Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

Bryant smiled indulgently. “Sure, have a seat.” He passed the burglary report to another detective and leaned back in his chair. “Tony Ancona’s been around town for maybe ten years. He had a petty arrest record, mostly gambling and narcotics violations, and he served two years on one charge.”

“Was he married?”

“Divorced, I think. A long time ago. Lately he mostly lived with various women.”

“What about this trial you mentioned?”

The detective shrugeed his broad shoulders. “Fairly routine. We picked him up in a narcotics raid last spring, and promised him immunity from prosecution if he’d testify against his bosses in court. He did, and we convicted them. I understand some of the underworld goons were pretty upset about it. There was even word that they’d pay money for Tony’s removal, as a sort of lesson to others. But Tony was smart. He stayed under cover, at least until the other night.”

“Why do you think he tried to rob my house?”

Another shrug. “Probably needed money to get out of town. Maybe the pressure was getting too much for him here. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry your head about it, Mr. Neary. If you hadn’t killed him, some underworld goon probably would have, and that would be just more work for us.”

“I see,” Walt Neary said quietly. “Well, thanks very much.”

He left the building with the two thousand dollars still in his coat pocket. He drove on home.

Ellen met him at the door, frowning with apprehension. “You’re late,” she said. “I was worried.”

She hadn’t really been relaxed since it happened, and he couldn’t blame her. Already he’d promised to speak to his boss about traveling less frequently, though he hadn’t quite gotten around to it yet.

“Oh, I just stopped by to talk with that detective, Bryant.”

“Why? What for?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just thought I’d chat with him.” She seemed on the verge of hysterics, and it was hardly the time to mention the envelope with the money. “Calm down now. I’m home.”

That evening, as he watched her preparing dinner and going about her usual chores, he thought a bit about the life that was passing them both by. He was still a youthful-looking thirty-one, and he was only six years older. But they had never had children, never traveled, never really done much of anything except buy this little ranch home on a quiet suburban street where they rarely talked to the neighbors.

He thought about the things they could do with two thousand dollars, the places they could go. Europe, perhaps, or South America. She would like that.

Walt Neary had already decided against surrendering the money to the police. That would only raise awkward questions, and someone might even begin to think that he really had been paid to kill Tony Ancona. But keeping the money for his own use was another matter, and despite the attractions of a second honeymoon with Ellen in Europe, he couldn’t quite bring himself to accept the envelope in his pocket. It was, after all, blood money.

He considered giving it to some charity, but could not decide which one. Even simply throwing the money away crossed his mind as a solution, but he was too frugal for that. No, there had to be another way. If only Tony Ancona had possessed a wife and family an easy solution would have presented itself. He would have given the money to them, anonymously, of course.

Ellen was already asleep in the big bed when he decided on a tentative plan of action. He would try to find one of the women Ancona had been living with lately, and determine if she needed the money. If she didn’t, or if a brief quest was unsuccessful, he would think again about that trip to Europe with Ellen.

In the morning he told his boss he wasn’t feeling well, and took the rest of the day off. The death notice in the newspaper had mentioned a brother, Mike Ancona, who had a florist shop across town. He seemed unconnected with the underworld, or with his brother’s activities, and Neary figured it would be safe to approach him.

The florist shop was large and prosperous, a description that could also have fit Mike Ancona.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, studying Walt’s face with a frown.

“I’m Walt Neary, the man who... who caused your brother’s death.”

Mike Ancona nodded. “I thought I recognized you from the pictures.” Then he asked again, “What can I do for you?” His tone was neither hostile nor friendly. He might have been talking to a wall.

“I... I’ve been feeling bad about what happened. I was wondering if your brother had a family of any kind, anyone who might be suffering now that he’s gone.”

The florist snorted. “Maybe some of the whores and junkies around town are suffering, but no one else!”

“There was no woman he especially cared for?”

Mike Ancona sighed. “Really, I don’t know what you’re wasting your time for! He’s dead and buried! You don’t need to feel sorry.”

“All right.” Neary turned to leave.