Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

He rolled down the windows as they traversed the bridge. It was hot-August but the hot breeze was cooling. The cab stopped at 33rd Street and Second Avenue.

“It’s one-way the other way,” the cabbie said. “You want to get out here, mister? Save you two-bits.”

“Sure,” said Blinney.

He paid and alighted. He walked to 233 East 33rd Street. It was an old brownstone with a new yellow-brick front. It had a seven-stepped stoop that led into a small, dim, hot, dank-smelling lobby. The name grant was printed in ink on a strip of cardboard in a narrow bracket above one of the bells.

Blinney pushed the bell, the buzz of a clicker, responded, and Blinney pressed his palm against a glass-panelled door which opened upon a steep wooden stairway. He climbed the stairs and knocked upon the door of 1A. “Come right in,” called the voice of Bill Grant.

Blinney opened the door and closed it behind him. Bill Grant was seated in a frayed easy chair. Bill Grant was smiling welcome but the gun in his hand negated the smile. It was a large gun. Blinney recognized the type. It was a Luger. The Luger was pointed at him.

“So good to see you,” said Bill Grant.

“Please don’t point that gun at me,” said Oscar Blinney.

“Mostly,” said Bill Grant, “it’s for effect.”

“It has made its effect.”

“The purpose was to startle you.”

“I am startled,” said Blinney.

“That was the primary purpose. There are secondary purposes.”

“So?” said Blinney.

“You know, you’re a cool one,” said Bill Grant. “I like that. That’s all to the good. It’ll work out to our mutual benefit.”

“Let’s get to the secondary purposes — if that will stop you from pointing the gun at me.”

“Secondary purposes are sundry,” said Bill Grant, “as follows, extraordinary circumstance. Reaction — excellent. I commend you.” He touched his free hand to his beard. “Second, to acquaint you with the fact that I own a gun. Third, to acquaint you with the fact that I know how to handle a gun. Fourth — and on this you must take my word — to inform you that if I shot you dead right now, it would not mean one goddamned thing to me. I have done it before, shot people dead. Clear, Mr. Blinney?”

“Clear,” said Blinney. “Would you now stop pointing the gun at me? Or better still, put it away.”

“Are you afraid of guns, Mr. Blinney?”

“Mortally,” said Blinney.

“Capital,” said Bill Grant, grinning approval. “You know, I like you, Mr. Blinney. I wasn’t certain whether I would. But I do. It makes matters so much more pleasant, dealing with people you like. You know?”

“I’m still uncomfortable, Mr. Grant.” Blinney pointed. “The gun.”

“But you’re quite a marksman yourself, aren’t you, sir?”

“How do you know?”

“I know, I know.” Grant’s head moved up and down. “I know so much about you, Mr. Blinney, I’m fairly leaking information. I’ve devoted the last six weeks of my life to you, Mr. Blinney. To you, almost exclusively.”

Grant lowered the gun, and his shoulders moved as he chuckled. “All right. Sit down. Over there.” He pointed to an easy chair facing his. “Sit, and let’s stop making with the charming palaver. We have serious talking to do, you and I.”

Blinney sat in the chair indicated.

Grant rose and placed the gun on a mantel behind his chair, returned to the chair, sat, slumped, crossed his legs and clasped his hands. “Where do you want me to begin, Mr. Blinney?” he said.

“Since I have no idea why I’m here, or what you want to begin — begin wherever you like, Mr. Grant.”

“Now you’re getting annoying, Mr. Blinney.” Grant unclasped his hands and straightened in the chair. “Don’t annoy me. I don’t like it.”

“What do you want of me, Mr. Grant? You called me. And how did you know to call me there?”

“Now come off it, pal. I told you I’ve practically been living on your tail these past six weeks. I know so much about you, it makes me sick. I know about your Mama and your Papa and why you were called Oscar and your fight-career and the bank and Alfred Hodges and Mr. McKnish and the Board of Directors and the fancy chick you’re living with. I know so much about you, Mr. Blinney, I’m regurgitating with it.”

“Why?” said Blinney.

Grant wrinkled his nose and his voice touched falsetto. “Because I’m going to help you, that’s why, Mr. Blinney.”

“Look,” said Blinney. “Are you in love with Evangeline? Is that what all this back-scratching is about? Because, if you are, first I want to tell you—”

“In love with that two-timing little tramp!” Grant’s eyes went round and he raised a hand and pushed it against the air as though holding something back. “Are you out of your mind? Look here, Mr. Blinney, you married that bum, not me. You married her, remember? And she’s trouble, big trouble, especially for a guy like you. And I’m here to get you out of your trouble.”

“How?” said Oscar Blinney. He rested his elbows upon the arms of the frayed easy chair and he touched the fingers of one hand to the fingers of the other.

“May I start at the beginning now?” said Bill Grant.

“Please do,” said Oscar Blinney.