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

But the stranger had turned away from Warren and walked away, leaving the ranger standing there looking nervously after him. The five on Tod’s veranda got a good look at the man as he came rolling by, and all nodded civilly to him when he nodded at them. He walked on up the street toward the parking lot.

“Looks like Warren’s glad that fella’s leavin’,” said Phil Boyer.

“He’ll be over to brag it up, how he threw him out of town, and all,” muttered Joe Morgan.

But Morgan was wrong. Ranger Warren stood indecisively for a moment before finding something over at the saloon which interested him.

And Phil was wrong about the stocky man leaving. He appeared at Tod’s veranda not quite thirty minutes later, holding a big blue-and-white ice-chest, which had to be heavy. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

“This looks like the only place in town to get a beer,” he said with Marciano’s voice. His grin seemed open and cheery enough, but there were still those eyes, telling Rudell to be careful.

“Nothin’ here’s for sale,” coughed Tod around his Lucky Strike.

“Well, that’s no problem.” The man put the ice-chest down on Tod’s porch and opened it. His hand came out holding a can of Coors, with a frosty bit of crumbled ice clinging to the bottom of it. “This stuff ain’t for sale, either.” He tossed the can toward Larry Dobbs, who snatched and caught it. “I just like to have some company. My name’s Black.”

“Larry Dobbs,” mumbled Larry Dobbs. As he was introduced to each of the other four, Black handed out the Coors, and took their stiff, unaccustomed thank-yous. Maybe because it was getting warm, Black took off his windbreaker, and now Rudell saw the reason for the swaggering walk. Black’s arms and torso were muscled like a wrestler’s. He had to walk that way.

Black opened a can for himself, closed the ice-chest’s lid, and sat down easily on top of it. After taking a long drink, he sighed and burped and grinned again. “You boys are the only ones living here, right?”

“Us and the ranger,” grunted Joe Morgan.

“Well, does he count? I mean, he’s here because somebody told him to be. You guys are here because you all wanted to be.” Black raised his eyebrows at Rudell Foster and made it into a question.

“Yea.” And there was nothing else to say.

“Us sittin’ here, we’re all there is,” said Tod Spencer. He started to say something else, but broke into a fit of coughing so bad he had to take his Lucky Strike out of his mouth. Little bits of tobacco clung to his lower lip.

“What Tod was gonna say was, if you’re lookin’ for somebody else that lives in Glory, you can stop lookin’.” That was Phil Boyer.

The man Black chuffed out a short laugh and finished off the rest of his Coors. “Well, that’s plain enough, and you guys have been watching me look all day. The ranger doesn’t want to remember too much, but then he’s busy with tourists all the time. Maybe one of you noticed the man I’m trying to find.”

“We only take one day off a week,” said Larry Dobbs.

“Most the rest of the time we’re up at our claims,” said Joe Morgan.

“Most likely we didn’t see ’im,” said Tod Spencer, plucking tobacco off his tongue.

“Then again, maybe one of us did,” said Rudell Foster.

“What’s he look like?” asked Phil Boyer.

Black had looked hard at each of them. Finally he settled on Rudell Foster to talk to. “Forty years old. Skinny. Little pot belly. Soft hands. Going bald on top and gray around the edges. Weak chin. Veins in his nose. Talks like he’s from the east coast. And if you saw him he was probably nervous. You didn’t see that guy, did you, Rudell?”

Rudell wrinkled his chin and stared off, letting his eyes go out of focus while he thought about it. Phil Boyer asked, “What’s his name?”

“Micchiche.” Black pronounced it Mitch-i-kay. “Danny Micchiche.”

“You a friend of his?” asked Joe Morgan.

“Never met him.”

“We aint’s seen ’im,” Tod Spencer grumbled snappishly and lit another Lucky Strike.

Black slowly cocked his head and stared at Tod. His face had gone strangely gentle. A curious, tender expression played around his hard mouth.

“Now that’s interesting how you knew that, Tod. You boys only take one day off a week. Most of the time you’re up at your claims. You get together afterwards and talk about folks you didn’t see, is that it?”

Black crushed his beer can in one hand and placed it carefully on the porch. He stood, shrugged on his windbreaker, picked up his ice-chest, and walked away without another word.

When they couldn’t hear his footsteps any more, Tod said, “That one’s kind of a smart-ass, ain’t he? All’s I said was—”

“What you suppose he’s lookin’ for that fella for?” put in Joe Morgan. “What’d he say his name was?”

“Black,” said Larry Dobbs.

“No, not him. The one he’s lookin’ for. Some kinda wop.”

“I bet his name ain’t Black,” said Phil Boyer.

“I bet he’s prob’ly a wop, too,” said Joe Morgan.

“Maybe not,” said Tod Spencer. “He’s got the Jew look to ’im.”

“If I was that Micchiche,” said Rudell Foster, “I don’t believe I’d care to have that fella Black lookin’ for me.”