I Come to Kill You Page 2

  Mercedes lay face down, her dark hair loose. Sarah was reversed, her head toward the foot of the bed. She still wore her emerald necklace. There was lipstick on her teeth. She watched Shayne through her artificial eyelashes.

  “Tell me, is the magic working?”

  He seemed to consult an internal adviser. “I think so.”

  He came to his feet and located the cognac. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after drinking, and lit a cigarette. He extended the package to Sarah.

  “I couldn’t move,” she said. “I may stay right here for twenty-four hours.”

  He smiled at her through the smoke. “All right? Just checking.”

  “God, you’re a lovely man.”

  “You two seemed to have lots in common.”

  “She’s sweet. Mercedes, are you listening to me?”

  The other girl remained motionless, snoring slightly. Shayne went to the bathroom, leaving the door open, and stepped into the shower. He remembered too late that he was smoking a cigarette, and threw it away. When he came out he toweled himself briskly, did a dozen fingertip-pullups in the doorway while Sarah watched, and borrowed her hairbrush to use on his rough hair. His clothes had ended up in different corners of the room. He retrieved them and dressed.

  “Do you want me to make an effort?” Sarah said.

  “No, I have to watch the dealers for a while, see if I can spot one who’s just going through the motions.”

  “Have luck,” she said softly.

  He filled his pocket flask with cognac. Before corking the bottle he sprinkled some on Sarah’s stomach.

  “That makes you my girl.”

  He saluted her with a confident circle with his thumb and forefinger, unlocked the door, and tossed the key on the bed.

  There was even more of a jam in the casino than when he had been there earlier. He moved through the crowd without hurrying, an unlighted cigarette between his lips. A small tense man slid into his path and snapped a lighter.

  Shayne accepted the light without thanking him. “What are you doing here, Larry?”

  “Like everybody else. Mike, I want to talk to you.”

  Shayne had given him only a glance, to identify him. Larry Zito, known as the Doctor in newspaper stories, did most of the Miami Beach loan-sharking. His nickname referred to the early days when he carried his cash in a doctor’s bag. He had been loose in those days, everybody’s friend, but as he rose in the ranks he had become more and more jumpy, and now everything about him seemed to be in constant motion—his hands, his moustache, his eyes. He was small and quick, with a largish paunch, which he usually made a practice of kneading when he was sitting down.

  “I don’t feel like talking now, Larry,” Shayne said quietly.

  “Believe me, I know the feeling,” Zito assured him. “But you’ve got to stand still and listen to me while I make a few remarks, or I’ll get some help.”

  Shayne still didn’t look at him directly. “I know I owe you. I don’t need any reminders. You’ll get your money.”

  “I know I’ll get it, Mike,” Zito said reasonably, “it’s a matter of how. Come over here out of some of this uproar.”

  Shayne swore. He picked a glass off a tray being carried past by a scantily clad waitress, emptied the ice cubes, and half-filled it with cognac.

  “Just don’t put on any pressure. I’m at a point where it wouldn’t take much.”

  Zito was smoking a miniaturized cigar. He motioned with it.

  They went across the big room to a carpeted staircase, and down to a dimly lit lounge. A muscular blue-jowled man wearing a striped blazer and a badge saying, “Mr. Maxwell, Security,” stepped aside and let them through a door marked “Employees Only.” They entered a two-stall lavatory.

  “About the only place you get any privacy around here,” Zito said. “I don’t like to shout business in public. I saw you earlier with a broad. You notice I waited. Don’t bother to thank me.”

  In a quick two-handed motion, he clapped Shayne under the arms to make sure he wasn’t carrying a pistol. Completing the motion, he opened his own jacket, to show an automatic in a shoulder holster.

  “Not putting muscle on you, Mike. Just want to make sure you get the picture.”

  Shayne’s eyebrows had drawn together in a scowl, and Zito stepped back quickly, his hand going to his lapel.

  “Now, Mike, I do it this way because I know you’re a man with a good pair of balls. Use your head and stay out of the hospital.”

  Shayne drank from his cognac glass, set it on the glass shelf over the wash basins, and turned to use the urinal.

