Brett Halliday - Too Friendly, Too Dead

“Then how come you’re around asking questions?” The bartender seemed unduly belligerent and his close-set eyes were slitted as he glared at the two men.

“Rourke here is a reporter covering the case,” Shayne told him evenly. “He’d like a quote from you.”

“Quote, I don’t know nothing about the stiff, unquote,” snapped Horseface showing his teeth in what was intended to be a grin but came out a sort of sneer. “Say! You’re that private eye from Miami, ain’t you?”

Shayne nodded. “I’m working on the case. The way I get it, Fitzgilpin used to drop in here for a couple of beers in an evening.”

“That his name? Fitzgilpin? Never heard it before. Like I already told the cops…”

“But we’re not cops,” Shayne reminded him gently. He had his wallet out and he extracted a twenty-dollar bill and laid it on the counter. “We’re willing to pay for information. You notice a short, plump-faced guy in around midnight flashing a roll?”

“Friday nights are busy and the joint was jumping,” Horseface told him shortly. He turned away with the bill in his hand and rang up the price of their two drinks, turned back and ostentatiously counted out the exact change in front of Shayne. “No charge for that info. And it makes me nervous having reporters and private snoopers hanging around. Boss don’t like it either.”

Shayne said, “We’re not interested in Pete Elston’s gambling room upstairs. What we want…”

“You already got all you’re gonna get,” snapped the bartender. He turned his back on them and strolled down the bar to stand in front of the two beer-drinkers and rest his elbows on the bar.

Timothy Rourke grinned sideways at the redhead as he sipped his bourbon and water with relish. “Methinks our friend protests too much.”

Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders. “Elston wouldn’t like it one little bit if a guy were mugged after drinking down here. He pays plenty for protection, but not to Homicide.” He finished his drink and picked up a half-dollar and rapped sharply on the bar. The two other patrons glanced up the bar at them, but Horseface kept his back turned to them.

Shayne called loudly, “Two more, bartender.” He continued to keep his back turned.

The grin faded from Rourke’s face as Shayne slid off the bar stool and stalked back to confront the bartender. The reporter remained seated on his stool, turning his head to observe Shayne going into action with pleasure and interest.

The two beer-drinkers sat rigid, staring down into their glasses with complete absorption as Shayne stopped beside them. Horseface pretended not to notice his presence. He was talking fast in a low voice, “… so there was this dame, see? And she says to me…”

Shayne reached over the bar and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “My friend and I would like another round.”

Without turning his head, the bartender snapped, “I said you already got all you’re gonna get in here. Can’t you take a hint? No private snoops or reporters wanted.”

Shayne’s voice remained dangerously calm. “You’re getting out of your depth, bud.”

“Am I?” The bartender turned his head to sneer at the rangy redhead. “I gotta right to refuse service to anyone. See that sign back there?” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “Strikes me you had enough already, Mister. I wouldn’t want you passin’ out in my place and then maybe getting rolled down the street. Law says I ain’t allowed to serve no drink to a drunk.” He spread his lips wide and smirked across the bar at Shayne. “So whyn’t you just go on quiet and pass out some other place?” He slid his right elbow off the bar as he spoke, and his hand disappeared under the mahogany.

Shayne’s left hand shot out and his fingers closed around the bartender’s scrawny neck. Horseface gurgled and tried to back away, his right hand coming up from under the bar swinging a two-foot length of leaded pool cue.

Shayne laughed shortly and released his neck to clamp his big left hand about the man’s wrist.

The weighted cue was interrupted in mid-swing. Shayne put pressure on the wrist and the bartender gasped loudly in pain and the cue clattered down to the mahogany.

Shayne released his wrist and stepped back. He said, “Two more of the same,” and strode back to seat himself beside Rourke again.

The bartender hesitated a long moment, his bony face working convulsively, then sullenly moved up behind the bar and placed two more drinks in front of them. Shayne counted out the exact change for the drinks and pushed it across the bar. Horseface turned away without a word, moved to the center of the bar where he began washing glasses as though he had no interest in anything else in the world except getting the glasses clean as fast as he could.

Rourke gulped some of his bourbon appreciatively and smacked his lips. He said loudly, “Damned if I know why, but this one tastes better than the first one.”

Shayne relaxed and grinned at his old friend. He said, “It’s on account of the service. Something psychological about getting served with a smile.”

They sat and finished their drinks in silence and the bartender continued to wash and dry glasses as though his life depended on it.

When both their glasses were empty, they got up and walked out of the bar together. In the bright sunlight outside, Rourke looked at Shayne with brightly expectant eyes and asked, “You going to let him get away with that?”

“With what?”

“I’ll swear he’s covering up something.”

“Sure he is,” Shayne agreed amiably. “But I need something to pressure him with. I’ll come back for another talk when I get hold of it.”

Rourke chuckled and said, “You seemed to be pressuring him fairly effectively when he let go that home-made billy.”

Shayne said, “Right then, I wanted a drink. I got it. You headed back to your office?” he asked abruptly.

“I’d better get a story written.”

“Give me the address of Fitzgilpin’s insurance office. I’ll drop in there and see what I can find out.”

Rourke consulted his penciled notes and provided the address. Then they went to their own cars and separated.

Michael Shayne found the office of the Fitzgilpin Insurance Agency on the ground floor of a run-down office building about ten blocks north and west of the Sporting Club. The door of the office stood open and a plump, pleasant-faced woman was typing behind a desk in the anteroom, facing the outer door.

She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, wearing a fresh, white shirtwaist and a brown skirt, and her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping.

She looked up from her typing as Shayne paused in the doorway, pushed back a straggling lock of brown hair from her forehead, and frowned nearsightedly at him. “Yes? Is there something I can do for you?” Her voice trembled slightly and her teeth gnawed nervously at her full lower lip which already had most of the rouge chewed off it.

Shayne took off his hat and stepped inside. “Are you Mr. Fitzgilpin’s secretary?”

“Yes. That is… I was.” She blinked her nice brown eyes and a single tear slid out from beneath each lid and coursed down her cheeks. She lifted her lids and faltered, “Perhaps you haven’t heard yet…?”

Shayne said hastily, “I have heard. In fact, that’s why I’m here. I’m a private detective and also a personal friend of the Fitzgilpins. My name is Michael Shayne.”

“Oh yes. Of course.” Her eyes were wide now, still moist, but friendly and welcoming. “I should have recognized you from pictures I’ve seen in the papers. I didn’t know Mr. Fitzgilpin knew you, Mr. Shayne. I never heard him mention your name.”

“His wife… widow… is a close friend of my secretary’s,” Shayne told her, sitting down in one of the two chairs in the small reception room. “She called me this morning as soon as the tragic news reached her, and I’ve promised to do what I can to help.”