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

As Carlos toppled to the pavement, Shayne got to his knees. He drew back his fist, but a slightly recovered Fernando leaped on his back, wrapping his steely arms around the redhead’s throat. Shayne stood up, gasping for breath as the Cuban tightened his death grip like a boa constrictor.

“Crush him,” the girl squealed. Turned on, she was out for blood.

Shayne started to spin, then stumbled backwards toward the Buick. With all his strength, he drove the husky Cuban into the Buick’s nose.

Fernando’s grip loosened and he screamed like his brother. With everything Shayne had left, he drove his right fist into Fernando’s face. He heard the Cuban’s nose crack, and the fight was over.

Hoisting the limp body over his shoulder, he pitched it into the Mercedes’ empty seat. The other bodyguard staggered toward the car, and Shayne just shoved him across the luggage area.

“You’d better take your watchdogs to the vet,” he said to the blonde.

“To the victor belongs the spoiled,” she said, her breasts heaving with excitement.

The redhead looked her in the eye. “I’ll settle for a little information. I was told your father’s out of town, Miss McCord. Where can I get hold of him?”

“Daddy and a few of his friends have taken a week off from the grueling rigors of polo to go over to the West Coast for some business.”

“Where exactly?”

“Manasota — no, Mangrove Key, an island off some little town — Portocall I think Daddy called it. A little south of Sarasota. That’s all I know.”

“Thanks for showing me how the other half lives,” Shayne said as he started for the Buick.

“Couldn’t I tempt you with a few pina coladas, a little swim, and... whatever?”

“If I’m ever into tennis or masochism, I’ll look you up.”

As Shayne got into his car, the blonde sulked, “What am I going to do if that guy comes back snooping around? Daddy got rid of the dogs and gave the help the rest of the week off. He cut off my allowance, so I can’t even go anywhere.”

Shayne’s ears perked up. “What did the snooper look like?”

“Skinny guy in a suit that doubles as a sleeping bag. Drove a car that was more beat up than that thing you’re in.”

Shayne headed the Buick west. He tugged at his earlobe. The cold trail was getting warmer.

IV

Even though the temperature and the humidity were in the eighties, Shayne normally would have enjoyed the drive cross state. But before he had reached West Palm and wound past Lake Okeechobee, he realized the longer it took him to find Tim, the greater the chances something bad had happened to his friend. So his accelerator was close to the floor as he passed Fort Myers and turned up 41.

Portocall was a tiny fishing village just below Venice, the kind of place that was usually gobbled up by tourists and retirees tired of the fast lane. Shayne pulled into the town and onto its only paved road. At the end of the street he spotted the sole sign of life. RUDY’S seemed to be everything the town needed — gas station, restaurant, general store.

As Shayne dragged himself out of the car, a black kid who had been sweeping the rotting stoop said, “Watch your car, mister?”

The detective looked around, then laughed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this isn’t exactly downtown Miami.”

The kid smiled and gestured at the Buick’s Dade County plates. “Just tryin’ to make a big city dude like you feel at home.”

“Where can I find the law around here?” Shayne had decided on the ride over to get all the help he could.

“You mean. Mr. Rudy. Sometimes he be the cook, sometimes the mayor, sometimes the hardware clerk. C’mon! I’ll introduce you to Chief of Police Rudy.”

The kid led him through a dark maze of tools and groceries till they came to a restaurant. Sprawled in the only booth was a spaghetti-thin man of about forty-five going on sixty. As they approached him, the man never looked up, but continued grinding his jaws on what the stains around his mouth suggested was the darkest chewing tobacco Shayne had ever seen.

“Mr. Rudy,” the lanky youth said, “this here fella be lookin’ for you.”

“James Edward, now you get back to work,” said the uncoiling figure as he finally looked up. “What can I do you for? Got oysters on special — course they’re always on special.”

“I understand you’re the law around here.”

“Duly elected.” He straightened up in his seat.

“I’m looking for a friend, Edward McCord.”

Rudy’s eyes widened. “McCord. You work with Mr. McCord?”

“Not exactly, but I need to speak with him. If you could—”

“Mr. McCord, he likes his privacy.”

Shayne watched the man rattle a coffee can with his spit, sensing his defensiveness.

“Now, you got business with Mr. McCord, you drive down to the bridge that goes over to his development.”

“Mangrove Key?”

“Yeah, but if you’re here to bother Mr. McCord, like some others, forget it. Portocall don’t need no trouble.”

The detective leaned his heavy frame over the table. “Are you his personal bodyguard or the Chief of Police?”