Brett Halliday: Blood on Biscayne Bay

He got up and strolled across the dining-room to a pair of closed doors discreetly lettered, Play Rooms. They opened onto what had formerly been a private ballroom, now transformed into a luxurious casino.

Only two tables were getting any play when he entered. Half a dozen men were gathered around a crap layout in one corner, and a dozen or more men and women were at the roulette table.

Shayne walked over to a barred grill and shoved two twenties toward the cashier. “Tens,” he said.

The cashier was a pleasant-faced and elderly man. He said, “Yes, sir,” as though this modest transaction were the apex of the evening’s work, and pushed out four red chips.

The thickset man and the frizzled blonde he had seen enter the bar earlier were at the roulette table. The man had a stack of blue chips in front of him, and the blonde had reds and whites. The smell of expensive perfume too liberally applied floated to Shayne’s nostrils as he came up behind the couple.

Shayne stepped back a pace and turned his nostrils away from the perfume. It was then that he saw Timothy Rourke. Rourke was swaying toward the roulette table with blue chips in his hand.

Shayne said, “Hi, Tim,” very casually, concealing his surprise, and moved around behind the croupier to the reporter’s side.

Tim’s deep-set eyes glittered queerly when he recognized Shayne. He had been months recovering from the bullet wounds in his chest, and was thin almost to the point of emaciation. He hiccoughed gently, grinned, and said, “Thought you were getting out of town, Mike.”

“Tomorrow,” Shayne said

Rourke placed a blue chip on each of three numbers, supporting himself with one hand on the table, and leaning against Shayne. Shayne slid a red chip on EVEN.

He looked up and saw the blonde looking intently at him from across the table. Her eyebrows and lashes were very thin and the color of bleached straw, giving her enormous dark eyes a vacant appearance. Shayne couldn’t be sure whether she was looking at him or Rourke, but her gaze did not waver before his challenging stare. She had half a dozen assorted chips spread out across the board, and her low-browed companion placed three blues carefully on Number 30.

The wheel went around and the croupier spun the ivory ball. All eyes except those of the tall blond girl were focused on it eagerly. She continued to stare at Shayne and Timothy Rourke. The ball dropped into the Number 16 slot and the croupier raked in a lot of chips, and doled out a few.

Shayne played EVEN half a dozen rolls, and was down to his last chip. He placed it on Number 14 and waited.

The ball rolled into the 24 slot. Shayne put a cigarette between his lips and struck a match to it, turning his head away slightly while the croupier raked in and paid off. He waited until the ball was lifted from its resting place before simulating a start of surprise and exclaiming angrily, “How about paying me off? I was on Number 14.”

“But 24 was the winning number,” the croupier assured him softly.

“The hell it was,” raged Shayne. “What sort of game are you running here? Can’t you win sucker money fast enough on your crooked wheel without pulling a gyp like that?”

There was a murmur of polite protest from the other players, and Timothy Rourke complained thickly, “For crissakes, Mike-” but Shayne continued his angry protests, leaning forward to shake his finger in the croupier’s face.

A bulky man came up behind him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. A harsh and grating voice said, “Maybe you’d like to take your kick to the boss.”

“I sure as hell would,” Shayne told him violently, turning about to meet a pair of cold eyes level with his own. “If he’s running this sort of gyp game I intend to call his hand.”

“Take it easy, pal,” the burly man muttered, tightening his fingers on Shayne’s shoulder and putting 220 pounds into a pull that moved Shayne away from the table.

Shayne shoved the big hand off angrily and stalked behind the man while the other gamblers looked on in disapproving silence. They stopped at a steel door down the hall marked Private, and cleverly painted and grained to look like oak. The man knuckled the door and turned the knob.

Shayne pushed past him into a brightly lighted office. The bouncer stuck his head in and growled, “This guy has got a wrong beef, boss, and-”

He didn’t get any further with his explanation. Shayne hit the inner edge of the door with his shoulder and the bouncer jerked his head back to avoid being struck.

Shayne slammed the door shut and slid a heavy steel bolt on the inside. He turned to look into the muzzle of a. 45 in the hand of Arnold Barbizon, who was standing in a half-crouch behind a shining mahogany desk in the center of the room.

The manager of the play-mor club straightened quickly from his crouched position. His breathing was rapid and audible, but he managed to say with some dignity, “Shayne-what’s all this fuss about?”

At the instant Barbizon spoke the doorknob rattled on the outside and the bouncer’s gruff voice dimly penetrated the steel door. “What goes, boss? Should I bust in?”

Shayne shook his red head gravely at Arnold Barbizon. “You’d better talk with me privately,” he said. His eyes darted around the room. There was one other door to the left, an ordinary door with a Yale lock. He had no way of knowing whether it would open from the outside or not.

Barbizon moved forward, the gun steady in his hand and pointed at Shayne’s belly. He lifted his voice and said, “It’s all right, Smithy. Just an old friend pulling a gag on me.”

The gambler was a slim man of medium height with an olive complexion. His full lips were red, as though delicately rouged; his eyes were startlingly pale in color. He wore a carefully tailored Palm Beach suit, a tan shirt, and a four-in-hand tie to match. His cold pale eyes regarded Shayne steadily, but the fear had gone away from them. He said, “Well, Shamus?” His lips scarcely moved.

“Put down the rod and we’ll have a talk,” Shayne snapped.

Barbizon moved his head negatively and almost imperceptibly. “I like it better this way. What’s your gripe?” His voice was low and harsh.

Shayne took a deliberate step toward him. “I’ve got a couple of friends outside waiting for me. They know I’m here with you.” He kept moving forward, circling around the desk.

Barbizon’s red lips tightened against his teeth. He hunched forward a trifle more, then slowly sank into his chair. He laid the. 45 carefully on the desk and said, “So, we’ll talk.”

Shayne stopped and eased his right hip onto a corner of the desk. He said, “I just donated forty bucks to your crooked wheel.” He took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one loose and offered it to Barbizon.

The gambler accepted it with a murmur of thanks, produced a lighter from his pocket, lit Shayne’s cigarette and then his own. He leaned back and exhaled smoke through his nostrils and said in a tone of dry amusement, “You’re supposed to be dry behind the ears.”

“I’m supposed to be,” Shayne agreed.

Barbizon sighed heavily. There was a short silence between them, smoke rolling from the nostrils of each. Then the gambler slid his hand inside his coat pocket and brought out a billfold. He extracted four bills-a twenty, a ten, and two fives-shoved them toward Shayne and asked, “That fix it?”

Shayne said, “That’s generous of you.” He picked up the bills, creased them thoughtfully, flipped one five back. “I had a couple of cheap drinks and a swell dinner on you,” he explained.

Barbizon nodded pleasantly and put the five back in the billfold. “Are we through talking?”