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

“Now don’t you start tellin’ me she’s too good for me. I get enough of that from her. I spread my action around where it’s appreciated, an Louise can like it or lump it. You, too, partner. Just tell me yes or no on the apartment.”

“Yes.”

“That’s more like it, partner. Now you’re pitchin’ a strong game. You’re — say! What’s today? Tuesday?”

“Wednesday, now.”

I could hear Tony slapping at his pockets, and his penlight came on again. “Last time I talked to the limejuicer she gimme a fat hint her birthday’s this Friday. I’ll bull Bronson into lettin’ me have somethin’ out’ve his stock at wholesale. I saw a pin an’ earring set in one of the displays the other night—”

The curtain rustled again as Tony disappeared beyond it.

I chewed on my lower lip. I wondered why I’d said yes about the loan of the apartment, and I didn’t like the train of thought it generated. Louise — we’d said we were through with that. We’d said we were going to find a better way.

Inside the shop I could see the quicksilver gleam of Tony’s penlight-beam reflected from crystalware and jewelry. I shook my head. Sometimes it seemed that Tony—

And then a light came on inside. I stared in paralyzed disbelief as a single flourescent ceiling-tube came on and brightened the showroom. My heels slammed hard into the floor as I propelled myself from the stool. Had Tony lost his damn mind?

I reached the curtain in a scrambling slide. Everything was blurred to eyes dilated by darkness. I could see Tony’s chunky body at a showcase from which he had whirled to stare blankly at a figure in black mask and dark clothing, standing just inside the opened front door. I could see the gloved right hand still on the light switch and wirecutters in the left hand.

Tony lunged across his chest instinctively for the automatic still lying inside on the watchmaker’s bench. Metal glinted darkly as a gun appeared in the black-masked intruder’s right hand. In desperation, Tony raised his arm to throw the penlight, his only weapon. The gun in Black Mask’s hand cracked twice, blue flame jetting.

Tony’s uplifted arm seemed to fall in sections as his knees slackened. A gout of crimson spurted from his forehead as he went over backward to the floor. I burst through the curtain, the gun I didn’t remember drawing in my hand. I fired and stumbled over a foot-stool in the same instant Black Mask’s arm swung to confront me.

The dark-clothed figure was already backing out the door, but the small-caliber gun snapped viciously. I felt a searing touch my wrist. I rolled over, digging with my knees for leverage. I heard the gun go off again, and the overhead fluorescent tube shattered. The room went dark, twice as dark after the light. Tiny glass particles cascaded floor-ward in a tinkling shower.

I surged up in a half-crouch in the silence that followed. I sensed that Black Mask was gone. I knew I should be instantly in pursuit, but the way Tony had fallen...

I plunged across the floor on hands and knees, below the window level. Glass fragments crunched under me. I could hardly see at all. Then I touched Tony. Frantically I removed the penlight from his relaxed hand, and when it came on the hard little core of light emblazoned the bright splash of blood on the forehead and the crimson, trickling worms on the swarthy, still features.

“Tony!” I said urgently. My hands raced to his heart, pulse, and temple with an increasing sinking sensation. I couldn’t feel a thing. I sat back slowly on my heels, my hands shaking.

Tony Costanza was dead.

And Black Mask, who had killed him, was six inches and forty pounds short of measuring up to the only man who should have come through that baited door.

I never knew how long I remained in my cramped, heel-sitting position. I straightened awkwardly, finally, my leg muscles almost rigid. I waited for impaired circulation to speed up while my mind still tried to take it all in.

Tony Costanza dead?

It couldn’t be.

The swaggering, rough-riding, hard-drinking man; the frosty-eyed, tough-talking, hardbitten cop — Tony dead?

Impossible.

But there among the floor shadows, the darker shadow of Tony’s body said that it was true.

My hands knotted tightly. When I found Black Mask, I’d damn well settle up a few scores. I’d — I pulled myself up short. Find Black Mask? I’d never get a chance to look. There wasn’t a chance in the world of explaining the situation to Lieutenant George McDonald. Or to anyone else in the department. Mickey Hanrahan would be up on charges so fast I’d never get my breath. And then it would be back to riding a patrol car, if I didn’t get busted out completely.

I drew a long, quivering breath. Where had it gone wrong? It had to be the man we’d been looking for. Was I sure of what I’d seen? It had been all action and movement. The killer had been masked. Was I sure it wasn’t the right man?

Call up, I prodded myself.

Call Jigger.

If it’s the right man, maybe there’s still a chance.