Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

The Trout was low-slung in front, high in back, polish, with a sense of vast airiness. Its neon and glass and fake flower beds glistened. Shayne was put in a suite that opened onto the patio of the second floor outdoor swimming pool.

Max Wallace stood at the huge sliding door, looking out on the patio. He shook his head. “If I didn’t know better, Shayne, I’d say you were expected.”

“You heard the man at the desk. I was fortunate. They’d just had a cancellation.”

“I hope they can’t say the same thing in the next couple of hours.”

“Nice scenery out there?” Shayne asked.

“Skin is beautiful.”

Shayne showered and shaved and changed clothing while Max Wallace admired flesh. Then they went to a small lounge off the lobby, where Shayne ordered a cognac while Wallace had a beer.

Shayne asked the bartender, “Did you know Melody Deans?”

The bartender scooped Shayne’s change from the bar. “Did I, Max?”

Wallace shrugged, “Did you, Eli?”

“She was a nice lady,” Eli decided. “Too bad she got killed.”

“Who’d kill her?” Shayne asked.

Eli stared at the redhead for a few seconds, then went to a telephone.

“Oh, brother,” breathed Wallace, “you do know how to get action.”

Shayne caught a reflection in a side mirror. “McKeever, the cop, just came in.”

“This is a public bar and McKeever likes beer,” Wallace said. “He’s free to drink his beer here, but that doesn’t mean he can roam this palace. You’d better ease off a little.”

Eli returned. “Mr. Cordova would like to see you gentlemen,” he said. “At your convenience, of course.”

“Who’s he?” Shayne wanted to know.

Eli ignored the question. “You know the way, Mr. Wallace?”

“I know the way, Eli.”

Shayne drank his cognac and Wallace left the beer, then the redhead walked with Wallace out of the small lounge, across the airy lobby and entered a long, carpeted corridor. Shayne looked over his shoulder. McKeever was nowhere to be seen!

There was a door at the end of the corridor. It opened as they approached and Shayne took in a nattily dressed man of fifty or so who was manicured and smiling.

“Max,” he said.

“Julio.”

“And this is Mr. Shayne from Miami, I assume. Welcome to Las Vegas, Mr. Shayne. Come in. I believe you are drinking cognac. You will find one poured.” He pointed to a corner bar. “Another beer, Max?”

Julio Cordova was a smiler. He kept smiling as he faced Shayne head-on. “We have a mutal acquaintance in Miami, Mr. Shayne. I’ve known Antonio Cicerone for years. He is doing quite well in the recreation business, I understand.”

“I assume Antonio also told you I don’t live on double talk,” Shayne said.

Cordova kept smiling. “Yes, he did say you are aggressive. You are a private detective, and you are currently seeking the killer of Melody Deans. I read that much in Max’s column this afternoon, of course. Well, Mr. Shayne, how can I help you? Miss Deans was a valued employee here. We liked her work. Frankly, we are quite upset with her death. She is going to be extremely difficult to replace.”

“Carriers can be, I suppose.”

Cordova’s smile flickered, came back to full strength.

“And I don’t imagine you’re particularly happy about the disappearance of a half million bucks,” Shayne added.

Cordova shook his head, pulled the lower half of his smile with fingertips. “Antonio mentioned you had some crazy notion about missing money, Mr. Shayne. Frankly, I’m puzzled.”

“Somebody hit her, Cordova.”

The smile remained, but his eyes hardened.

“I’ve got a hunch she was on the run with a big bundle, made a stop in Miami and got hit. How about you? What’s your hunch?”

The smile finally disappeared. Cordova pulled at his lip thoughtfully. His eyes had turned brittle. He wasn’t angry. Simply cold, like an exposed marble slab on a winter day. “You’re talking riddles, Shayne. If you came out here looking for that kind of lead, you’ve wasted time. I can’t help you.”

“Ever hear of a dude named Renfro Bastone?”

A flicker of curiosity hit the hard eyes. “The name is vaguely familiar, yes.”

“He may have hit your princess.”

Cordova went to the bar and poured tap water from a pitcher over ice cubes. He drank before he looked at the redhead. “Then your journey here really is to find Mr. Bastone. I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I don’t know the gentleman that well. Max there is your best source in town anyway. Max knows everyone.”

Shayne walked the length of the room, turned around. “Cordova, let’s set up a hypothetical case. Let’s assume that someone out here wanted skim money delivered somewhere back East and that Melody Deans was supposed to make the delivery. We’ll eliminate the possibility that Melody Deans had an idea of her own, was going to make a normal delivery. Okay, there’s this guy Bastone, a punk. Could a punk get a line on such a delivery?”

“I doubt it,” said Cordova. “I don’t know about such things, of course, but—”

“So if Bastone hit the dame, it had to be for another reason,” Shayne interrupted.

“Possibly.” Cordova frowned in deep thought.

“You used her one too many times, didn’t you, pal?”