Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1977

Angelo left the room. Dominick turned to Shayne. “I understand perfectly now. You are in search of stolen diamonds, engaged by the Monarch Insurance Company, who don’t want to pay out a million-dollar loss.” He eyed the redhead critically. “Shayne, you disappoint me. From all I’ve been told, you’re a clever operator. As such, you should have come alone. I’m not a difficult man to get along with.”

“Dominick,” Shayne said pointedly, “I’m well aware of how you solve your difficulties. Allegretto is dead. Who’s the new hit man?”

Marshal Walsh said, “I think we’ll go on and search the premises. We’re wasting our time here.” He nodded to Elfmont, Patterson and Wilson. The four left the room, leaving Shayne alone with Colletti.

Shayne started to think. Colletti was no fool. That shot he threw at him about coming alone was a feeler, an offer to trade. But on whose terms? Colletti was a Don, high up in the National Council. He was hard and cruel, more so than Allegretti or his other hired gunmen.

Shayne knew Colletti’s background well. He had been a pickup man for a numbers syndicate in Chicago, a steerer for crooked gambling joints, a dope pusher. Colletti hated the men who used him and swore that one day he would be on top, bigger than any of them.

When the cops turned the heat on the town, Colletti fled Chicago. More than death itself, he feared a prison cell. He had been picked up once for investigation and held in city jail for twenty-four hours before being released. He had been like a wild animal suddenly caged.

When he fled Chicago he went to St. Louis. No one wanted him. Cleveland — the same thing. New York — he tried them all — Lucky Luciano, Lepke Buchalter, the fast-rising Carlo Gambino. They turned him down.

He wound up in Miami and hit pay dirt. He rose steadily from pickup man, to supervisor of pickup men, to the role of lieutenant to Sam “Mops” Vitale. When Vitale was mysteriously murdered, Dom Colletti took over.

Shayne said, “Okay, Dom we’re alone. I’ll go back to what you said, that I should have come alone. Here we are.”

“I’ll be frank with you, Shayne. I don’t trust the fuzz — Never did. And private investigators, a lot less, if you’ll forgive the assessment. It is said without rancor. How about a hundred grand?”

“You’re close,” Shayne said. “Monarch will pay me that much when I return the diamonds.”

“Return the diamonds?” Colletti shook his head. “How the hell are you going to find them?”

Shayne grinned. “You’ll tell me.” He spread his hands. “As simple as that, Dom.”

“Shayne,” Colletti growled, his face blazing with anger, “let’s get one thing straight. I deal, on my terms. I wouldn’t tell you the time of day if I owned Big Ben, and I wouldn’t give you a drink of water if I had all the water in Florida.

“But I gotta hand it to you — you’ve got more guts than a butcher in a slaughter house. How the hell did you find me? Only a handful of people know my address, and sure as hell none of those told you.”

“Your yacht, Dom. The registration. Fancy playthings, mansions, yachts, beautiful women have their compensations — also they’re handicaps. Shall we talk? On both levels, yours and mine?”

“I’m listening.”

“Dom, you’ve come a long way from being a gopher boy. Unless you’re smart, you’re going to find yourself in a little six by eight, eating food that will gag you and wearing coarse clothing that will make you itch.”

Colletti gave an involuntary shudder that Shayne didn’t miss.

“I’m willing to let you off the hook, if — you’ll play ball. I don’t give a damn what the fuzz in this hamlet do. I know, sure as hell, they’re on the take. The federal people may come in and take a look at Fatso Kreuger’s income, and his holdings. What they come up with may put Fatso away for several years for income tax evasion. Who will take his place, Dom? An honest cop maybe? And where will you be? Your little playhouse will fall apart and tumble down around your ears.”

Colletti was thoughtful, his head against the back of the chair, his eyes closed. He opened them and looked at Shayne.

“Two hundred grand in small bills, unmarked.”

“You don’t understand, Dom. I want the diamonds — all of them.”

“There you go again,” Colletti said, rising from his chair and pacing the room. “A cop all the way. Who the hell will know except you and me.”

“That’s the trouble, Dom. I’ll know.”

At that moment, a young woman came into the library. She had long black hair, enormous black eyes with long lashes that added to their appearance of depth. She went directly to Colletti.

“Daddy, is anything wrong? Why are all those men going through the house?”

Shayne rose.

Colletti said, “My daughter, Angeline. Honey, this is Mr. Mike Shayne. He’s not a policeman. I think he’s going to be a friend.”

Angelina nodded. Shayne nodded back. No words. It was all in her eyes. She regarded the detective as an intruder. Angelo had apparently informed her. The mob chief assured Angelina that nothing was wrong.