Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“Not yet,” Aires said into the phone. “Still roaming the field. But... well, you know, I’ve always got the eye open. Incidentally, how about Lucy? You think she’s susceptible?”

“You could ask her, pal.”

Another burst of laughter. “And get my head chopped off? No, thanks, friend. But bring her along, hear? There will be some very handsome, very eligible, gents present. Maybe she’ll discover there’s more to life than being a secretary-girl friend of an ugly redhead.”

Shayne’s grin spread across his Flagler Street office. “See you ’round ten.”

“Mike?”

Shayne had started to put the phone together. He jammed the receiver back against his ear, instantly alerted by what he thought was a sudden quality of urgency in the summons.

“Yeah?”

There was a pause; then another chuckle. “I’m in town for a few days of fun and games, Mike, that’s all. But... well, maybe I’ll have a surprise for you.” No urgency now.

Click. Salvadore had hung up. Shayne stared at the phone receiver for a couple of seconds before putting it in its cradle. His grin was huge again. Yes, sir, he liked Salvadore Aires.

The Cassandra suite was huge, expensive and crowded. Shayne recognized a few faces here and there. By pooling their dough, these people could buy and sell nations. They had one thing in common: money. It never hurt to mingle with the blessed. A guy never knew where his next thousand might come from.

Salvadore was a tall man, almost as tall as the detective, but where Shayne was huge across the shoulders, thick and hard in body and leg and long ago had given up fighting unruly red hair, Salvadore was a trim, slender man with a full head of perfectly groomed silver and brown hair, an almost-too-narrow face and greenish eyes that laughingly reflected merry independence.

He also wore a flashy white blonde on his left arm this night. The blonde had sauce, youth and cleavage in a pale pink gown that left no doubt about her physical attributes. Her name was Jo.

Mildly amused, Shayne wondered if Jo was to be Number Six.

“Whee,” breathed Lucy as Salvadore took Jo off to a cluster of four men in a corner. “She might as well be naked.”

Shayne chuckled. “Perhaps she is,” he said philosophically.

He pointed Lucy through open french doors and onto the small balcony. They were alone. Seventeen stories below them Miami Beach sparkled. Shayne swirled cognac and drank. Lucy sipped Seven-Up.

Then, behind them, Salvadore Aires said, “You in the mood for marrying, Lucy darling?”

When they turned, he was laughing softly. He had rid himself of the blonde bomb. Shayne noticed she was cornered by the four men now.

“Maybe,” countered Lucy. “You?”

“Always,” grinned Salvadore.

“Your Jo has vitality,” said Lucy.

Salvadore’s laugh was genuine. “Yes. I wish I could recall her last name.”

“Oh.”

“She came with someone. I don’t remember who.”

Shayne grinned, finished his cognac.

“Okay, Mike,” accused Salvadore. “What’s that smug look supposed to convey?”

“Just fun and games,” said the detective with a shrug.

“Un-huh,” Salvadore nodded. “And not my potential surprise.”

Aires turned then as if on a silent signal, glanced over his shoulder.

A woman had entered the suite. She stood alone slightly inside the door, a bag purse dangling from her right shoulder. She looked in her early forties, was tastefully groomed in body and wardrobe, leaning a little toward the severe. She wore a plain, sky-blue street dress that had come from an expensive shop and a diamond wristlet that was a stark contradiction. Her hair was dark, her legs firm, and her inventory of the suite consuming.

“But there,” breathed Salvadore Aires, “is my surprise, Mike.”

Shayne watched his friend go to the woman and he had the distinct impression that everyone else in the suite suddenly did not exist for the lean man. Salvadore took the woman’s hands, pecked her cheek.

They talked for a few seconds. The woman’s face did not change. Salvadore’s posture did. He took a step backward, seemed to be pulling the woman slightly. She remained rooted, frowning slightly, looking around.

Salvadore stepped back into her, talked again. The woman answered him. Then they stood in silence briefly before Salvadore turned and gently escorted her through people.

“Lucy Hamilton, Mike Shayne,” Salvadore said, sounding vaguely triumphant, “Melody Deans.”

“Melody is from Las Vegas,” he continued. “Just got in on a flight,”

Up close, Melody Deans looked fatigued, nervous and on the borderline of impoliteness.

“Unfortunately,” she said, “it was an uncomfortable flight. We hit much turbulence.”

“Will you excuse us for a few minutes?” Salvadore asked.

“Miss Lucy Hamilton, Mr. Shayne,” Melody Deans nodded in polite acknowledgement.

Then they were gone, threading through the people again. Shayne watched them disappear behind a closed door far across the main room of the suite.

“Number Six, Angel,” Shayne said. “You just met her.”

“I’m not so sure, Michael.”