  “Don’t show me the gun again unless you’re planning to use it. What’s all the excitement? With the vigorish running at twelve percent a month—”

  “On paper, Mike. And let me point out to you, I haven’t seen any twelve percent a month. I made you a loan for a definite two-month period—sixty days, to be picky—and at the end of those sixty days I like to see the green stuff coming back in. And you don’t even give me a buzz and ask for an extension.”

  “I’m working on it,” Shayne said evasively.

  “I do sincerely hope so. I didn’t want to lay that eight on you in the first place, but I decided I better because I thought you still had some worthwhile connections. Me and my big mouth, I happened to mention to a couple of people you were late getting it back, and that makes it semi-public. If I let you get away with it, everybody else thinks likewise. My action’s way down because of the situation. I want to wind this up, and I’m prepared to be fair.”

  Shayne picked up the cognac and drank again, his face unfriendly. “Doc, you’re a pain in the ass. What’s your definition of fair?”

  “I can’t take people to court, can I? I got to rely on my own enforcement, but at the same time you know and I know that with Michael Shayne, because of what the name used to mean to the people of Miami, I’m walking on eggs.”

  “Don’t shoot me,” Shayne said bleakly. “That’s good business advice.”

  “And don’t I know it,” Zito said, rubbing his face unhappily. “But I can’t let it slide, either. How much have you got on you?”

  “Not enough.”

  “I know that, for God’s sake. What, a couple of grand?”

  “Less than that.”

  “And you think you’re going to run it to ten, and get off the hook.” Zito shook his head pityingly. “I used to think you had brains. Give me a grand to prove good faith. When you get back to the mainland, I want to see you sell your car. With all those gadgets, you ought to net a couple of grand, minimum. There are creeps who’d pay that so they could work it into the conversation that they’re driving around in Mike Shayne’s car.”

  “I need it to work.”

  “Your working days are over, let’s face it. You still got a few friends, you can raise another couple. Give me five for now and three more at some later date. What I’m saying to you, I’m ready to wipe the vigorish off the books. The Don tells me I ought to, in the interest of peace and harmony. Tell me if you could ask for a better deal.”

  Shayne made a menacing gesture, and Zito went on, speaking fast, “Don’t say something you’ll want to take back later. Look at it from my side of the table. Here you have this crazy private dick, not too bad a guy, not one of those bug-outs who think anybody with some Sicilian in his ancestry ought to be stuck in the can, automatic. He’s short of cash. The banks have cut off his credit so he looks for Larry Zito, who extends him the loan against his better judgment. And he defaults! He drags it out and don’t even come to see me, and I get the word from my friends that he’s snickering at us.”

  “I haven’t been laughing much lately,” Shayne said soberly.

  “Let me finish. With everybody flapping about this Meister killing, we want to stay out of the spotlight if it’s in any way possible. The shylock business right now, it’s down to zero. Half my people are staying indoors, and the other half are out on some fantastic bail. Pray God it wo
n’t happen”—his eyes jumped—“but if Mike Shayne, who everybody knows is having problems with the Beach shylocks, is picked up some dark night with his head shot off—”

  He cut it off there. His hand remained near his gun. The threat was clearly implied, and the Michael Shayne of the Miami legend had always reacted explosively to threats. But that Michael Shayne hadn’t ever borrowed eight thousand dollars from loan sharks. He said mildly, avoiding Zito’s eyes, “Shylocks have to enforce. I don’t argue with that.”

  Zito continued, a little shrilly, “What I’m saying is that if there’s a way out that won’t be too hard on anybody, why not? That’s why I’m willing to forget the vig, as much as it goes against the grain.”

  “I pay my debts,” Shayne said. “I just want to try this tonight, O.K.? Hell, I’ve been taking chances all my life. I happen to believe in hunches, and when I seem to have a modest little streak going, I’ve got to back it, Larry, or give up, pull out for good. Think back. Didn’t you ever have a time when you could play something one of two ways? Either safe, or screw the percentages and go all out. And I know which way you went. Otherwise you’d be living in a little two-by-four house in Coral Gables, complaining about crime in the streets and the rise in the cost of living.”

  “Which might not be too bad a life,” Zito said.

