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

The tape was of Channel 4’s news report about a group of wealthy aristocrats near Boca Raton whose lives were a constant whirl of cocktail parties, weekend junkets to the Bahamas, and weekly matches at the Sea Grape Polo and Country Club. One player, an ex-lawyer named Edward McCord, confessed his ambition was to have his own team and win the $100,000 world cup title the following April.

Tim had packed, Pat hadn’t seen him for a week, and only one of the three stories he was working on would have taken him out of Miami. The polo capital of the free world wasn’t much to go on, but it was all Shayne had.

III

By mid-morning Wednesday Shayne guided the Buick up A-1-A. The interstate had been quick, but the downtown area Boca Raton had been clogged with Rolls, Ferraris, and Mercedes. Shayne thought of Palm Beach’s Worth Ave. The people here were younger and flashier. The very rich were strange birds, Shayne thought, their migratory habits driven solely by an unnatural desire to be part of the “In crowd.” A few years ago it had been the South of France, then Southern California, and now the south of Florida.

The phone book listed only one McCord, Edward on the east side of the Intercoastal Waterway. As Shayne turned into Ponce de Leon Trail, he grinned at what the super-rich passed off as the fountain of youth. Lavish, columned houses amidst immaculate landscaping had sprung up overnight. Everything ready for a nouveau riche jetting in from East Orange or Bluefield — all he needed was a toothbrush and, of course, two million dollars.

McCord’s home, the largest, perched on the end of the cul-de-sac. Set behind an army of recently planted royal palms, the pink stucco palace made a definite statement about the ex-lawyer’s bank account and his taste.

Shayne reached out and rang the bell in front of a huge wrought-iron gate. An Hispanic voice came through the speaker. “Name?”

“Michael Shayne.”

“Business?”

“Personal.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Look, pal, I’m a P.I. out of Miami, and I need to see McCord urgently.”

“Mr. McCord is not in at the present. You will have to return later.”

His Irish temper starting to simmer, Shayne was surprised by a horn from behind him. Looking in the mirror, he spotted a virgin-white Mercedes and a blonde with a look in her blue eyes that made a liar out of the car’s color.

“Move the antique, fellow,” she ordered in a husky voice. “I’m in a hurry.”

Shayne got out of the Buick and walked back to her convertible. He noticed she was in her early twenties. “Maybe you can help me, miss.”

Without looking up, the well-tanned blonde in a low-cut tennis dress that would have caused even Borg to default, said simply, “Not interested.”

“I have a friend,” Shayne persisted, “who could be in trouble, and...”

She reached into her purse. “If I write you a check for that piece of junk, will you move it?”

Shayne grabbed the car door with both of his huge hands. For the first time the woman looked into the detective’s ruggedly handsome features. “On second thought,” she purred, flashing a smile that must have instantly turned small boys into men, “perhaps we could negotiate a deal. Mr...?”

“Shayne. Mike Shayne.”

A familiar Hispanic voice from the gate area interrupted them. “This creep bothering you, Miss McCord?”

The big detective turned to see two burly men who with their muscles bulging against their t-shirts looked like they lifted weights between skull-cracking sessions.

“Are you bothering me, Mr. Shayne?” she asked in a sultry tone.

He grinned. “That’s up to you.”

“He’s bothering me, Fernando.”

The larger of the two reached out for the redhead’s shoulder. “Man, you’d better move. See, it’s about time for me and Carlos here to put out the trash.” He smiled. “Come to think of it, me and my kid brother ain’t had no morning workout yet.”

Shayne started their session ahead of schedule. Spinning quickly, he locked both hands and caught the huge Cuban in the solar plexus. As Fernando doubled over in pain, Shayne simultaneously brought his right knee up into his opponent’s chin and his knotted hands down on the man’s back. Fernando screamed like a whipped dog and began cursing in Spanish.

“Pig,” yelled Carlos, rushing Shayne from behind. His charge caught the detective by surprise as did his speed for a big man. Shayne was only half-turned as the raging bull caught him and drove him across the Mercedes’ waxed hood. Before he could recover, Carlos’ sledgehammer right knocked him to the hot tar. Then the redhead felt a steel-toed shoe dig into his ribs.

Shayne rolled with the kick, but the Cuban kept coming.

“Nice move,” the blonde called. Shayne caught a quick glance of her entranced face. “Kick him again.”

When Carlos’ foot came, Shayne was ready. He grabbed it and twisted till he heard something pop.

“My knee,” whelped his adversary.