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

On that third day of March, at ten o’clock in the evening, Pedro Orgaz sat in his office at the Upstairs Room, drumming his fingers upon the desk-top. A half-empty bottle of Canadian Club stood on the desk near the drumming fingers, as did a sizable shot-glass. Senor was waiting for Bill Grant. He poured whiskey into the shot-glass, gulped, and made his third phone call within the past half hour.

“Everything okay?” he said into the phone.

“Sure, for Chrissake. What’s with the phone calls? What’s with so nervous?”

“I just want to be sure.”

“You can be sure, big brother.”

“Do it slow. Make it last. A long, slow job. You know?”

“Leave it to Little Dee. Little Dee is going to enjoy.”

There was a knock on the door.

Senor hung up.

“Who?” he called.

“Bill Grant.”

“Come in. Come in.”

Grant entered, smiled. “Check me in, Senor.”

“Billy.”

Grant continued to smile as he crossed the office to the desk. “Yes.”

“You got a job to do for me, Billy.”

“Yes, Senor?”

“Little Dee is sick. Caught up with one of them little bugs or something. Just called up. He was supposed to bring the loot for the till for tonight. We got a little but we need plenty more. He’s over by his cottage. You know where Little Dee’s cottage is.”

“Of course I do. We’ve had some pretty good parties there, haven’t we? Little Dee’s a bachelor who knows how to live.”

“Would you like a drink, Billy-boy?” Senor asked.

“Too early for me.”

Senor had a drink. He wiped his hand across his mouth. “Okay. You go over to Little Dee. He’s got fifty thou over there for the bank here. Go over and pick it up. He’s waiting for you. Bring it back here and we break it up for the tables. And don’t get lost with my fifty thou.”

“That crazy I’m not, Senor.”

“I know, Billy-boy. You’re too smart to be stupid. Now come on. Get moving.”

“Twenty minutes, pal,” Grant said. He went out, closing the door quietly.

Senor had another drink, sat drumming the desk-top. In an hour, and it would be done. In an hour, it would be finished. In an hour, Little Dee would have had his fun, and would be out to sea, and he, Senor, could quit this office and have the pleasure of finishing the job. He looked at his watch. One hour. One hour...

Pedro Orgaz was fifty-three years of age. He was a Spanish-American, born in Montreal, who had married a woman of wealth, and transferred his criminal activities to the United States.

He owned one of the most lucrative gambling setups in Miami and his brother, Little Dee, was his second in command. Senor had grown to be a big man in the town, a rich and solid citizen. His wife had borne him three sons in quick succession, and within ten years he had amassed a fortune of his own. He had his affairs, but always discreetly, and unsuspected by his wealthy wife. He hand-picked his girl-friends. He propositioned them and if they agreed he paid them liberally.

He used them until he tired of them, and when he did, he dismissed them with an enormous gift of money and a plane ticket for a faraway city. His respectability had to be guarded at all costs; his wife must continue to think him faithful, devoted to her alone. He dared not risk a divorce court exposure, with all that would follow in its wake. His wife had powerful friends and relations.

He never had any difficulty with any of his girls. He never suffered embarrassment from any of his passing amours. The girls, on their part, understood their situation. Nobody had held a club to them. They knew with whom they were dealing. Senor Pedro Orgaz. A big man, a rich man, an important man, an owner of an illegal gambling casino, and consequently a dangerous man. He had never had embarrassment — until Evangeline Ashley.

Too frequently, she was not there when he called. He had his moments and he came when he pleased. Too frequently late evenings, she was not there. Too frequently, afternoons, on her days off, she was not there. He did not equate these times with Bill Grant’s days off (two each week); he had not the remotest idea of any relationship between Bill Grant and Evangeline Ashley; he did not think of Bill Grant at all in this personal quandary. But he did, at length, become suspicious of Evangeline Ashley. He was, at this time of his life, almost prudent; a man of fierce pride, he was, at this time of his life, slow to wrath; but a niggling pique had begun to eat within him.

He wanted to know but there was no one he could trust for the assignment except Little Dee, and he had to tell Little Dee, and Little Dee’s amused cynical expressions of sentiment added flame to the pique. Little Dee was out on watch and Little Dee reported — Bill Grant.

Senor could not believe. Senor had to see for himself. And Senor saw for himself and flaming pique burst into killing fury, long-quiescent. They were laughing at him — and their laughter, unheard, was heard by him, and his stomach coiled in hate. Like all of the ignorant and unlearned, swelled to pomposity, he had a dread and a hatred of being laughed at.