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

With a minimum of effort the mammoth hoisted the last mortal remains of Dixie Dan and his pal from the wagon and propped them thoughtfully if not artistically against one of the trunk-like legs of Rex, took off his hat and held it in mock sympathy to his chest for a moment, then spat on the ground and got back in the car.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I aimed the car at the northern exit and drove along much more at ease, even though the crackling of Little Manuel’s bag was increasing as he delved deeper and deeper into his matinee ambrosia.

We hadn’t got two blocks from the park when I heard a siren screaming behind us, and the rear-view mirror reflected the red flashing lights of a fast approaching police car Now what? I thought.

“Pull over to the side and let them go ahead on, Lucky,” Big Lefty ordered. “They’re probably after somebody.”

I did as he said. But instead of going ahead on, the damn cruiser squealed to a noisy stop and parked diagonally in front of us, the siren dying in a low, ominous growl. Two cops jumped from the squad car and came swiftly toward us, flanking the wagon. I heard Little Manuel cock his target pistol, and from the corner of my eye noticed Big Lefty ease his automatic from his belt and hold it low. I’d already gotten my snub-nose out and it was lying beside me, next to the door.

“All right, boys,” said the cop at my window, “We got you.”

“Got us for what, officer?” I asked innocently. “I’ve been obeying all the traffic laws.”

The one at Big Lefty’s window said: “We ain’t got you for no traffic violation, bud. We got you for that nasty little mess you just left behind.”

Chrissakes! They must have seen us dump the bodies! I swear I could hear my arteries hardening.

Big Lefty said: “Look here, officer. We don’t have to answer any questions if we indicate in any manner that we don’t want to. It’s the law. We got our rights, you know.”

“Now look here, big boy, We got you dead to your so-called rights! We seen it with our own eyes! Which one of you is responsible?”

“I am, officer,” Little Manuel piped up from the back seat. “These two guys had nothing to do with it.”

Big Lefty swung his head around. “Shut up, you self-incriminating little fink!” Then to the cop: “Responsible for what, officer?”

“What!? Responsible for what, did you say? I’ll tell you what. We’ve got you cold turkey on a seven twenty four, a littering violation!”

“Littering?”

“Yas, godammit, littering! Who threw the damn popcorn bag out the window?”

They issued Little Manuel a citation under one of his aliases, and the little litterbug agreed to appear in court on his own recognizance. After they left I sat there swearing for a full sixty seconds without repeating myself, and both Little Manuel and Big Lefty marvelled at my expertise in unbridled profanity. Finally sighing in resignation, I shifted into gear and resumed the journey.

We stopped once more at the edge of town to gas up, get a sack of hamburgers and some strong black coffee to offset the liquor we’d consumed, and then at last we were on the highway to Morningside.

As we hummed along in the night Big Lefty took out the crumpled plan of the bank and studied it under the dash lights, clucking satisfactorily and nodding to himself now and then. Little Manuel busied himself sharpening his knife.

In due time we reached a sign that told us Morningside was five miles ahead. Big Lefty half turned in his seat so he could see both Little Manuel and myself, then said:

“All right, boys. Here’s the way we’ll do it: when we get into town, we’ll drive around the jug once, then we’ll roll over and see if that rube cop is in the all-night restaurant with the waitress. Next, we’ll go back to the alley behind the bank. Lucky and I will get out with the suitcases and then Little Manuel will take the car back to the greasy spoon to keep his beady little eyes on the fuzz. In twenty minutes he returns, drives into the alley again where we load up and head south like a bird with snow hitting him in the tail. Now, how does that sound?”

“Wait a minute,” Little Manuel complained. “How come I don’t get to go in the bank? I like a little excitement too!”

“You’ve had enough excitement for tonight, Manuel,” the big man told him. “Besides, the Caser said the stuff would be heavy and bulky.”

“So?”

“So I don’t think you’re strong enough.”

“Ha! One time I took on four broads in an hour!”

“So you say. I say you’re too weak to carry a heavy load. You stay with the wagon and keep an eye out for twenty minutes. If the cop leaves the cafe, go by the bank and blow the horn two short blasts.”

“Well, okay, if you say so.” “I say so, Manuel.”

“So be it,” I slipped in lightly.

As the town began to unfold a little at a time the houses became more frequent, then the small business buildings appeared and we soon found ourselves on Main Street, USA, long after closing hours. There was just a smattering of lights, and only one major stop sign at the corner of Main and, of course, Elm. Every little community must have a tree-lined thoroughfare called Elm Street. I believe it’s un-American if they don’t.

We circled the Farmers Mutual Trust carefully and found that everything looked kosher. Next we drove down Main to cruise past the tiny cafe, and sure enough a wire-haired cop was in there strutting back and forth, motioning with his arms as he talked to the ash-blond waitress who lolled over the counter, her chin resting lazily in the heels of her cupped hands. There was no one else in the place. On the small parking lot outside the cop’s police car was nosed up to the side of the clapboard wall.

“Okay,” said Big Lefty. “Let’s go to work.”

I swung left at the next corner and headed back to the bank where I parked in the alley behind the squat gray building with my headlights switched off. Big Lefty got out, removed the suitcases and Little Manuel clambered behind the wheel as I slid out also. I shut the door, then leaned into the window and leveled a finger at the little miscreant.

“Be sure,” I told him, “that you be very careful with this car, my friend.”

“You go straight to hell,” he responded, then drove jerkily off into the night.

“Come on, Lucky!” Big Lefty hissed. “Stop worrying about your wreck. Little Manuel will take care of it. We got work to do.”

“Okay, okay,” I said testily. “But I got money invested in that automobile.”

“How much? Twenty cents? Come on!”

“I’m coming.”

We walked into the deeper shadow of the bank and set the bags down. A tall wooden pole was to our left, at the top of which was the main wire of the antiquated alarm system we were to disconnect.

Big Lefty said: “I’ll climb up and knock it out.” He pulled on his gloves and shinnied up the pole like a monkey — and I was reminded of King Kong on the Empire State Building.

A moment after he reached the top I heard him exclaim: “Goddam!”

I peered up in the darkness. “What’s the matter?”

“The damn thing’s already been disconnected!”

“Oboy!”

“Look out! I’m coming back down!”

He slid down the pole and thumped heavily to the ground. Turning to me, he said; “There’s something fishy here.”

He didn’t have to tell me that. I could smell it out for myself. I said: “Yeah. There’s something rotten in Morningside.”

“Yeah. And you told me once before it was in Denmark.”