Brett Halliday - Million Dollar Handle

“If I tell you everything I know.”

“You’ve got it.” He ticked a fingernail against the desktop. “Frankness, Shayne. I want complete openness and frankness and candor. In return, nothing will be said publicly about the nurse’s statement or the canceled check. And I’ll go one long step farther. I don’t like to make deals, I never have, but that’s the way the world seems to be organized. If you can deliver Tony Castle to me for a felony prosecution, I’ll suppress that eighty-thousand-dollar payoff. I’ll have to wave the book, but I won’t let it leave my hand. I don’t have to release all the names, I can get away with that. I want to make sure I don’t injure any innocent parties, and so on.”

“All you want right now is a promise?”

“And a few morsels to show good faith. As I keep saying, I don’t have a great deal of time. I’m not asking for immediate miracles, as far as Castle’s concerned. I’ll let you have a couple of weeks. But before I go out to face the TV cameras, I want to know what’s been going on over there at the Surfside Kennel Club.”

Shayne shook his head. “It’s too open-ended. Any time you aren’t satisfied with my performance, you can always call another press conference-you don’t know how you overlooked it the first time, but all of a sudden you’ve noticed my name on the list.”

“Sure-I’ve got something to hold over you for a change, and I’m not so saintly that I don’t like the feeling. No more stalling, please. A simple answer to a simple question. Three thousand bucks a month from Max Geary. For what?”

“I’d like to think about it for two minutes.”

“No more time. What’s there to think about? You’re in a jam this time, baby, and you’ve got one way out.”

“I always hate to have people say that,” Shayne said, standing. “It makes me feel crowded.”

“Who cares how you feel? You’ve got no choice in the matter.”

“I can always tell you to screw yourself.”

Painter dodged back, as though Shayne had swung at him. “You won’t do that.”

“I just did it.”

“You’re out of your mind! Alienating me is not in your own best interests, believe me. I’ll have no recourse except to include your name with the others I intend to announce, and make the nurse’s affidavit part of the record. Go ahead and deny it. How many of your friends will believe you?”

“I haven’t denied it. I don’t have to plead until I’m charged with something.”

Painter’s mouth opened and closed. “Come now, Shayne-”

“Unless you want to book me.”

“Not yet! Not yet! There are people on that list who were involved in the day-to-day operations, and I’ll make them the same offer I made you. They’ll cop, don’t worry. All I need is one living witness, just one, and you’ll be out of my hair for a long time to come. You may be surprised by the public reaction. I think you’ll find that the general beer-guzzling public will be delighted to learn that Mike Shayne is on the take, like everybody else.”

“Do your duty, Petey.”

“More sarcasm. And after I leaned all the way over backward, tried to give you a break-”

Shayne walked out on him.

A taxi took Shayne to the airport, where he picked up his car. He snapped on the dashboard radio, and left it on while he drove back into the city, using the East-West Expressway as far as Twelfth Avenue. He was tuned to a station that repeated ten minutes of news at the turn of each hour, and broke into the music for bulletins whenever anything big came in. The music faded abruptly and the broadcaster’s voice gave Shayne another version of the news he had just heard from Painter.

His car phone buzzed as he turned into his basement garage. It was Tim Rourke, one of Shayne’s oldest friends, a crime-and-corruption reporter on the News. Shayne told him he was putting his car away, and to call him upstairs.

The phone was ringing when he walked in. He dropped his flight bag on a chair, brought out the Martell’s and poured. He gave the brandy a quick swirl and drank, while the phone continued to insist on an answer. He made himself a sandwich and took that and his glass to the phone.

“Yeah, Tim?”

“I’ve got a story to write,” Rourke said briskly. “Did you hear about Painter’s press conference?”

“I caught the radio flash. I had a pretty useless conversation with him before he went on-he showed me the book.”

“We’re using a picture of that pickup at the airport. Jesus, Mike, you look like a Mafia hit man.”

“That was the idea.”

“Mike, quickly-what about this eighty G’s?”

“How did Painter report it?”

“He gave it the full treatment, naturally. Played it for melodrama. He hasn’t been getting much ink lately, and he’s hungry and thirsty. He used big easel cards to make it simple for the TV audience. You had a card of your own. Of course everybody knows about the great Shayne-Painter feud, but he didn’t gloat, certainly not. Sad, a little disappointed, maybe. That nurse’s statement hurt.”

He paused for a comment, in case Shayne wanted to make one. Shayne said nothing.

“Mike, the minutes are ticking. The man at the front of the room is screaming for copy. Give me an angle, will you? Painter said he deliberately held up the announcement until you got back from the Coast, to give you a fair shake. And you didn’t yell frame-up. You yelled for a lawyer.”

“What else could I do?”

“Yeah, but Mike. Think of the way it looks. Payoffs to politicians, inspectors, cops, a couple of union guys. And then Mike Shayne, three thousand bucks. Mike Shayne again. Three thousand bucks. Shayne, Shayne. Mike, throw me a piece of meat. What was that, some kind of retainer? Geary thought somebody was doping his dogs, or something? If that’s what it was, say so, for Christ’s sake, and I’ll do my best to sell it.”

“The price is a bit high for that, eighty thousand over three years.”

“What was it, then? I know there’s an explanation, I think I know you that well. But I need some indication of which way to go.”

Shayne kneaded the bridge of his nose. “Tim, I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve been up three nights in a row. He sprang this on me without any preparation. I couldn’t think of any marvelous way to handle it then, and I still can’t.”

“Let me ask you this. Are you covering somebody?”

“That might be a good thing to suggest. No, better not, Tim. It’ll only lead to more trouble in the long run. I can ride this out. If they subpoena me, I’ll stand on the privilege against self-incrimination.”

“Mike! Dummy! As far as the public’s concerned, that’s the same as an admission of guilt.”

“I realize that,” Shayne said gloomily. “But who would have supposed Max was writing it all down? I still don’t think it makes sense.”

Rourke said nothing for a long moment. “I was hoping for more than that.”

“Go ahead and write the goddamn story. What else can you do? It’s news. I’ve had a run of good luck. I’m not going to start whining when it suddenly turns sour.”

Rourke called to somebody, “In a minute, in a minute.” He came back: “The first denials are coming in. The politicians are using the standard out-campaign contributions. Wolf, the tax guy, says flatly that he never took a dirty penny.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Hell, no,” Rourke said angrily. “This is Geary’s under-the-table book. Why would Wolf’s name be down there if he wasn’t being paid off? He says he and Geary had differences when he was working the track. Bad fights. Geary put on pressure and got him transferred. And then, for purely vindictive personal reasons-this is Wolf talking-he put his name down on the grease list. If he had a heart attack and dropped dead, that would be his bequest from the cemetery-labeling Wolf as a thief.”