Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“Renfro Bastone isn’t in town. Nobody’s seen him for at least two days, so make it Sunday or Monday he vanished. Of course, he could be dead on the desert. He’s that kind, a scavenger. No one likes him, trusts him, or wants anything to do with him. He’s strictly a cheapie. Nobody knows how he lives, people figure he probably holds up gas stations, convenience stores, that kind of thing, strictly a cheapie. And there’s no tie between him and this Melody Deans — whose death, my friend, has some people shuffling sand.”

“She was carrying skim money,” Shayne grunted.

“Right on, man. How’d you know?”

“There’s been noises on this end, too.”

“Understand, Shayne, I wasn’t told flat out that she was carrying, but all the signs point. She was a house hostess at the Trout, been there for years. She could’ve been doubling as a carrier, too. She made a lot of short trips out of town during a year’s time. East, west, north and south. It could figure she was distributing the wealth, as they say.”

“Is anybody figuring she was distributing a half million dollars among her own pockets?”

Max Wallace whistled. “Whee! I hadn’t heard that much or that angle. No wonder there’s shuffling.”

“Could Bastone have been in on the operation?”

“Not from what I’ve heard.”

“Could he have found out she was leaving town with a bundle?”

“Those are supersecret moves, Shayne. And like I told you, this Bastone is small stuff, desert bait.”

“What about Flora Ann Perkins?”

“She was Melody Deans’ best female pal, and she’s all torn up about Melody’s death. By day, she’s a receptionist in a law office. By night, she’s engaged in the world’s oldest — and one of the best paying — professions. Before you ask, no, Melody Deans was not a hooker. She merely was a friend of a hooker.”

“Okay, Wallace, I’m coming out.”

“I’m the best Indian guide in town, friend.”

“You got an afternoon paper out there?”

“Yep.”

“Got a column in it?”

“Yep.”

“Can you still get something in this afternoon’s column?”

“If I stay up another hour.”

“Tell the people who I am and that I’m coming out to find Melody Deans’ killer.”

“Shayne, I think I’m going to like you.”

“Hoods sweat too, pal.”

VII

Las Vegas was gritty.

“Couple more hours, after the sun goes down, it’ll sparkle,” Max Wallace promised Mike Shayne.

Wallace was swarthy, looked healthy at forty, even with a slight paunch and the black goatee. He had a good head of dark hair and very white teeth. He wore a diamond ring, a pink shirt open at the collar, dark blue trousers, white shoes and a black and white checked sports coat. His eyes were bright.

“Did you announce me?” Shayne wanted to know.

Wallace handed him a folded newspaper as they left the air terminal. Shayne found himself to be the lead item in the column. After the roses were taken out, the item said that Michael Shayne, a famed Miami private detective, was coming to town to find the killer of Melody Deans, who had been a hostess at the Trout.

“It brought out a couple of natives, at least,” Wallace grinned as they got into a dusty sedan. Wallace stuck a key in the ignition switch.

“See that guy up ahead, getting into the blue convert? His name is McKeever. He’s a detective, a good one, respected. He wants you — and others — to know that he knows you’re here. He probably will get around to talking to you, but right now he’s your protector. He doesn’t want someone gunning you down in a parking lot.”

“How about the guy behind us?” Shayne wanted to know. “The heavy guy in the green suit. Is he the gunner? He trailed us out of the terminal, too.”

Wallace started the sedan motor.

“I knew I was going to like you,” he said. “Name’s Benjie Rhodes. He’s a two-timer in the Big Cell. Been out a year now, unemployed, but McKeever can’t hang him for being a vag. Benjie pays cash for everything, lives quiet, won’t even pick up a package of gum from a counter without a buck in his hand. He floats. You see him here, you see him there. Anytime of the day or night. Hangs around the Trout, but those there who count say he’s just a customer, and nobody throws out customers these days.”

“Straight, Wallace.”

“He’s a gun without a gun.”

“Strong fingers, huh?”

“There’s three or four buried people who might vouch for that, but, of course, they can’t. Where do you want to go?”

“I need a room, and figure the Trout’s as good a place as any.”

Wallace grunted again and yanked at the goatee as he piloted the sedan. “Somehow I knew you were going to pick it, so I already tried. They’re filled. All of the big places are.”

“Did you try in my name?”

“No.”

“So let me try in my name. I’ve got a hunch I’ll be accomodated, especially since the management was considerate enough to send someone to the airport. Benjie Rhodes is representing the management of the Trout, is he not, Wallace?”

“Ever consider moving to Vegas, Shayne?” Wallace grinned.

“From what I’ve seen so far, I won’t. Is McKeever behind us?”

“He’s beautiful. He’s got Benjie between us.”