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

And they were laughing at him; the dapper, superior, smooth-talking Bill Grant was laughing at him; the cold, contemptuous superior college-girl was laughing at him. They would laugh on the other side of their faces. Fury became final and implacable. A violent nature needed release. And now Senor was drinking whiskey in his office and drumming fingertips on a desk-top...

On the third day of March, at ten minutes after ten of a humid moonless night, Bill Grant drove a black Cadillac onto the concrete driveway of Diego Orgaz’s ocean-front cottage by the sea in Miami Beach. He pulled up the brake, turned off the motor, switched off the lights, squirmed out of the car, slammed the car-door, walked lightly to the front door of the cottage, and touched his finger to the door-bell. At once Little Dee opened the door.

“Hi, Billy,” he said.

“Senor sent me for the cabbage.”

“Yeah, yeah, come in, come in.” Grant entered into a small foyer. Little Dee turned the lock on the door. “In the study,” he said. “You know the way. You been here before.”

“How do you feel Little Dee?”

“Fair. Caught up with one of them bugs.”

Little Dee wore brown moccasins, brown slacks, and a brown Basque shirt. In the roomy, pine-panelled study, Little Dee used a key to lock the door and dropped the key into a pocket of his slacks.

“Senor wants me back in twenty minutes,” said Bill Grant.

“Maybe it’ll take a little longer.”

“Senor said twenty minutes.”

“Okay. Okay.” Little Dee went to a desk, opened a drawer, and brought out an automatic.

“What the hell goes?” said Bill Grant.

“It will take more than twenty minutes,” said Little Dee.

“You out of your mind?”

“You’re out of your mind, Billy-boy.” Little Dee pointed the gun and came close to Bill Grant. Little Dee’s face was shining. Perspiration ran along the sides of his broken nose. His teeth gleamed in a happy smile. “It ain’t nice to make out with Senor’s girl. Senor don’t like it when a couple of double crossers laugh at him.”

“Who’s laughing?”

“You and that college-girl hooker, that’s who’s laughing. But you ain’t going to laugh no more, Billy-boy. Little Dee is going to break you up into a lot of little pieces, but nice and slow and easy, and you’re going to cry and cry. How’s it sound, Billy-boy?”

“Peachy,” said Bill Grant.

“And after I break you up a little bit, and cut you up a little bit, and you cry and cry, Little Dee is going to feel sorry for you, and put you out of your goddamn misery. Then Little Dee will wrap you up nice and comfy and take you out to the boat.”

Little Dee was close to Bill Grant. Little Dee towered above Bill Grant. Little Dee was an experienced torturer and an experienced murderer but Bill Grant was no slob in either department himself. Bill Grant tensed himself and watched carefully.

“What boat?” said Bill Grant.

“The boat like what will be your hearse,” said Little Dee.

Bill Grant watched. He did not have to jump Little Dee because Little Dee was not going to murder him, yet. To jump Little Dee would be an act of desperation, because Little Dee was obviously stronger, and Bill Grant could lose.

“Like how a boat for a hearse?” said Bill Grant.

“After I break you up a little bit, and cut you up a little bit, and you cry instead of laugh, and I put you out of your misery, I take you out to the boat, and I wrap chains all around you, and I take you way out to the deep, and I drop you in, and you sink, and the fishes will eat what’s left of you. Nice, huh?”

“Peachy,” said Bill Grant.

“So you want to laugh now, baby?”

Bill Grant watched. The gun twisted in the massive hand, held like a hammer now, butt protruding. Bill Grant’s face assumed a look of fear; he turned as though to run. The hand swiftly rose and fell in a powerful hammer-chop directed at Bill Grant’s head.

Bill Grant moved his head, just enough, as expert as an expert boxer; he let the gun hit, a sliding blow without effect, and now guile was added to his act. He screamed and fell and lay quivering and he heard the gritting laughter above him.

As Little Dee bent for a second chop, Bill Grant’s foot shot out in a crushing kick to the testicles, and as the big man fell back, grunting, Bill Grant was upon him, his switch-knife in his hand, and he plunged a six-inch blade into Little Dee’s groin, and cut upward, all the way to the diaphragm, and gas exploded from Little Dee’s stomach, and blood lumped the Basque shirt in a curious reddening bulge.

Little Dee stood quite still for a moment, teeth gleaming in a death-grin, no pain in his face, nothing but an expression of pure, almost child-like, surprise. The gun fell first. Then Little Dee fell, supine. And Bill Grant was upon him, stomping his high heels into the expression of surprise, stomping until there was no expression, until there was almost no face.