Brett Halliday - Guilty as Hell

“Man passed out in here,” Shayne grunted. “The door has to come off.”

The boy stepped out. He proved to be six feet two or three, and looked as though he had been put on a rack and stretched.

“Give you a hand, hey. Nothing like breaking up telephone-company property. Whitey, there’s a tire tool on the floor. Let’s help the man.”

Leaving the motor running, the driver got out and felt under the front seat. He was stocky and muscular, with pale skin and hair and eyebrows so white he was nearly an albino.

“I’m coming along fine, thanks,” Shayne said. “On your way, boys.”

The long-haired youth stepped on the sidewalk, making a point of looking into the phone booth instead of at Shayne.

“Can’t we even watch?”

The third man, a heavy-set pockmarked Cuban, slid over and swung his legs out of the car but remained seated. He was older than the other two, with graying hair and sad cow’s eyes. The stump of a cigar was clamped between his jaws.

“Passed out?” the youth said, peering in at Sparrow. “Clobbered out is more like it. Big-no wonder the door won’t open. How about breaking the glass?”

He turned toward Shayne to ask the question. Shayne had been in circulation long enough to know there had to be a reason for three such dissimilar people to be cruising the streets in that kind of car, and he brought the jack-handle down and around to meet the youth as he drove in at Shayne’s midsection with a fist armed with brass knuckles.

The knuckles glanced off the steel handle. Shayne continued the stroke with a vicious cut at the youth’s head. He missed by inches.

The follow-through carried them into a hard collision. Shayne swung one leg at the hinge of the boy’s knees, bringing his elbow up hard. He wanted to get this one out of the way fast, before he had to meet the other two.

He felt and heard the crunch of cartilage as the youth’s nose was flattened against his face. Tripped by Shayne’s swinging leg, he was already on his way down. Shayne’s knee came up to meet him. He went over backward, arms and legs splaying in four directions. Blood spurted from the mess that had been his nose.

The Cuban was out of the car, moving fast. Shayne had one more thing to take care of. He had a bias against people who swung on him with brass knuckles. The boy’s hand, palm upward, scraped the sidewalk as he fought to recover. Shayne’s heel came down hard and the boy screamed.

Shayne was already turning to meet the Cuban’s rush.

The Cuban dived beneath the jackhandle, grabbing the detective around the thighs. Whitey was running around the front of the car, a short taped club in one hand, probably the meat end of a baseball bat. Shayne was driving, and the Cuban couldn’t hold him. Shayne swung the jackhandle. Whitey pirouetted away like a dancer.

Shayne staggered and nearly fell. Recovering, he jabbed the flat end of the handle downward twice at the Cuban’s kidneys. The Cuban’s grip on his waist loosened and Shayne twisted free.

Whitey was now at the inner edge of the sidewalk, Shayne at the curb. Whitey darted in, faked a swing at Shayne’s knees, then struck upward, sending the jackhandle spinning out of Shayne’s hand.

Shayne gathered up the Cuban and whirled him at his companion. The Cuban caromed off and hit the phone booth with such force that one of the corner uprights folded inward. Shayne ducked a whistling blow from the club and caught a second on his forearm.

The youth on the sidewalk flung himself on Shayne from behind. Shayne fell. He began his roll even before he hit the sidewalk. The Cuban landed on him. Shayne struggled to throw him off while Whitey stamped around the edges waiting for a shot at Shayne’s head. The tall long-haired youth was also part of the melee but not doing much damage. The Cuban butted upward, and the top of his head collided with the knockout point in front of Shayne’s ear. The detective was hurt for the first time.

The bat descended. Whitey was trying to connect with a short slashing blow to make Shayne hold still for the real one to follow. Shayne saw the moving shadow and jerked aside. The club hit the Cuban. Shayne came into a crouch, bringing the dazed Cuban up with his left hand. He brought him around against the iron pickets of the cemetery fence, nailing him with a powerful right as he hung there. The click as it landed told him the Cuban was through for the night.

He looked for Whitey, who turned as Shayne turned. The club was already on its way down. Shayne slanted upward to meet it, and the club slammed him across the back of the neck.

“You got him!” the youth cried. “You got the bastard. Spill his brains on the sidewalk.”

Whitey growled, “Back in the car.”

“Back in the car! Look at my hand. Give me that.”

“This is Mike Shayne, meathead. Did Jake say to kill him? We didn’t get paid that kind of dough.”

Shayne lay face down, his knees in the gutter. He could hear the voices, but the words were unclear. The Plymouth’s motor panted noisily beside him. Unconsumed gases washed over him from the leaking muffler. The blow at the top of the spine had cut his communication with his arms and legs. He strained to move. He could feel drops of sweat break out on his forehead. Willing his shoulders into motion, he lifted his head a few inches.

Whitey dragged the unconscious Cuban past and thrust him into the car. The boy, one arm dangling, kept on begging for the club.

“Just one lick!”

“Leave him be, goddamn it,” Whitey snarled. “In the car, in the car!”

Shayne raised his head another inch and sank his teeth in the boy’s ankle.

The boy was wearing white jeans with pipe-stem legs, which stopped halfway down his calves. Shayne bit down hard, trying to sever the Achilles tendon. The boy gave a high bubbly cry.

“Will you come on?” Whitey cried. “I said to leave him alone!”

With a choked obscenity, the youth took a step and snatched up the jackhandle. Whitey grabbed his arm as it came down. Shayne’s teeth unclenched and he rolled out of the way. His arms and legs were answering now, but sluggishly.

The youth pulled out of Whitey’s hands and ran to the driver’s side. The door there was open. He leaped in. Whitey wrenched the door open on the near side as the car careened recklessly backward. Twenty yards away it reversed and came back at Shayne.

The detective commanded his body to roll, but he could count the seconds before the movement started. The youth with his one usable hand and Whitey with two fought for control of the wheel. The Plymouth swerved, mounting the curb, then rocked back to the street before veering onto the sidewalk again. Shayne, his head on a level with the front bumper, saw the wheels begin to turn toward the street, but in one frozen quarter-second he could see that the correction wouldn’t be made in time. He struggled to bring his arm against his body. The car whooshed past, and he felt a blazing pain in his forearm.

There was a rending crash. The Plymouth’s front fender hooked the phone booth and knocked it over.

The car bounced away, swung all the way across the street and shuddered to a stop. Whitey burst out of the front seat and ran around to take the wheel.

Hitching forward in a crablike crawl, Shayne reached the overturned booth. The Plymouth starter was growling.

Shayne wrestled himself around, braced his feet against the booth and began to pull Teddy out through the bottom.

It was painful work, and he was no longer really sure what he was doing.

The Plymouth’s sudden stop had flooded the carburetor. The starter ground on and on, beginning to weaken. The open phone in the overturned booth buzzed and crackled, and Teddy moaned. Amid the confusion of noises Shayne thought he heard a siren.