Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, he stepped into the plushness of a large foyer and also stopped. The move surprised the goons. The one on his right brushed him in stride and slid off. The other one managed to dance around him. They were where he could see each now and he took the .45 from his shoulder holster and dangled it from an index finger shoved through the trigger guard.

“I’m here to see Antonio,” he said.

Neither young man moved. They ignored the gun. The one on his right said, “Mr. Cicerone is not in town, Mr. Shayne. He will not be for severed days, perhaps weeks.”

“Bull. Cicerone’s here and I’m going to see him.” He put the .45 away.

Neither young man flinched. The one on his left smiled.

“Mr. Shayne,” he said politely, “perhaps you hear better on this side. Mr. Cicerone is not in town. The only reason you have been allowed this far is we like privacy, quiet. And please try to understand that you are at a distinct disadvantage, even with your weapon. You might shoot one of us but the other will crush you. Actually, what he will do is twist and turn and bend you in so many opposite directions you’ll split at the seams and spill blood and guts all over this nice carpeting. We are experts at karate. Shall we go down?”

“Out of my way, pal.” The detective took a long step forward. A closed door in the opposite wall was his goal but he didn’t get to take the second step. He suddenly was pinned.

“Tell Cicerone,” he seethed, “I want to rap about a half million dollars.”

“He has people who want to rap about a half mill every day, Mr. Shayne,” said one of the young men, not even breathing hard.

Then Shayne was released abruptly.

“Look,” said the guy on his right. The front suddenly was gone. He was plain hood now. “Cicerone ain’t gonna see you nor nobody else. So just run along and get the hell out of our hair, huh? We ain’t looking for trouble, but you’re spoiling. Man, you’re crazy, coming in here heavy. You know how the man is about cannons. So how come you do this kind of thing? Don’t take time to answer. Just get the hell out. Okay?”

The detective took another step. He was pinned again, and this time a fist slammed into his stomach, bending him slightly and forcing him to draw a breath. He attempted to flail with his arms. Neither moved. Then the .45 was snaked from its rig and the heel of a shoe cracked down on his toes. He snarled oaths and heaved.

“Gentlemen?”

The voice came out of nowhere. It stopped the action. Shayne looked around, didn’t find Cicerone. He still was alone with the two goons in the foyer. The door in the opposite wall remained closed tight. One of the goons was hefting the .45 as if testing it for weight.

“Mr. Shayne,” said Cicerone, “I’m not interested in a half million dollars.”

His voice seemed to come out of the ceiling of the foyer. The detective looked for a speaker, saw paneling only.

“The hell you’re not, Antonio,” the readhead said.

“Mr. Shayne—”

“Was the dame on the run, Antonio?”

“I’m sorry,” said Cicerone, “I don’t have the vaguest notion about what you’re talking. Please leave, quietly. I’m quite busy. Good afternoon.”

“Cicerone, she was cutting with a half mill of Vegas money and somebody hit her! Not you! I can figure that much. You’re not going to hit anyone on your own doorstep, but—”

“Good afternoon, Shayne.”

“That’s it, friend,” said the goon on the detective’s right.

“Out,” said the goon on his left.

They turned him, shoved him into the elevator. He came off the back wall with a snarl, whirled, crouched, steeled for either or both of them. His .45 was sailing toward Him. He caught it reflexively. And then the elevator doors swished shut, and he was going down — alone.

The big detective hadn’t touched a button.

Shayne crossed the lobby on angry strides. No one seemed to pay any particular attention to him, but he knew he was being watched closely. Outside in the sunshine, he stood for a few seconds on the sidewalk, ignoring the pedestrians he forced to curve around him.

He sucked several deep breaths. And then suddenly he snorted, shook his head and moved off toward the parked convertible. A seedy-looking guy abruptly matched strides with him.

“Gentry wants a report,” he said as they walked along.

“Gentry had his damn report before I left his office,” the redhead snapped.

“Figures,” said the seedy-looking character. He dropped away.

At his Flagler Street office, Lucy Hamilton said, “Michael, you’re to call Leo Peterson in Detroit.”

Shayne sailed his Panama toward an old-fashioned coat rack in the corner. The Panama settled on a hook as he went on into his inner office.

From Detroit, Leo Peterson told him, “Your mart hit town, Mike. Had a car waiting for him, went straight to his insurance building and inside.” Leo Peterson paused, then added. “He also went straight up to the roof and took off in a copter.”

Shayne slammed a fist against the edge of his desk.