Brett Halliday: The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

Marco’s breathing was heavy through pursed lips. His fingers still hung over the electric button as though restrained from touching it by some mysterious flux.

Smothered laughter sounded behind Shayne’s left shoulder.

“This is all so frightfully melodramatic,” giggled the girl.

“You’d better go, Marsha,” John Marco said thickly.

“Not me. I’m going to stay right here. I’m waiting to see you throw this man out.”

Marco’s hand reluctantly withdrew from the button. He said, complaining:

“What’s eating on you, Shayne?”

“Nothing.”

Shayne frowned at the cigarette in his hand. He turned to look at the girl.

“You must be Marsha Marco. Since your father won’t introduce us, I’m Michael Shayne.”

Her green eyes widened, quirked up at the corners. “I’ve read about you. Have you come to pinch dad’s gambling joint?”

Shayne smiled gravely. “No. He keeps his protection money paid up.”

Merriment glinted in the eyes which had lost much of their strange red glow when her father said harshly, “Quit horsing around, Shayne. What do you want?”

Shayne swung around to face the casino proprietor.

“Just this. How long has Grange been capping for you?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

Shayne’s eyes were bleak. He started to get up.

Marco paled a trifle. He held up a dimpled hand in protest.

“What’s eating on you?” he asked again.

Before Shayne could reply, Marsha asked breathlessly, “Who did you say, Mr. Shayne?”

“Grange.” The detective didn’t look at her. “He’s got a girl downstairs right now, sucking her at the roulette table for more than she can afford to lose. A very young girl,” he added with emphasis.

“Harry Grange?” There was dismay, almost disbelief, in the girl’s voice.

Marco rumbled, “Yes, Harry Grange,” at his daughter.

“This is as good a time as any to find out for yourself that he’s just a cheap front man.”

“I don’t believe it.” Her chin was set, stubborn, her voice shrill. She came to her feet and took a long-limbed stride forward. “This whole thing is just a put-up job.” Her eyes flashed from John Marco to Shayne, low-lidded and suspicious. “It sounded rehearsed from the beginning,” she ended angrily.

Marco said, “Shut up.”

“I won’t shut up.” She moved past Shayne, her face working convulsively.

Shayne lit a cigarette, watching her through squinted eyes all the while. The girl stopped in front of the desk, bending forward with slender fingers clawed close to her father’s face.

“You’ve been running Harry down because you want me to hook Elliot Thomas. You don’t care the snap of your finger about me-about my feelings. All you care about is-”

Without moving from his chair, John Marco slapped his daughter’s face. She shrank back, her face white, her mouth a tight rouged slit, her eyes all a dangerous red again. Her hand went up slowly to touch her cheek.

John Marco said, “I told you to shut up.”

A plump finger pressed the button now. A side door came open and a tall white-haired man entered. He had a pleasant benign face and crafty eyes. His glance slid over Shayne and past him to Marsha who was standing with both palms flat down on the desk as if to support her thin body.

The man asked, “What is it, Chief?”

“Take Miss Marco home.”

He nodded, darting another glance at Shayne, then took the girl’s arm and said soothingly, “Come along, Miss Marsha.”

She jerked her arm free from his grasp. Her left cheek was a mottled, angry red now. She glared at her father, hatred blazing. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. A vein throbbed fiercely in her thin neck. She turned and walked through the side door and the white-haired man followed her out.

Marco expelled a long breath that came out a thin whistle, as if he had been holding it for some time. His small blue eyes were hard, like glass marbles.

“What gets into girls?” he hurled at Shayne, distressed, as though he really sought an answer. “I give her every damn thing she wants and she hates my guts.”

Shayne lifted his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I was talking about Harry Grange.”

“Well, what about him?” Marco pinched a dewlap beneath his chin with pudgy fingers.

“That girl he’s dragged in is too young to know any better than to waste C-notes on your crooked wheel.”

Marco slammed his palm down hard on the desk. “What the hell? Am I supposed to make them bring birth certificates with them?”

Twin lines of smoke curled from Shayne’s nostrils. He said placidly, “You do enough business without paying men a percentage to drag youngsters into your joint.”

“So you’re getting an attack of morals, huh?”

Shayne crossed his long legs and retained his unruffled calm.

“This girl happens to be a friend of mine.”

“Then she ought to know the ropes.”

“But she doesn’t, Marco. She’s foolish enough to believe Grange is losing his own money right along with her.”

“Isn’t that just too bad? What the hell do you expect me to do about it?”

“Exactly what I tell you to do. Call her up here and return what she’s lost.”

“Holy hell! You don’t want much.”

“No.” Shayne’s voice was dangerously gentle. “Just that, Marco.”

“I’ll be damned if I will. I’m not running any charity games.”

Shayne nodded. He dropped his cigarette butt onto the deep rug and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. He lunged to his feet with that peculiar animal litheness so at variance with his ungainly appearance of bony height. His face was bleak. He went past Marco without looking at him.

Marco’s voice stopped him when his hand was turning the knob. There was a conciliatory tremor in it.

“Where you going?”

Shayne said, “Downstairs,” and jerked the door open.

Marco jumped up and caught his arm as he stepped into the hallway.

“Listen, you don’t need to Shayne stopped. He didn’t turn. He said, “Take your hand off my arm.”

Marco’s fat fingers slid away. He was breathing hard through his rounded, too small mouth.

“Come on back and we’ll have a drink and talk this over. I don’t want any trouble.”

“You’re going to get it-and plenty.” Shayne’s gray eyes were hot. “You had your chance to level.”

“Now see here, Mike, I-”

“Don’t call me Mike.” Shayne’s voice was rough, edgy with impatience.

“Hell! No use getting sore about it. You wouldn’t start anything downstairs where my patrons are enjoying themselves, would you?”

A wolfish grin twisted the corners of Shayne’s wide mouth into a down-drawn snarl.

“I’m going down there and take your joint apart, Marco.”

“By God, can’t you take a joke, Shayne?” Marco whined. He pulled tentatively at Shayne’s coat sleeve.

“Sure. I’m just laughing my head off.”

Shayne went back into Marco’s office and sat in the chair he had just gotten up from. He leaned back and crossed bony knees, fixed a blank stare on the ceiling while Marco lifted a rubber mouthpiece from its hook and spoke into it briefly. He hung up and said with excessive good humor, “Everything’s fixed up. They were just leaving.”

Shayne didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at the big man.

Marco fidgeted and pulled an onyx desk lighter close to put flame to his cigar. In response to a light tap on the hall door, he said, “Come in.”

The door opened to admit Phyllis Brighton and her ruddy, blond escort, Harry Grange, followed by the pallid-faced youth whom Shayne had encountered at the foot of the stairs. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Squinting through smoke, he asked, “You want me, Boss?”