Brett Halliday - The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

“Yeh,” said Ned Parradone. “Chuck got tired of her stuff. Look at her, slopping around like-”

“That’s a lie, Belle.”

Shayne slid his arm over her rounded shoulders and didn’t look at Ned Parradone.

Unexpectedly, she giggled and reached up to get hold of Shayne’s hand and snuggle it against her. “You tell ’em, tall, tough and hot-mouthed. I still got plenty-”

“Say,” Butch bellowed, “d’ju hear what he said, Ned? Same as called you uh liar.”

“I know.”

Ned Parradone waved his cigarette elegantly. He let smoke trail from his pinched nostrils, and started cursing the detective in a low, deadly monotone.

Shayne spoke urgently to Belle, close to her ear. “When did you see Chuck last?”

“Whashit matter?” she giggled. “Le’m go. I got you, ain’t I?”

“Sure.” Shayne pinched the soft flesh beneath his fingers. “Have you seen Chuck since last night? Did you leave the casino with him?”

“-and I’m going to cut your liver out and Belle can fry it for breakfast,” Ned Parradone ended in the same deadly monotone.

He stood up waveringly, reached in his pocket and brought out a long-bladed clasp-knife.

Shayne stood up with his fists bunched, turning his whole attention to Ned Parradone.

He didn’t see the movement in the opening behind him, nor hear the swish of a descending blackjack. Shayne slumped limply on the table.

Butch guffawed, thumping his open palm down.

Ned Parradone looked reproachfully at the slim, dark figure standing just inside the curtains and said:

“You orten’t uv did that, Bernie. I wanted to slit his belly open.”

“You’re hopped,” Bernie snapped. “You and Butch both. Drag him outdoors and leave ’im lay, Butch.”

Butch lumbered drunkenly to his feet, got hold of Shayne with one hand and dragged him out.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he crooned. “You wanta dance this un with Butch?”

Clutching Shayne’s limp body about the middle, he moved toward the door with the shambling rhythm of a dancing bear.

In the alcove, Belle slept, snoring loudly.

Propelling Shayne through the dark entry, Butch stopped in the doorway and gave him a mighty shove which landed him face down on the coral rocks.

The bruising impact stirred the detective to consciousness. He sat up, putting his hand wonderingly to his hard cheek, and felt sticky blood from a rock cut; then got up on unsteady legs and went back to the door.

The sallow-faced man in the mess jacket stepped in front of him to bar his way.

“Go on home for godsake!” the man implored. “They’ll gang up on you.”

Shayne put a big hand in the man’s face and shoved. Stepping past with hunched shoulders, he went around the bamboo screen and started toward the alcove where Belle had passed out.

Bernie and Butch met him halfway. A blackjack dangled from Bernie’s fingers, and his black eyes were murderous.

“Take him, Butch,” he rasped. “The goddam’ fool don’t know when he’s being treated nice.”

Shayne swung a fist at the end of a long arm toward Butch’s scarred face.

The hoodlum slid under the wavering blow, came up with fingers of both hands around Shayne’s neck. He brought the tall detective to his knees with a quick downward jerk, tightened his fingers on Shayne’s throat and looked over his shoulder hopefully.

“Can I squeeze his goozle, Bernie?”

“Enough to give him some sense,” Bernie ordered sharply. “He’ll stay put when you throw him out this time.”

Butch went to the door, holding both hands down low, dragging Shayne behind him. When he relaxed his grip outside the door, Shayne fell prone, hands clawing at his throat while labored breath wheezed in and out through grinding teeth.

Butch watched with simple pleasure as Shayne put the palms of his hands flat on the ground and pushed himself up to his knees, then laughed heartily when he toppled forward on his face. But his amusement changed to concern when Shayne tottered to his feet again and doggedly started to the door.

Butch put out a powerful arm and said good-naturedly, “You can’t go back in there, mug. Want me to bust you in thuh puss?”

Shayne put both hands on the big arm and shoved against it. His bleared eyes showed a crazy glint.

“Stay away from me, Butch,” he muttered thickly. “I’ve got to go in. Got to ask Belle-”

“You ain’t goin’ nowheres.” Butch took a backward step and slammed his fist into Shayne’s face.

Shayne went down and began getting up again.

Butch moved back to the doorway and watched him uneasily. When Shayne lurched forward he yelled, “Hey, you’re nuts!”

“Got to see Belle.” The words welled up from some where deep inside Michael Shayne. “Got to ask her what horse Chuck made his killing on. Got to-”

Butch sighed and jerked him back from the doorway.

“You’re sure a card. Whyn’t yuh tell me that’s all you wanted to know? I coulda saved you trouble. Chuck had Banjo Boy in the fifth.”

“Banjo Boy?” Shayne leaned against the building and drew his breath laboriously. “You’re sure?” he asked suspiciously.

“’Course I’m sure. What the hell good it does you-”

Butch watched with almost human concern as Shayne pushed himself away from the wall and wove through the dim light to his parked car.

Shayne drove at a speed of ten miles an hour to Little River, gripping the wheel with both hands and peering at the road through slitted eyes with fierce concentration. He parked in front of a drugstore and went in a side entrance to buy adhesive tape, iodine and absorbent cotton. He patched himself up the best he could, and rounded out his purchases with a bottle of California grape brandy.

Back in his car he opened the bottle and drank half a pint, and knew he could make it to his apartment all right.

It took him half an hour to reach his hotel. He decided against the stairway when he went in the side entrance. The night clerk called to him as he tried to ease through the lobby to the elevator without being noticed.

The clerk let out an awed, “My God!” when Shayne turned his bandaged face toward the desk.

Shayne tried to grin, but ruefully gave up when the effort proved too painful. Sidling to the clerk, he said out of the side of his mouth:

“Don’t tell me, for God’s sake, that my sister picked this night to pay me a visit?”

“No.” The clerk discreetly repressed his laughter. “But there’s a couple of cops up in your apartment. That little fellow from the beach and Chief Gentry.”

Shayne nodded and went to the elevator.

The door of Shayne’s apartment was open, and Peter Painter and the Miami detective chief were sitting inside. Will Gentry grinned broadly when he saw Shayne’s face, but Painter regarded him with cold hostility.

Shayne grimaced and said, “I hope I haven’t kept you gentlemen waiting.”

He went past them to the liquor cabinet and got some glasses, set what was left of the bottle of cheap brandy on the table and said,

“Help yourselves. I’ll pretty up a little.”

He went into the bathroom to appraise the damage he had suffered at the Round-up, wondering whether those two little words, “Banjo Boy,” were worth the price he had paid. He was appalled when he looked at the rough-and-ready job of bandaging he and the druggist had done to his face. The bleeding had all stopped, however, and he contented himself with cleaning off the dried blood with a wet rag; then went back into the living-room.

Will Gentry had poured himself a glass of brandy, but Painter sat stiffly erect with palms flat on the table.

Shayne grinned painfully and said, “I take it this is not a social call, Painter.”