Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

An idea struck him before a bullet. Letting go of the can, treading water, he removed his jacket. With less than a quarter of a mile to go, surely he could make it alone. Gradually he worked his coat off. On the shore a vehicle plowed into the sand. Then a bright light began to sweep the bay. A change in tactics, but it might buy him the time he needed.

When the jacket came off, he tied it around the can, then paddled away. As he headed toward the shore, the can began to drift to the right, bobbing up and down in the water like a giant fishing float.

When less than a hundred yards separated him from the can, it was caught in a light. Seconds later a shot rang out and then another. He heard a ping as the can jerked. He half expected the can to go up in flames, but it only did that in James Bond movies.

Suddenly the light was extinguished and he heard nothing but nature. The water struck him as warm, and the waves seemed to play across his face like a baby’s friendly hand. It didn’t take him long till he could stand up. Then he found himself trying to run through the waist-deep water.

He guessed it was about three o’clock when he pulled himself up on the beach. The air felt hot and moist. He took off his trousers, wrung them out, and put them back on. How long would his ruse work? Just before he had crossed the bridge to the island, he had seen a sawdust restaurant and a payphone on the wall just beside the NEHI sign.

He walked north, too tired to jog. Maybe he should go south, get as far away as possible. No, he had to make the call, to divulge what he saw on the island. After all, there had been some prominent people involved, and he had followed them all the way there. He tried to remember the name of the town, but nothing came to him. He cursed softly. How could he recall the stupid NEHI sign and not the town’s name? Jerkwater, Florida. That would do.

He was feeling a craving for a cigarette when he heard the vehicle. A jeep. A jerkwaterite? No, most of them were retirees or fishermen, both of whom would be in bed early and not up until dawn.

Then he saw the headlights and a light that was playing across the silent bay. He moved inland, through a clump of scrub pine. Working his way slowly, he passed the jeep, careful not to step on anything that didn’t look dead. Then he was back on the road, his bare feet thwacking on the cool tar and his chest pounding. (Was that some kind of revenge for his wanting a cigarette? Beneath the light of a single bulb, he spotted the combination oyster bar, gas station. Nobody around. He could see his reflection in the plate-glass window — long neck, bony shoulders, sunken eyes. He looked like a sick crane.

Change. He fumbled in his pocket. Nothing. His wallet was gone too, not that anyone would change a bill now. On the side of the building he found a soft-drink machine. He punched the buttons — the machine had everything but Nehi.

A quarter dropped out, then a dime. It was better than winning in Vegas.

The quarter was just clanging through the phone when the jeep’s engine startled him.

The big redhead washed the last of Tuesday’s grit from his rough skin. He was tired, as tired as he’d been in a long time. The hot water massaged him making him able to feel in places he thought the day had killed off. How long, he wondered, could he stay in the shower? Forever? No, in another minute the hotel’s hot water tank was going to run out, and the water would be cold. He’d settle for a Martell straight, then off to bed for some much-needed sleep.

Faintly he heard a noise. His ears were ringing. No, it was the telephone. He sighed, pulled himself out of the shower, threw a towel over his body. He picked up the phone beside his bed.

“Mike, Mike,” panted the familiar voice of Tim Rourke. “I need your help.” Shayne heard a dog yelp and what sounded like a boat in the distance.

“Tim,” he said, “what is it? Where...”

“You’ve got to come... no... Nehi...”

A gagging sound and the phone went dead.

II

Shayne was instantly awake. Within seconds all the tiredness vanished. He put on a pot of coffee, and by the time it was ready, so was he. Lacing his cup with some Martell, the redhead sipped the brew and thoughtfully tugged at his earlobe.

One fact: Tim was in trouble. That certainly hadn’t been him hanging up. Second, no trace was possible. So where the hell was Tim? It had been a week since he’d seen his reporter friend at the Beef House. Last Tuesday they had chatted half-way through the night at the journalist’s booth in the rear, downing enough Hennessey’s to drive its stock up. What had they talked about? The Superbowl, skindiving, the new Betamax at Tim’s office. Everything and nothing. The investigator replayed the whole evening through his mind, certain that neither one had said a thing about what they were working on.

Shayne began to make calls. So what if he woke up a few people. The stakes were worth it.