Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“Shayne, this town exists on greed. Your best bet is to do as McKeever says: get a good night’s sleep while he singles out the few possibilities. Tomorrow, maybe, you can do your thing. McKeever will play ball. He’s not allergic to assistance. It’s what makes him a good cop. The fifty cent advice is: let him get things rolling. He can do more eliminating overnight than you could do in a year of tromping.”

But Shayne tromped. Back and forth in his room, with cognac and ice water in hand. Occasionally he went to the closed drapes, swept them aside and stared out on the late swimmers. The swimmers paid no attention to him. But in the back of his mind he wondered if Benji Rhodes was out there somewhere around the pool, keeping an eye on things, so to speak.

He also wondered if the Bastone brothers had been found by now and were they dead, as McKeever had theorized. Or were they in the Miami area? Should he call Painter, Gentry?

A sudden flash hit him. He stopped pacing, scowled against the remote possibility it offered. He used the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to tug at the lobe of his left ear.

He’d been around for a long time. He’d been up against all kinds of people, their incentives, their drives, their lusts. He had learned to expect anything from anybody. Still, this possibility was difficult to accept. It existed, okay, but perhaps it was a mere product of his frustration, the need to get his teeth into something solid.

He shook his head, resumed his pacing. But he couldn’t get the possibility out of his skull. Hell, there was one way to ripen or kill it. He placed a call to Peter Painter in Miami Beach. Painter was out of touch. Some nut had thrown a gasoline bomb in the front door of a nightclub. Painter was at the scene.

He tried to find Will Gentry with no luck. Gentry had a possible kidnaping on his hands. He was out beating bushes.

He phoned Lucy Hamilton, but before he could ask anything she exclaimed, “Michael, Stan Smith has been phoning from San Diego since late this afternoon! You’re to call him!”

Stan Smith said, “I think you’ve got action at the Lamplighter, friend. I think Ralphie is back in town.”

“Think?”

“I kept a man out there. Two guys showed shortly after noon, one younger than the other, each with a single suitcase. They hit the office, then Connie Norton came out with them and they cut together in her car. My man trailed them. They went to another motel, place called Weaver’s, about the same caliber as Connie’s layout. The two guys checked in, and she hightailed it back to her establishment. Then the young guy showed at the Lamplighter again. He arrived alone in a cab; no suitcase this time. He went into the office and didn’t come out. From the description of Ralphie I got from Connie earlier, I’d say the kid has returned. Her pad is behind the office, remember.”

“It’s important, Stan.”

“Ralph Bastone is here, Mike. I’ll pay your fare out if it isn’t him.”

San Diego in early morning, orange-gray light made Mike Shayne think of Miami. Stan Smith took him from the air terminal to the Lamplighter in a shiny New Lincoln Continental. In the drive-in slot in front of the office, he said, “Ralphie’s here. The other guy’s about four miles down the street at Weaver’s. I’ve got two boys working now, Mike. One is watching us at this moment, the other is parked outside Weaver’s.”

“Keep the Weaver man,” Shayne said. “But tip him. This one can go home.”

“And me?” Stan Smith said with a crooked grin as Shayne vacated the Continental.

“You finally got married?”

The grin widened. “Naw, but I’ve got a girl friend.”

“Tell her to send the statement to Miami.”

“Natch.”

Inside the Lamplighter office, Shayne banged the desk bell several times, then positioned himself at the door behind the desk. The door was yanked open by a voluptuous, dark-haired woman who carried a few ounces of extra weight here and there but still could boast of a good figure. She was barefooted. She had thrown on a negligee and she held it together with one hand as she stared in amazement at Shayne.

“Mister, you’ve got a lot of guts! This is private back here! You want a unit, I’ll come out and—”

The redhead pushed her aside and shot past her. He stomped across a small living room and went through an open door into a tiny bedroom as Connie Norton screeched. “Ralphie—”

The kid came off the foot of the rumpled bed. He wore blue boxer shorts, nothing more. He was wide-eyed and trim with long hair. He also looked frightened as he leaped at Shayne.

The detective stepped aside and slammed a long arm against Ralph Bastone, bringing the arm around in a backhanded sweep. The blow sent the boy reeling off balance.

Shayne heard another screech. It was a warning. He doubled forward and jammed back his elbows, keeping his arms tight against his sides. Connie gasped when she landed on the elbow points.