Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“And,” said Peterson significantly, “he had a tail coming off the jet. But the guy got left shuffling his feet, just like my man.”

Shayne wondered how Peter Painter felt at the moment. There was no doubt in the redhead’s mind now that Painter had allowed Salvadore Aires to cut, put a tail on him, figuring Salvadore might lead him to some answers. But what answers? And to what questions?

And why was Salvadore Aires running?

“Okay, Pete.”

“I can keep an eye on his house, Mike.”

“Yeah, do that for a day or so, but I figure he’s traveling. Probably over to Canada.”

“Un-huh.”

Shayne put the phone together, sat contemplating Salvadore Aires’ behavior. He wished Salvadore had not run. He wished his friend had come to him. Had Salvadore, on previous trips to Miami, become acquainted with Ralph Bastone the Beach Boy? Had he hired Bastone for a kill, set up Melody Deans?

Shayne shook his head. It didn’t sound like a Salvadore Aires operation. Sal wouldn’t go with an amateur when there were plenty of pro killers around.

Shayne pondered Ralph Bastone. Where did he fit? Should he tip Painter about the kid? No. Let Painter find out about Ralph on his own. Hotel employees were alert people. One of them, sooner or later, would remember the kid who checked in immediately behind Melody Deans, in the meantime, Shayne decided, he needed time to pin down Salvadore. He hoped Aires never had heard of Ralph Bastone.

The detective glanced at his watch. Ten minutes before four. Too early to call Stan Smith in San Diego. He’d said he’d call at five, Miami time. Still, maybe Stan had been lucky, had gotten a fast line on Ralph Bastone.

“Ralphie is a louse, Mike,” Stan Smith said from San Diego. “A beautiful boy, but a louse.”

“Who says?”

“Dame named Connie Norton. She owns the Lamplighter, operates it, lives there in a little pad behind the office. The Lamplighter is small, neat, inexpensive, off the beaten path. Connie is plump, shall we say, but also neat, inexpensive and divorced. She got the motel in the settlement about six years ago. She’s forty-five or so, not attractive, not unattractive — but attracted. At the moment, to Ralph Bastone. Still, he’s a lousy louse. That’s a direct quote.”

“Is Bastone out there?” Shayne asked in a sharp voice.

“Nope, but Connie is yearning. If he comes back, he’ll get in the front door, even if he is a louse.”

“How long’s he been gone?”

“Left last Sunday. With three hundred bucks of Connie’s reserve cash. She kept it in her pad for emergencies. It’s gone now, along with Ralphie.”

“She knows why he cut?”

“Not for sure, but she’s got a hunch he’s in Las Vegas, living it up on her green. He got a call from Vegas last Saturday night. He was out at the time, had gone to the store to get a bottle — using some more of her money, naturally — and he got the call. She took a number from the operator, that’s how she knows the call was from Vegas.”

“She listen in on the return call?”

“Nope. Ralphie went across the street to a pay phone. Said it was private. She didn’t think any more about it after he returned. Then Sunday she wakes up and he’s gone from her bed and so was her reserve cash.”

“How long has Ralphie been living there?”

“Several months. She can’t remember how many.”

“Have a job?”

“Nope. But occasionally he helped at the motel. Emptied waste baskets, carried out trash. Most of the time, though, he had to lay in the sun at the pool. He has this skin disease, you know. If he doesn’t get plenty of sunshine on his skin, he breaks out in a rash.”

“Okay, Stan.”

“You want me to keep a stakeout on the joint, Mike?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a hunch Ralph Bastone is wallowing in much greener pastures.”

Like maybe a half million dollars worth, Shayne thought as he put the phone together.

Las Vegas was the key. Should he hustle out there, start turning up rocks? He sat thumping the desk edge, thinking about Max Wallace. What had Wallace found out? He put in a call to Las Vegas. But Max Wallace wasn’t anywhere near a phone.

He killed a frustrating evening. Lucy Hamilton fed him cognac and steak and taped music while occasionally admonishing his frustration. Mildly. Finally, Lucy sent him home, where he waited until midnight for the call from Wallace, then fell asleep in the chair. It was a few minutes after five Wednesday morning when the jangle of the phone jarred him awake.

“Forgive the hour, Shayne,” Max Wallace said, “but I’ve been traveling all night and I’m pooped. Five minutes from now I’m going to be in the sack for the day.”

“I’ve been waiting, pal,” Shayne said.

“Hey, cool it, man. These are night people out here. Nobody stirs while the sun is up. At least, nobody you’re interested in.”

“What have you got?”