Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

After the call Shayne sat scowling for a long time. He needed a contact in Las Vegas and he did not have one. His lone tie had died six months ago. But he needed some digging done out there. For one thing, he wanted to know if a Flora Ann Perkins lived in Las Vegas, and if she and Melody Deans had been friends. He also wanted to know what kind of action Salvadore Aires liked when in Vegas. Had he ever left himself exposed to blackmail?

From Melody Deans, for instance.

Had she told Salvadore Aires to meet her in Miami Beach with cash? Had Salvadore attempted to haggle with her at the party? Was blackmail the reason she had a passport and an airline ticket to Spain in another name? Had she planned to collect and run?

Had Salvadore hired her murder because of blackmail? Had he set her up?

Lucy was on the intercom again.

“There’s a young man to see you, Michael,” she said, and the crispness of her voice alerted Shayne. “He says he has some information about Melody Deans.”

V

“So you’re Mike Shayne, the famous private eye,” the youth said with a half grin that didn’t mean a thing.

Shayne sat silent, waited. The youth occupied the chair in front of the redhead’s desk. He was a good looking kid in Bermuda shorts, tank top, barefooted, athletically trim, dark hair worn moderately long; maybe in his mid-twenties. He was the kind of kid, Shayne thought, who would impress women.

“I heard on the radio,” he said, “you’re involved in the death of this cat at the Cassandra last night, this dame who took the long step down from the balcony.”

“So far you’re wasting my time, fella,” Shayne said truthfully.

The youth shrugged. “Name’s Cal Stone. I’m a beach boy at the Cassandra. I figure what I got is worth a hundred clams to you.”

“There’s cops.”

“Cops don’t dole out government green, Mr. Shayne.”

“Okay, Cal, what’ve you got?”

“A hundred?”

“Depends.”

The youth debated and Shayne pressed, “Figure it this way, pal: there isn’t any other place to sell it. Whatever you get from me is tax-free bread.”

The youth bit his lower lip, then said, “Okay, you’re hanging me high, but I’m at the Cassandra last evening, entertaining a little northern mother who’s down for a little relaxation from her tycoon-type husband, and I’m leaving her around twelve o’clock, little before. I’m coming down in the elevator and crossing the lobby when I see this doll checking in at the desk. And I mean she’s a doll, Mr. Shayne. Very chic, very heavy, got lots of interesting things about her, including a beautiful, sparkling thing on her wrist.”

“It’s your dame, all right, the one who took the long step later, only I don’t know she’s gonna be dead inside a couple of hours, of course. All I know is, she’s a looker, checking in alone.”

“Anyway, I lay back, wait for her to go upstairs, then I’m gonna get the pitch on her from the desk clerk. The only trouble is a guy checks in right behind the Deans dame and I know the guy! I also know he’s on her tight, trailing her. Those kind of signs I can read in my sleep, Mr. Shayne, believe me.

“So I back off, stay out of sight. But I’m curious. I ain’t seen Ralph Bastone in town for maybe a year now. We used to work together at another hotel down the street from the Cassandra, the Silver Arms. We worked the beach for maybe six, eight months together, and I was glad to see him cut when he did. He’s a gunner, real competition.

“But, like I said, I’m curious. I ain’t seen Ralph in a long time, and I’d heard he was out of town, had gone out west some place. So I hang around. I can’t figure if Ralph is bringing the cat in, or maybe he’s just on her tail. Anyway, I check with the desk after he goes upstairs, and he’s signed in as a Bernard Anderson, San Diego.

“That smells lovers to me, Mr. Shayne. Ralph and the dame are playing cutsies, check in separately as if they don’t know each other from yesterday, but give ’em five minutes upstairs and they’ll be in the same bed. The only trouble is — the dame fell off a balcony. Maybe Ralph pushed her. Is that worth a hundred?”

“Cal,” Shayne said in a voice that grated, “if you’re manufacturing this for the buck, I’ll find you and grind you into little pieces.”

He let it hang for emphasis. It got results. For the first time, the youth squirmed and dropped his eyes. Then he said, “I’m not putting you on, Shayne. Bastone was there, and he was with her or trailing her, I swear.”

Shayne contemplated. “Where might he hang his hat if he still is in town.”

“I wouldn’t know, man. I only worked with the guy. And, like I said, that was a year ago, maybe a little less. All I know is, he’s a gunner with the dames. I figure it’s how come he split with his living-in companion. Too heavy on the gunning. Too many overtime hours, you know?”

“You don’t know anything about him, but you know he was married.”