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

I hurried to the telephone on the watchmaker’s bench inside the curtain. A faint hope burgeoned as I dialed. Hope, and the beginning of anger.

If Jigger had fallen asleep...

If our man had slipped past him...

The click came in the middle of the first ring. “Yeah? Who is it?” Jigger’s hoarsened voice, souvenir of an elbow in the throat during a street fight, was unmistakable. My grip on the receiver slackened. Jigger hadn’t been asleep.

I had to clear my throat before I could find my voice. “It’s Hanrahan.”

“Oh, yeah, boss. We knockin’ off, I hope?”

I circled dry lips with the tip of my tongue. “Anything new on your end?”

“Not a thing, boss. Your boy’s never even rolled over since he tucked it into the quilts at eleven thirty.”

So it hadn’t been the man we’d been watching, which meant it could have been anyone. Even if I had a chance to go after him, I’d be looking for a masked man I’d be unable to recognize. A masked man who had had a damn good look at me.

Frustration bubbled within me. Come on, I jibed at myself. Was I going to lie down and roll over for this? Get yourself in gear, man.

“Hold on a minute, Jigger,” I said. I turned my head and spoke away from the mouthpiece. “What’d you say, Tony?” I backed away and deepened my voice, a palm partly covering the mouthpiece. “Tell the little wart I want to see him tomorrow.” I leaned back into the phone. “Tony says—”

“I heard him, boss.” The rasping voice was respectful. “Tell him I’ll be at the usual place.”

“We’re leaving now.”

I stared down at the replaced phone, conscious that my lips were drawn back from my teeth.

Well, Hanrahan? You’ve made up your mind already? That’s quick work. Your partner’s turning cold on the floor inside because of your stupidity, but you’re already building bridges to get out from under. You’re a nice guy, Hanrahan. You’ll go far.

Ahhhh, stop it, you fool, I told myself sharply. So we’d been waiting for the wrong man, and Tony had been killed. It could have been me. Would it do anyone any good if I sat down and waited to get struck by the official lightning?

The fermenting brew in my mind drove me from the workbench out into the shop again.

I came to a dead stop.

Louise!

I winced at the thought of her. For weeks I’d carefully compartmented Tony and Louise in my thinking. Tony was my partner. Louise was — well...

What was I going to do about Louise? She knew where we were, and why. When the official knock came on her apartment door, if she spoke incautiously, it would put the lid on any covering up Mickey Hanrahan hoped to do.

I stood for a moment, listening to my own breathing. It was simple, really. I had to talk to her first. I couldn’t turn a wheel until I knew what Louise Constanza’s reaction would be.

I returned to the telephone and stood beside it.

What are you worrying about, Hanrahan? You know what her reaction will be. She’ll back you up all the way. No, that’s not good enough. You only think you know. Go on, pick up the phone. How much time do you think you have? You’re a big boy now. Pick up the phone and tell her. If you’re looking for an easy way, there isn’t any.

I grabbed at the phone with an animal sound, then dialed furiously with a stabbing forefinger. The phone rang four times before Louise’s sleepy “hello” came faintly from the depths of slumber. Little nerve prickles ran through me at the sound of the warm, drowsy voice.

“Louise—” I said strongly, and then my throat closed up.

“Mickey? It is you?” Her voice was stronger. “Why are you calling at this time of night?”

I tried again. “Louise—” I pushed my face into the mouthpiece. “Tony—”

I could hear the hissing intake of her breath. “Tony? He’s — hurt?” She continued on before I could speak, every drop of emotion squeezed from her voice. “You’d never have called if he was hurt. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“He—” I tried to think of some other way to say it. “Yes.” The silence built up for so long I was afraid she had fainted. “Louise!”

“I’m here. Did you kill him, Mickey?”

Anger flared from my hair to the soles of my feet. “No, goddammit, I didn’t! Don’t talk foolishness!”

“You’re sure? When we talked about finding a way—”

“Will you start making sense? It was the stakeout.” I gestured at my surroundings. “It went wrong.”

“Please God you’re telling me the truth. Ohhhh, I can’t think! What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take him out of here.”