  He studied the big man curiously, his hand no longer near his gun. After a moment he said gently, “Well, go ahead, then, knock your head on the wall. I must be getting sentimental or something. Because you know you can’t win, Mike. When you’ve got to win, you lose. In my business, believe me, I see it all the time.”

  “Tonight I’m going to break the rules.” Shayne smiled broadly. “Talk about hunches—I had a hunch that if I kept my temper and laid it out for you, you’d break down and act human. You’re not as much of a prick as people tell me.”

  “Thanks,” Zito said dryly.

  “You won’t regret this, Larry. I mean it, because I’m going to pay you the whole goddamn thing, every penny. Just don’t keep looking over my shoulder. I need a little open space. Room to swing.”

  He finished his drink and left the glass on the shelf. “I just want to do one thing, to get me back in the mood.”

  He turned the doorknob carefully and drove the door against the back of the guard outside. He was on top of the man before he could recover, and brushed him off, apologizing. Zito, nervous again, watched from the doorway.

  “Now, don’t worry, you’ll get your money,” Shayne told him, and walked away.

  3

  He was several thousand ahead when he felt Sarah’s cool hand on his neck.

  “You seem to be doing all right.”

  Shayne continued to concentrate on the cards in the dealing slot. “Where’s Mercedes?”

  The dark girl answered behind him. “Right here, Mike, cheering for you.”

  He looked around and gave one of her full breasts a squeeze. “What great tits, no kidding.”

  “Now, you cut that out.”

  Shayne shook his flask, drank off what was left, and handed it to Sarah.

  “Just in time to get me a refill.”

  Shayne was playing two hands. There were four others at the table, but they didn’t matter. It was between Shayne and the dealer, an indifferent young man with oiled hair, quick hands, and a professional pallor. He was betting by the book. He had hesitated only once, when Shayne stood on a hand totaling fourteen. He made the percentage move, went over, and paid Shayne seven hundred dollars.

  Shayne’s run continued.

  He ordered the two girls to stay behind his chair, reaching back to touch them from time to time. They became more and more excited as the chips continued to flow from the dealer to Shayne. Shayne raised his bets, and went on winning. The dealer made another mistake on a judgment play, and Shayne caught a very faint vibration: the dealer wasn’t unhappy to see the house losing.

  And immediately after that, Shayne was beaten four times in a row.

  Mercedes whispered, “Out, Mike?” but Sarah told him excitedly, “Hang in there, it’ll come back. I love you.”

  Shayne lost again.

  A voice said behind him, “Gambling again. What kind of example is this for the Greater Miami Cub Scouts?”

  Shayne looked around, surprised.

  It was Timothy Rourke, the long, lean crime reporter on the Miami Daily News. He was sucking at a swizzle stick, being in the midst of one of his frequent and unavailing attempts to give up cigarettes. He swayed drunkenly and bumped Sarah, causing her to spill some of her drink on Shayne.

  “Excuse, please,” Rourke said. “I’ve been watching that roulette ball go around and around and around and around…”

  “Are you down here on a story?” Shayne asked.

  “I’m always working,” Rourke declared. “Writing my semiannual Mafia series. Do you know who owns this operation, through a dummy corporation in Panama? Come to think of it, you’re the one who told me… Mike, I’ve got a plane to catch. Two minutes of your valuable time.”

  “Not now, Tim. I’ve got a streak going.”

  “Card?” the dealer called.

  Shayne turned and asked to be hit. A face card came snapping out of the deck.

  “You got me,” he said. “I’ve got to take care of this drunk here. Mercedes, hold my place. I’ll be back.”

  He stacked his chips, gave each girl a handful, and pocketed the rest. Sarah dropped one of the chips and had to go down to chase it. She was flushed with excitement.

  “Mike Shayne, you’re absolutely the most marvelous—”

  She took his arm, but he shook her off roughly. “Didn’t I tell you I don’t like to be handled?”

  He walked off with Rourke, who observed, “That’s one chick I wouldn’t mind being handled by. Correction. Those are two chicks I wouldn’t mind being…”

  “Sleep over, and maybe I can get you included, Tim. They like me.”

