Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 3, February 1974

After the sorry twosome had left, the monster re-lit his cigar, poured another round of double hookers, sat back down and said: “Well, clods, what do you say? I think it’s time we got acquainted with the Caser and buy a piece of action from him. Are we agreed?”

“Suits me, jocko,” Little Manuel said amiably.

“Likewise,” I concurred.

Big Lefty beamed. “That’s fine,” he said. “You know, clods, it don’t digest well with me to be sitting around on my thumbs and laurels, whatever that is. I like to be up and about, doing things and making the scene. You know, we ain’t had our grubby little paws in the till for some time, and so I think we should do something about it.”

“Hear, hear,” I said.

“Amen,” followed Little Manuel.

“Good. I’m glad to see you clods are staying in the right frame of mind. Now,” he continued, smiling wolfishly at us, “each of you dig down and come up with one thousand six hundred sixty six dollars and sixty six and two thirds cents!”

“Awrrk! What in the hell for?”

“It’s to be your fair share of the five grand we pay the Caser for the setup, you dungheads!” he glared at us.

“Oh.”

“Echh!”

“Yeah. And when it’s over, I pull the fifty I gave Dixie Dan right off the top before we even talk about the split. Understood?”

“Ah— Okay with me.”

“Manuel?”

“What?”

“Understood?”

The little card-sharp shrugged, “Si,” He said. Then sighing, he added: “I’ll flip you gringos for that extra two-thirds cents.”

Five minutes later found us riding along in my white station wagon heading for the Royal to see the Caser. Although we had never before conducted any business with tire Caser, we knew of him, and of his reputation very well. This fellow went around and about the country casing banks, jewelery stores and anything else appealing to the underworld. When he lined out a job it was practically infallible, and if anything did go wrong during the operation, it was generally odds on that it was through some negligence or oversight on the taker’s part. For it was well known that the Caser makes few mistakes, if any.

After he checks a potential taking inside out, upside down and crosswise, the information is available to a professional taker for a reasonable price. And I’ve never heard of him having any dissatisified customers. He was considered a real artist in his line, and so we were a little more than anxious to get in his face.

I found a place to park about half a block from the main entrance of the Royal. We got out and made the short walk back. We crossed the gray-tiled floor of the lobby to the antique registration desk where the giant asked the goggle-eyed clerk for Mr. Brockman in room six-twenty. This desk clerk was obviously a homo, and he favored Big Lefty with what he probably considered his most charming smile.

“Yessir, big boy,” he cooed. “You may use that self-service elevator over there.”

Big Lefty grunted and the led the way to the elevator with Manuel and I smiling at each other behind him. With a frankfurter finger the giant punched the sixth floor button, and as the car ground slowly upward we stood in a semi circle smirking and chuckling until Lefty shook his head in hopeless resignation at our humor.

“I don’t know,” he said in apparent dispair, “how I ever got tangled up with you two oddballs.”

Little Manuel mocked the desk clerk’s effeminate voice: “You were just lucky, big boy. Teehee!”

I laughed and started to add my bit but Big Lefty cut me off.

“Never mind,” he snarled. “Here we are.”

The doors slid open and we walked down a long, green-carpeted corridor looking at room numbers. We found six-twenty on the left at the far end of the hall. I tapped lightly on the paneled door and then Big Lefty shouldered me aside impatiently.

“That ain’t no way to knock,” he growled. “You got to lay it on good like a man, not like some kind of pansy!”

Taking his ham-sized fist he delivered four resounding blows that sorely taxed the wooden fibers and, indeed, even rattled a heavily-urned plant standing in a nearby corner.

“Madre Dios!” Little Manuel exclaimed. “The poor man will think the police are arrived!”

“Ahh, shut up!” said the big man. “In this world you gotta be assertive, whatever that is.”

At that point the door swung open widely, and there standing before us was a tall, heavyset blond man looking to be in his thirties. He wore a satiny maroon robe over his shirt and slacks and was puffing importantly on a freshly lit cigar. He looked at us, an amused glint in his ice-blue eyes.

He said: “I thought I heard someone knock. Did you gentlemen wish to see me?”

“Mr. Brockman?”

The man seemed to be appraising us all simultaniously as he framed his answer. Then: “Yes,” he admitted. “I’m Brockman.”

“Good,” said Big Lefty. He bobbed his great head and winked conspiritorily. “We’ve come to discuss a matter of business with you, Mr. Brockman.”

The man took the cigar from his sardonic mouth and smiled.

“You have?” he said politely. “May I ask in what capacity?”

Big Lefty looked up and down the hall before answering. “We can’t discuss it out here, fellow. This has to be private.”

“Oh. Well, in that case—” The man stood accomodatingly aside and made a gesture for us to enter.

Inside the small foyer Big Lefty doffed his hat and then indicated with a sharp nudge in my ribs for Little Manuel and I to follow suit. We threw the lids on a stiff-backed embroidered chair and stepped into a compact sitting room.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” our host invited, “and tell me what you have in mind.”

Big Lefty said: “Mr. Brockman, I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’m going to lay my proverbial cards on the proverbial table, get down to the proverbial brass tacks and speak the proverbial turkey.”

Oh, Lord, I thought. Proverbial, indeed.

But the blond man only regarded Big Lefty a little curiously, and then the big conniver went on hurriedly. He said: “We were talking to Dixie Dan Shivers earlier this evening, and he told us you had a little something going for a fee of five grand. Now, we’re here to ask you; is there any truth in this matter?”

The man rolled the cigar thoughtfully around in his mouth, went to a small buffet drawer, opened it, then paused and turned back to us. “Before we proceed any further, gentlemen, I believe I’m entitled to know with whom I’m dealing.”

“Oh, of course!” Lefty accorded. “I’m called Big Lefty, this platinum blond towhead is Lucky Jack Silver and the runt there is called Little Manuel. I think he’s a wetback, but he claims he’s a Chicano.”

Little Manuel bristled. “At least,” he retorted, “I ain’t no fugitive from any half-breed reservation!”

The man chuckled lightly, then: “Ah, yes. I’ve heard of you boys. You’re said to be quite a team of free-lancers — despite your quarrelsome natures.”

Big Lefty beamed. “That’s us all over,” he proclaimed. He sat down heavily on a small divan, and Little Manuel, looking around, decided to sit next to him. I chose a red psuedo-leather chair nearby.

Brockman procured a bottle of Scotch from the buffet drawer and placed it on the coffee table in front of the contrasting pair on the couch. Next he produced some drinking glasses, poured some liquor into each and passed them around, retaining one for himself. He sat down on a chair that matched mine, raised his tumbler in a tentative toast, took a sip and then looked directly at the big semi-Irish-man.