Brett Halliday - Million Dollar Handle

“He does, though. Once the dogs are on the track they only know one way to run, and that’s all-out. Greyhounds are more honest than people.” She waved her hand. “I’ve heard it so often.”

“If I talked to him-”

“No, Ricardo. He has a reputation with newspapermen, people like that-friendly, happy, easygoing. That’s his public face, and of course he’s in public most of the time. In private, he can be very mean. I’m sorry to say he’s one of the old Miamians who’s not happy about the Cuban emigration. You’d be off the payroll so fast…”

She stood up to get ice. “You realize I’m tremendously excited by the idea. I think it’s time I had some money of my own. If we could think of a way to get Dee fired-”

“No point in that unless I get the promotion.”

“Aren’t there days when he’s too drunk to notice what you’re doing? Couldn’t you work around him?”

“Too risky, too sloppy. It’s bad enough now to have to work around that camera.”

He saw no reason to tell her that he was already doing what she suggested, speeding up or slowing down an occasional dog, and why cut the management in on it? But this way was haphazard and unsatisfactory. And he had to pass up some of the best opportunities. When he did have a chance to use the new medicines, as in the opening race that afternoon, he could feel a temptation to increase the dosage, or to hit all eight dogs and bet big. That was what he was trying to avoid. All he wanted to do was put it on a business basis. Out of the total handle, twelve percent to the track, five percent to the state, half of one percent to Ricardo Sanchez.

“You look crushed,” she said. “I’m sorry. I wish I could hold out hope, but after twenty-three years of marriage I know the man pretty well. Plus the fact that-well, you’re very good looking, and Max is-”

He looked up at that. “What do you think we ought to do, then?” he said after a considerable moment. “They won’t charge us any more if we use the bed.”

“So tonight won’t be a total waste.”

“Something like that.”

He had chicken fat on his fingers, but he thought it would look too cold-blooded if he went to the bathroom to wash. She touched his face lightly. He put his head against the front of her sweater, pulling her in. Was that right? It seemed awkward. He worked the sweater out of the slacks, and kissed her stomach, wondering how he was going to get out of this.

His hands were as heavy as rocks. After a time she began to move in his arms, pushing forward against his mouth.

Then she broke away from him and went silently to the bathroom. He gulped the vodka martini like a prescription, fixed the bed, took off his clothes, and fidgeted.

When she came out of the bathroom, naked, they met and kissed, and he thought for a moment it was going to be all right.

But it turned out to be impossible for him. There had been too much talk about money. She was surprised, because it didn’t fit the scenario, but she was nice about it, in fact extremely nice, almost motherly, although her procedures were anything but.

“This never happened before,” he said in a low voice, without adding that he had never before been in bed with a woman her age.

“Do you want me to work some more?”

He turned away, his forearm over his eyes. “Not now.”

“I’ve been very much-on edge,” she said. “I’m sure you noticed. I’ve felt very hollow inside. With Max and me, for a number of years, there hasn’t been anything. A couple of men I play golf with, my age and older. It never involved a motel. I was too aggressive. I’m sorry.”

He sat up. “You were too-no, it’s the other way around. The whole thing is my fault. I planned it.”

“Planned what?”

“The accident. Everything. Your car didn’t make that blood. I cut myself before you hit me. But I didn’t know you’d be like this.”

“Like what?”

“A person.”

That wasn’t quite it, but it was the best he could do. Without her clothes, she wasn’t the wife of the president of Surfside. If she had been flabby or bony, he would have had no problem. The contrary was true. She was one of the nicest-looking women he had seen.

They talked for an hour, needing no help from the vodka bottle. He began to think they should try again, but she told him to sleep and she would visit him the first thing in the morning.

He was asleep when she knocked. He let her in. He was erect, they were both happy to see, and he stayed that way. It was satisfactory to them both. He went out afterward for coffee and rolls, and they stayed in bed until he left for the track. She was a big surprise to Ricardo. There was something to be said for age and experience, after all.

They met frequently after that, and the lovemaking not only continued good, it became better. They hardly ever talked about his plan, because they both had come to accept the fact that nothing could be done about it as long as her husband was alive and running the track.

Michael Shayne, the well-known private detective, was coming back to Miami after a nationwide chase that had ended in a twenty-four-hour vigil in the hills above San Francisco. He was wearing the same clothes he had started out in. His only luggage was an over-the-shoulder flight bag.

As he came out of the terminal, a voice said, “There he is.”

A photographer stepped in front of him and began taking pictures, which surprised Shayne; he hadn’t expected the California action to make the Miami papers. Two Miami Beach detectives closed in.

“Glad we didn’t miss you, Mike,” one of them said, a fat-faced veteran named Jamieson. “Painter wants to talk to you.”

“I hardly ever talk to Painter if I can help it.” Shayne and Peter Painter, the Miami Beach Chief of Detectives, had made all kinds of trouble for each other over the years, and Shayne usually tried to stay out of the pompous little man’s jurisdiction.

“Nevertheless,” Jamieson said.

“I haven’t shaved in three days,” Shayne said, rubbing his jaw. “I need a little maintenance.”

“It has to be right away, that’s what the man told us. He’s having a press conference, and he wants to be fair, give you a chance to deny everything first.”

“What did I do now?”

“And he went on to say,” Jamieson said, “don’t answer that kind of question. He wants to be the one to break it to you.”

“What did he say after that?”

“To use the handcuffs if we had to.”

“Yeah, that would make a better picture.” He called to the photographer, “Do you know what this is all about?”

The photographer grinned. “Just that this time Painter must think he really has something.”

“I’m too tired to argue,” Shayne said. “My car’s in the garage. I’ll follow you in.”

Jamieson said quickly, “No, Mike. No. You’re coming with us. He wants to make sure you actually get there. And you know he’s got a point, based on experience.”

A Beach patrol car was parked ahead of the taxis, the kind with a grating separating the front and back seats, and no inside handles on the rear doors. Jamieson’s partner opened a door, playing it broadly. He bowed and swept a welcoming arm toward the car’s interior.

“Be our guest.”

Shayne stood still. Two uniformed sheriff’s deputies were nearby, watching. That made a total of four, not counting the photographer, who was presumably neutral.

“Welcome to Miami,” Shayne said.

As he ducked to get in, the photographer took another picture. The detectives used their siren to get through the Forty-second Avenue lights and onto the expressway. Now that Shayne was successfully caged, they were even less talkative. Jamieson said only one thing, as they came off the causeway into Miami Beach. “Want a piece of advice?”