  “You just handed them about a grand apiece, man,” Rourke said. “Why wouldn’t they like you?”

  “I’ll buy you a drink, but organize your thoughts. I’ve got to get back before I cool off.”

  “It seems to me that already started.”

  “No, I’ve got a dealer who wants to stick it to the management, for some reason. That doesn’t happen too often. What are they having, labor trouble?”

  “Competition. Let’s do this in camera, Mike. The room they gave me is really a linen closet, but we can both squeeze in if you don’t take any deep breaths.”

  Shayne turned toward the bar. “No. You said two minutes. I’m clocking you.”

  “Mike, come on, don’t be a horse’s ass, will you?”

  Shayne found a place at the heel of the crowded bar and ordered bar cognac. Rourke asked for rye with a beer chaser. “You look terrible,” he said objectively. “What’s the expression? Death warmed over.”

  “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

  “Damn it, will you stop hammering?” Rourke kept his voice low, just loud enough for Shayne to hear it in the general babble. “I’m not your Aunt Tilly, for Christ’s sake. I don’t care how little sleep you get or how much you drink or how many chicks you take to bed at the same time…”

  “Don’t knock it before you try it,” Shayne said.

  “How was it, incidentally?”

  “Different.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it, but why did you have to be so damn public? You couldn’t throw a paper airplane in that casino without hitting somebody from Miami. Maybe they’d all like to get a little of that multiple sex, but they’re too tied up to come out and say so.”

  “They’ll have to work out their problems with no help from me. Will you get to the point, Tim?”

  The bartender brought their drinks. Shayne leaned down to meet the glass as it came up, and drank thirstily.

  “Mike,” Rourke said. “Mike, old buddy. You can trust me. What in the name of God is going on?”

  “Nothing mys
terious. I’m just trying to enjoy myself for a change.”

  “I know you better than that. You’re up to something.”

  “Am I?” Shayne said wearily.

  “Because if you’re not,” Rourke said, “if you don’t realize what this kind of crap is doing to the image—”

  “I haven’t been getting much mileage out of it lately. From now on I intend to do what I like, and not what the public expects.”

  “I’m for that,” Rourke agreed. “But by the same token, you’ve built up a certain—I don’t know how to say this without sounding like the worst type of square—a certain reputation, Mike. Leaving everything else aside, it’s money in the bank. Do you really want to throw it away? Now, don’t just stand there grinding your teeth. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t—”

  Interrupting, Shayne said brutally, “And if clients stop calling me up, what happens to Tim Rourke? Everybody knows I’ve been carrying you for years.”

  Rourke said carefully, “In vino veritas, is that it? You’re crocked, Mike.”

  “I’m not so crocked I don’t know the score,” Shayne said, drinking again. “Why does the paper pay you that salary? Because you write better than other people? Literary style has never been your big thing. They keep you on the staff because I let you follow me around. Nothing to be ashamed of. It only gets bad when you start kidding yourself.”

  Rourke sagged against the bar. “Mike—”

  Shayne’s knuckles whitened as he squeezed the glass. “All I’m pointing out is that when you want to keep me in operation you’ve got your own axe to grind. You’re the Shayne specialist, and you don’t want to lose your meal ticket. That’s natural. But I’ve got a new policy. I’m going to start telling the truth, and the hell with whether or not it hurts. And that includes the truth about the famous private detective who never lost an important case. Look at the competition, for God’s sake. The Miami and Miami Beach police force and the state highway patrol. Strictly bush.”

  “There’s no point in talking if you’re going to be that stupid. We all have our bad days, but keep it in proportion.”

  Shayne made a gesture of controlled fury. “I was lucky for a long time, and I was fool enough to think I had something to do with it. God help me, I got a kick out of being recognized. Don’t try to con that man, because that’s Mike Shayne. The one-man army. He can outdrink, outfight, outscrew—You and the rest of the media jerks, you’re the ones who got me that reputation, and do you want to know the part that really bugs me? This idea that I can soak up cognac for a week on end, fifth after fifth, and be just as good in bed, just as fast on my feet—Tonight I’m going to prove I’m human.” He rattled his glass. “I’m going to go on drinking this stuff until I fall down.”