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

His tone was an accusation. “He doesn’t have to stay in bed,” I pointed out grimly. “We’ve got Jigger out there hoping for advance notice, but this boy has fooled a lot smarter people than Jigger.” I watched while the thin beam of the flashlight probed restlessly at a corner of the workroom and came to rest upon the thin roll of a mattress pad. “Do you want to call it off?” I asked harshly.

“You’re the thinkin’ man, chief. Everyone knows I’m just the muscle in this outfit.” Tony’s mocking tone grated. “From my wife I get it now. Brains I should have, like Mickey. That’s what I get with my pasta. Brains I heard nothin’ about when I was courtin’ her on her old lady’s livin’ room couch. I’m not—”

“I asked you if you want to call it off.”

“Hell, man, d’ you blame me?” Tony’s tone was defensive. “It’s not like we were sent here. How long d’ you think we can keep the lid on? Bronson’s plenty itchy. He wants us out’ve here. An’ this character don’t show. He must have our action taped.”

“He can’t have it taped.” I tried to put all the weight of my conviction into my lowered tone. “He’s just being careful since he cashed in the watchman on the Merivale job. He’ll bite on this. Didn’t we tailor-make it for him?”

Tony’s grunt was noncommittal. He walked to the corner and picked up the mattress roll, then in three long strides disappeared with it through the shadow of the hanging curtain. I could hear the slight scraping sounds as he unrolled the mattress pad behind the counter inside the shop.

Tony was always like this on a stakeout, I reminded myself. It wasn’t nerves. Tony had no nerves, because he had no imagination. It was the inactivity that galled him. He didn’t mind losing an equivalent amount of sleep, but only in what he considered a better cause.

It had been a joke at first that night at Tony’s apartment when Louise, listening to us butt our heads together in frustration about the wave of jewelry store burglaries, had suggested a stakeout. But the second Tony and I looked at each other it jelled. This was the way. So it wasn’t authorized. Knock it over on its back and no one would say a word. This was a big one. Did we want to be answering poor-box robbery calls for the rest of our time on the police force?

I settled back upon the uncomfortable watchmaker’s bench that made keeping awake no problem. I eased the hot, clinging weight of my shoulder holster, then stretched to work cramped sinews. In the silence I heard a muscle pop.

Louise... I felt a warming sensation as my lips formed her name. I could almost see her tall, lithe figure and the cameo-smooth perfection of her ivory features with her brows forming black wings. I shut off the picture hastily.

One thing I had to give Tony: never before had we been this far out on a limb. Sure, we’d cut corners, but always with at least tacit authority. Georgie had a way of looking at the results. But just let Lieutenant George McDonald find Hanrahan and Costanza on an unauthorized stakeout on a case to which we hadn’t even been assigned, and he’d burn us right down to the stubble.

I hitched myself uneasily on the stool. Cut it out, I told myself roughly. Nothing’s going wrong. What’s to go wrong? The trap’s baited, and any time now — with just a little bit more patience — you’ll spring it.

The hanging curtain in front of me suddenly rustled and bulged, and the blood thudded in my ears until I recognized the shape of Tony’s head. I snatched my hand away from the grip of my .38 in its holster.

“Boy, you ’re asking for it!”

“Ahhhh, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded impatiently. I heard the sound of him shrugging out of his jacket. It was followed by the muffled thump of his automatic as he put it down on the bench. “Had to get out’ve that sling,” his heavy whisper informed me. “Chafin’ the hide off me whenever I moved.” There was the subdued squeak of the weapon being removed from the sweaty leather.

Tony continued in a low tone, half-wheedling, half-blustering. “How’s about usin’ your pad the first night we knock off this lousy detail?” I could almost see his grin, sheepishly defiant. “Nothin’ more cozy for a married cat than a bachelor partner with his own apartment.”

“Louise—” I began.

“The hell with Louise. Course, if she found out—” Tony paused. “Deliver me from narrow-minded women. Last time she like to holed me at the waterline.” He paused again. “This time it might be worth it. Did I tell you about the department store beef Georgie sent out on the other day? No? Well, I met this really stacked limejuicer in the office there. The works: the accent, an’ icicles on her nose when she looks down it. I phoned her a couple times since, an’ she hasn’t said no. I wanna see what happens to those icicles when I get head-to-head with her.”

“How do you expect Louise to put up with—”