Brett Halliday: Blood on Biscayne Bay

Sweat was standing in the trenches in his face when he hung up. He mopped his face, poured another short drink, tossed it down and picked up his hat. He left his partially packed suitcase on the table and went out. He walked up to Flagler Street and found an empty taxi half a block from Biscayne Boulevard. He got in and said, “The Play-Mor Club on the Beach.”

The Play-Mor Club was an imposing structure, formerly a private estate north of 79th Street on the ocean front, and the grounds consisted of 20 acres surrounded by a high wall of native rock and cement. A wide arched gateway led in from Ocean Drive, and a red and green neon sign invited passers-by to Come In and Play-Mor.

Inside the high walls was a beautifully landscaped area with lush green lawns and tropical shrubbery softly lighted by colorful floodlights high among the fronds of palm trees. A driveway curved through the grounds, and rows of private cabanas lined the beach.

A smartly uniformed doorman opened the door of Shayne’s cab when it pulled up at the canopied entrance. Shayne gave the driver a generous tip, then went up a low flight of stone steps and into a foyer where he checked his hat. Turning left, he went a few steps down a corridor and into a long, dimly lighted cocktail lounge.

Shayne ordered cognac and was surprised to have a pony and a bottle of Hennessy slid in front of him. He was further surprised when the bartender poured cognac well above the one-shot mark on the glass. His gray eyes narrowed suspiciously when he received a cordial “Thank you, sir,” and sixty cents in change from the dollar bill he laid on the counter.

His suspicion of Arnold Barbizon, manager of the club, grew as he sipped his forty-cent drink. Most clubs such as this would charge at least a dollar for a drink of domestic brandy. It was quite evident that the Play-Mor Club made no profit on the bar. The idea, he felt certain, was to get a sucker in an expansive mood and take him at the tables.

His eyes widened speculatively as they came to rest on a man sitting alone at a table against the wall near the entrance. He was a small man wearing a baggy gray suit and a limp felt hat pulled well down on his forehead. His nose and chin were sharp and prominent, and as Shayne watched, he saw that the man scarcely wet his thin lips each time he lifted the tall glass from which he drank. His eyes were small and deep-set, and he never moved them from the bar entrance.

Shayne’s face hardened a trifle. Presently he swung back to the bar, emptied his glass and shoved the pony toward the idle bartender. He laid a half dollar on the counter and watched appreciatively while another generous portion of cognac was poured into his glass.

With the glass in his hand, he circled between the tables until he reached the one occupied by the lone and watchful little man. He toed a chair out and sat down, saying heartily, “Working, Angus?”

Angus Browne ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. He said, “It’s Mike Shayne,” as though he were surprised and not too pleased.

“Don’t tell me you missed me when I came in,” said Shayne. “I haven’t seen you for years, Angus. Still partners with Brockson?”

The man shook his head, turning slightly toward Shayne, but keeping his eyes on the entrance. “Brockson got blasted in a shakedown two years ago,” he said in a husky voice with a faint burr in it. “I’ve been on my own since then.”

“Good pickings?”

Browne shook his head and sighed. “Not so good these last few years. Damned war slowed things up.” He made a circular movement in the air with his right forefinger. “Some cheap divorce stuff and not much else.” He hesitated, then added, “If you’re back in town things must be looking up.”

“Not for me. I’m leaving for New Orleans tomorrow.”

Browne’s thin face showed a hint of relief. He muttered, “You always had a way of stirring things up.” He wet his lips with the whisky and soda.

Shayne said, “You need a fresh drink. That one looks hot and stale.” He turned to beckon a waiter.

He saw Angus Browne stiffen slightly and turn his head aside from the door as a couple entered. Shayne waggled a finger at a waiter and looked at the couple.

The man was short and fairly heavy without being fat. He was thirtyish, swarthy, with thick, pouting lips loosely parted over three large protruding teeth. Coarse black hair grew low on his forehead and his eyes were too close to a blunt nose. He carried himself with an air of conscious arrogance, as though he knew he was repulsive-looking and dared anyone to mention it. He wore pearl-gray striped trousers and a short white jacket over a white silk shirt with white bow tie. His pearl-gray and white sports shoes were an exact match for the trousers, and spotlessly clean.

A frizzled blonde, as tall as he, clung tightly to the man’s arm as though she feared someone might jerk him away from her. Her dinner gown was obviously expensive, and just as obviously had not been originally designed for her. She advanced with her companion with a set smile on her broad face and gave the impression that she would burst out giggling at any inanity that offered the slightest excuse for a giggle.

Shayne’s eyes followed them to a table across the room where the man pulled out a chair and sat down, leaving the girl standing. After a moment’s confused hesitation, she drew out a chair for herself and sat down opposite him, propped both her elbows on the table and giggled happily at something he said.

The waiter was standing beside Shayne. “A Scotch and soda,” Shayne said, and the man slid away.

Browne was staring moodily at his glass. Shayne took a sip of cognac and asked, “Did you pipe the couple that just came in?”

“Which ones?” Browne growled. “I didn’t notice anybody particular.”

“They’re sitting at that table over there.” Shayne pointed a knobby forefinger in their direction, blandly ignoring Browne’s sullen and obvious lie. “He looks like a guy who would enjoy feeding babies to the crocodiles, and she looks as though she’d be willing to mother the raw material for him.”

Browne glanced furtively in the direction of Shayne’s pointing finger and laughed mirthlessly. “Never saw either one of them before.”

“I didn’t say you had,” Shayne said.

The waiter brought a Scotch and soda and Shayne paid for it. Browne thanked him without enthusiasm, and Shayne finished his cognac. He got up and said, “Be seeing you around,” and wandered to the other end of the cocktail lounge and through an open door leading into the main dining-room.

Here there were also soft lights and courteous service. Only a few of the tables were occupied; the others were set with white linen, gleaming silver, and sparkling crystal. Shayne was obsequiously seated at a small table near one corner of the spacious room and a menu was spread before him. An intriguing array of a la carte dishes with no printed prices stood out in bold, Old English type.

Shayne ran an eager eye over the menu. There were no steaks listed. He turned to the waiter and asked,

“No filets today?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Rare, sir?”

“Rare-and I mean rare. French fries and a green salad. Coffee with it.”

The waiter bowed himself away. He returned presently with a filet mignon such as Shayne hadn’t seen for years. Red blood ran across his plate when he cut it through the center.

“All right, sir?” asked the waiter.

“Tender as a lovesick maiden’s heart,” Shayne said cheerfully, and stabbed a hot, crisp French fried potato. The salad was a highly paid chef’s dream, the coffee clear and strong.

Shayne blinked in consternation at the bill when it was laid beside his plate. The sum was a dollar and a half. He put two one-dollar bills on top of it. He was beginning to feel exactly the way the management wanted him to feel, well-fed and grateful, and he certainly felt that a man could not do less for so genial a host than drop a few bucks in one of his games.