Brett Halliday - Dolls Are Deadly

“Give it to me slow,” Shayne said. “You never saw these men until a few weeks ago, but they dug into their pockets and bought you a new engine-just because they like you?”

“Tha’s what I been trying to tell you, Mike.”

“Was the old engine bad?”

“Not bad, not good.” Sylvester shrugged. “But this one the best. Slim even work on it to supercharge it some. He is expert mechanic. Now this engine lift the Santa Clara like a flying fish out of the water. After a while maybe I show you, if they let me. They don’t like for me to let it out. What for a fast engine if you don’t go fast, Mike?”

“That’s a good question.” Shayne massaged his left earlobe gently. “Is this Slim a mechanic at home?” Where would a mechanic get the money to come to Florida on an extended vacation and, further, engage in such altruism?

“Is hobby mechanic,” Sylvester said. “Do-it-yourself man, he says. To make money he is a contractor. Very rich. They are all rich. To them to buy a new engine the expense is nothing. Still”-his round face sobered-“how many rich men would do such a nothing? I am most lucky.”

“Looks that way.” Shayne rubbed his lean jaw thoughtfully.

With its V-bottomed hull and narrower-than-ordinary stern, Sylvester’s boat had been faster than it needed to be for fishing, before. He had never outgrown a boyish passion for speed, and had been willing to sacrifice a little pay-load for it. But now it had the new engine that could “lift the Santa Clara out of the water” bought for him by strangers who liked him and had dirtied it up “to fool the tax collector.” But they didn’t want him to speed with it. Why? Why, even, had they bought it for him?

Shayne walked back to join the men in the canopied cockpit.

“Help yourself, Mike.” Ed waved cordially toward the bottle. “Drink and be merry. Today’s a holiday.”

“Any special one?” Shayne poured a generous glass, but set it down untouched.

“Since we three got together we declare a holiday every day,” Slim said lazily.

“You didn’t know each other before you came to Miami?”

“No. Damnedest thing. Never met till about a month ago. In a bar on Flagler the first day I arrived. But the minute we met, we clicked. We’d all come down to live it up and fish, and we were lucky enough to find Sylvester… Hey, Sylvester! How’s your drink coming?”

“She’s all gone.”

“Can’t have that.” Ed walked over with the bottle and poured straight rum over the melting ice in Sylvester’s glass.

Shayne said pleasantly, “Quite a coincidence, your hitting it off so well. From your accents, I’d say you’re from different parts of the country.”

“Couldn’t be differenter,” Slim said. “I’m from Philly and Ed’s from Detroit. In the insurance business there. Vince here’s from Arizona. Got him a motel chain. Down here we all got beach cabanas. Vince claims some of his in Arizona can match them at a fourth the price but, what the hell-money’s to spend, or what good is it?”

Shayne took a cautious swallow of the rum. “You’re all down here alone?”

“All but Ed. He brought his wife.”

Ed had come back from tending to Sylvester’s drink and was refilling his own. “I’m practically alone,” he said cheerfully. “When she isn’t playing canasta, she’s shopping.”

Shayne sat down, relaxed with his long legs sprawled out, and watched the shore recede. Already the beach was only a thin line, and the palms behind it a hedgelike, hazy green. A small yacht passed with two men and two women sitting at an umbrella-covered table sipping drinks. Ed and Slim shouted across the water and waved. The men on the yacht stared impassively, but the women-young, lithe and blond-looked interestedly at the boatload of men and waved back.

They were getting into the Gulf Stream now with little whirlpools showing everywhere and yellow gulfweed floating in patches. There were bursts of flying-fish in the air, with boilings in the water as a bigger fish pursued them.

“You want to try for a barracuda, Mike?” Sylvester called. “I’ll put the mullet strips on for you.”

“I’ll take the wheel, Sylvester,” Vince offered.

Vince set down his drink and walked over. Shayne looked back. Through the screen which covered the wheelhouse window he could see Vince in his flamboyant shirt bent over the compass and some charts, his hand resting with easy familiarity on the wheel. For a motel mogul from landlocked Arizona, this man seemed inordinately good on a boat. He seemed inordinately sober too, despite all the high-voltage rum being passed around.

In contrast to his steadiness, Sylvester lurched from the cabin, weaving unsteadily and grinning foolishly. He made his way precariously to the bait box aft, took out the prepared mullet strips, baited three hooks and gave them to Shayne. The redhead let them troll back in the boat’s wake.

“Use the fishing chair if you want,” Ed drawled. “We’re too lazy to do any fishing that takes energy. Better strap yourself in against the big ones.”

Shayne shook his head. “With light six-thread I’m not looking for anything big enough to pull me overboard.”

“We aren’t looking for anything, period. After a while, if we anchor, we might put out some hand lines-and hope the fish won’t latch onto ’em.” He laughed. “Mostly we just like to get out here and drink on the water.”

This was about as screwy a fishing party as Shayne had ever chummed up with.

“Is like a club, Mike,” Sylvester explained. “All nice and happy. They get along with everybody.”

As though to prove the statement, Slim raised himself on his elbow from the kapok cushions and waved genially at a police boat that was passing. The men on the boat waved back, the one at the wheel tooting twice in recognition of Sylvester’s boat. Sylvester had run a charter boat off Miami for many years and the happy little Cuban was a favorite of everybody’s.

Shayne’s bait was trolling nicely, bouncing on the swell. The water was silver-blue and the breeze just cool enough to compensate for the hot sun. It was a good day. The redhead leaned back, listening to the cheerful banter between Sylvester and the three men. The rum was disappearing steadily; the humor and the laughter gaining weight and volume. A carefree holiday seemed to be the only thing on anybody’s mind.

Shayne felt a tug on his line that communicated through his hands clear up into his shoulders. His star-drag reel whirred as a fish ran out the line, and he experienced the sharp, familiar feel of satisfaction the weight of a fighting fish always gave him. No one except Sylvester seemed much interested as he played the fish and reeled it in. It was an eight-pound barracuda, evil-looking, its long jaws lined with razor-sharp teeth.

“I’ve caught ’em eight feet long,” Sylvester bragged. “Those big ones can eat a man’s leg off.” He moved drunkenly, taking the fish from the hook and packing it in ice, a necessary precaution, since the flesh of a barracuda spoils more rapidly than most other tropical fish.

“Got a feeling you’re going to do all the fishing that’s done today, Mike,” Slim said. “We started drinking too early, I guess. Fishing just seems like too much work.” He started singing in a hoarse and off-key voice.

Shayne put his troll bait out again. They were well out to sea with the smooth flow of the Gulf Stream around them, and Miami an unreal wonderland vanishing in the afternoon haze. The others were quieter now. Had the calm of the open ocean finally penetrated their overstimulated senses, or had the abandoned holiday mood been put on partly for Shayne’s benefit, to make him feel at ease because Sylvester had practically forced them into allowing him to join their party?