Brett Halliday - Million Dollar Handle

“You wouldn’t have to go near the track. I’ll bring you a suitcase of money a couple of times a month.”

“Surfside’s a gold mine, I suppose! Do you really think that? After all those huge payoffs, there was nothing left for the owners. Really-you’re talking to the secretary-treasurer.”

“So Max never told you how he was doing it?”

She laughed. “In the first place, I don’t believe he was doing anything illegal. If he was, I didn’t see any of the money. Can I persuade you to go now, please? Ricardo has a very low flash point. I want you to be gone by the time he gets here.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“There’s no point in that! Honestly. He can’t tell you anything about Max’s secrets, if he had any. Ricardo is down at the working level, the dog level. And there’s nothing you or anybody else can say or do to make me change. It’s too late. It’s done!”

“That still leaves a lot of loose ends. What do you think of the suggestion that your husband’s death may have been murder?”

“I don’t know what to think! I know so little-” She looked down at her clenched hands. “But I hope it isn’t true. I want it to be Max’s own fault. He always claimed he could drive better after a fifth of whiskey, and I hate that kind of masculine bragging! He deserved it. I know that kind of drinking is a way of committing suicide-but I don’t want to discuss it. You’re trying to confuse me. Isn’t there some way I can appeal to you? Ricardo has a lot of the old-fashioned Cuban ideas. I don’t want anything to go wrong with this. I’m all-keyed up. I’ll say something I shouldn’t-”

“About what, Mrs. Geary?”

“I don’t know why I said that. I wash my hands! I am no longer the majority owner of a stupid dog track, providing the working class with low-cost excitement in the open air, except for those eccentrics who prefer to stay inside and watch television. Very soon I will receive a check from Mr. Harry Zell, and I have no intention of staying in Miami, the city my late husband did so much to shape. Good-bye, all of you.”

The doorbell rang.

“That’s-” She looked at her watch. “No, it’s too early.”

Shayne had the transmitter out of his sling by the time she reached the door. She checked through the peephole.

“Oh, dear.”

Hurrying, Shayne couldn’t make the suction cups grip on the underside of the lamp table. The door opened. A Miami plainclothes detective was standing outside.

“This where you had the break-in?”

His chin was drawn down, and he seemed very angry about something. She turned swiftly, and Shayne straightened. The transmitter stayed in place for an instant, but fell silently to the carpet.

“I dialed the emergency number when you-”

The cop had some kind of grievance to work off; he was mad at everybody tonight. Mrs. Geary retreated, more and more agitated.

“You see, I heard a noise at the door, I wasn’t expecting anybody-”

“Which one of you is Sanchez?”

She looked helplessly at Shayne, who came forward and said angrily, “I’ll take care of this clown. Hold it right there. Nobody invited you inside.”

“All I want is an explanation. What were you doing upstairs? What’s wrong with the intercom? And don’t give me that tough-guy shit, because I am fed up with this goddamn job and with this goddamn city. I’ve had it!”

“It’s really nothing to get worked up about,” Mrs. Geary was trying to say, but Shayne rode her down.

“You can’t go halfway with these guys, or they’ll settle in and drink your liquor and expect a ten-dollar tip when they leave. I know the type, believe me. Out,” he said to the cop, with a gesture. “I don’t like your manner. You’re on the public payroll, goddamn it. We pay your salary. The tax payers. Now pick up and get out of here.”

He put a little head fake on the cop. The cop went with it, and Shayne slapped his shoulder with the heel of his hand.

The response was automatic. He was crowding the cop, and the cop had to crowd him back, bringing his hand up between them to push Shayne off. Shayne’s heel caught and he crashed to the floor, taking the lamp table with him. The lamp blinked out as it hit the floor.

Mrs. Geary ran between them. “That’s enough! I’m waiting for Mr. Sanchez. I have a key, I’m a friend of his. This is Mike Shayne, the detective-”

“Oh, Shayne, is it?” the cop said.

Shayne yelled from the floor, “Goddamned if I let anybody get away with that. These rednecks are getting worse by the mouth. Don’t even know how to ask a civil question.”

“I’ll ask a few when I get you to the station,” the cop said.

“You’re going to bust me? Fine. I know a lawyer who specializes in false arrest. He’s gotten some very nice settlements.”

He had the transmitter in the palm of his hand. He moistened his fingertips, and rubbed the moisture onto the suction cups. When he set the table upright, he left the transmitter adhering to its underside.

“That’s it, break up the furniture. What do we need with hurricanes when we’ve got the police force? Where did they find you, boy, up in the piney woods? If I had the use of both arms-”

“Let’s go, private detective.”

They continued to trade remarks down the corridor and into the elevator. There Shayne’s manner changed.

“You did me a favor,” he said with a laugh. “That woman had me pinned down. She wanted me to spend the night and I’ve got other plans. Thanks.”

The cop was still making twitching and brushing movements with his hands. “Second thoughts? It isn’t that easy. I’m going to write you up and you’ll have the rest of the night to sober up and cool off.”

“If you want an apology, I apologize.”

“I want blood,” the cop said, shaking. “You don’t hit a police officer on duty and then say, ‘Oops, sorry, I take it back.’ I don’t care who you know.”

“I’m working,” Shayne said reasonably. “I’ll stop in tomorrow and explain it to you.”

“Like hell. I’m setting this schedule.”

Without shifting his weight, Shayne clipped him on the side of the jaw, hitting him again as he started his slide. When the elevator door opened, Shayne levered him onto one hip and ran him outside. Finding the parked police car, he slid the cop behind the wheel and walked away, coming back after a few steps because the cop’s upper body had fallen against the horn. After rearranging him, Shayne went to his own car, which was parked on the opposite side of the street, a block and a half away.

He turned on the radio receiver and put on the headset.

The reception was fine. He heard the woman in Sanchez’s apartment moving about restlessly. Once, very close to the transmitter, she said aloud, “Damn, damn, damn. Ricardo, my dear, what am I going to do about you?”

She made one phone call, to a friend or a relative. She was sorry, she said, but she couldn’t accept the invitation. There was too much going on here. After much shuffling and vacillation, she had decided to sell the track. She couldn’t trust anybody to run it for her-they all seemed to be thieves. Some shady dealings of Max’s had come to light. It was a tense and difficult time.

The police car’s headlights came on. Shayne slid down so his silhouette wouldn’t show against the windshield.

When the car went past, he checked with Rourke, then with Dave, Bobby Nash’s technician. Dave had everything and was ready to move as soon as Surfside turned off the lights.

A badly bruised green sedan turned into the tenant’s parking area. As it passed under an overhead light, Shayne saw that the driver was Sanchez. He watched for the car of the Cuban detective and blinked his lights when he saw it. The Cuban double-parked and came in beside him.