone listings. Stan Smith operated a large investigative agency in San Diego and was a longtime contact. He greeted Shayne cheerily and then listened without interrupting as the detective outlined what he needed.

“It could be tough, Stan,” Shayne said. “Bastone might’ve just been an overnight guest at this Lamplighter, and I can’t give you an exact date when he was there. On the other hand, he could’ve been sleeping, there semi-permanently. He asked for money to be sent there.”

“I never heard of the place, Mike,” Stan Smith said, “so it isn’t one of the biggies out here. But if it still exists, and if they keep books, I’ll have something for you by five, your time, this afternoon. You want me to call you or—”

“I’ll be in touch, Stan. I’ve got some moving around to do.”

“Now where?” Rourke asked as Shayne put the phone together.

“A cheese on rye and then Gentry,” said the redhead. “I’m hungry.”

Will Gentry was stuffed with information. Albert Deans had checked out. He was what he said he was: a semi-retired Iowa farmer, living in Miami. The only mystery about him was his bank accounts. He seemed to have several.

“And speaking of bundles, Mike...”