Brett Halliday - The Careless Corpse

“Not particularly. It’s a way to kill a few hours when one is married to Julio.”

“An expensive way… following your system at roulette.”

“Julio can afford it.”

“All right.” Shayne doubled his fist and rapped his knuckles against the wheel. “We’ll pass that one for a moment. How about your act just now?”

“My act, Mike?” She sounded genuinely confused and hurt. “Don’t you think I enjoyed kissing you?”

“I think you enjoyed it all right.” Shayne hesitated a moment, reaching up to tug at his left earlobe. Then he asked flatly, “What do you want from me, Laura?”

“I told you inside. I want to bust loose tonight. I want to forget I’m Mrs. Julio Peralta. I want to go some crazy place…”

“That’s rancid and depraved,” Shayne finished for her when she hesitated. “Any specific suggestions?”

“Yes.” She rolled her window down a little and spun her cigarette out. “It was like the answer to a prayer when you showed up at the house tonight. The redoubtable Mike Shayne. The big, tough redhead who really knows his way around the back alleys of this town. So I made a quick play for you, Mike.”

“That was obvious,” he growled. “Why?”

“Do you happen to know a place called Las Putas Buenas?” she parried.

Shayne said, “Yes,” then added after a pause, “Now I know where you got those adjectives.”

“Is it rancid and depraved, Mike?” She sounded delighted.

“Do you know any Spanish?”

“No.”

“Skip it. What about Las Putas Buenas?”

“I want you to take me there. I had hoped,” she added in a small voice, “that after kissing me you wouldn’t insist on asking so many questions. Maybe if we tried it again…?” she added hopefully.

Shayne turned his head to look at her. He said, “If we try it again, Laura, we’ll more likely end up at my place.” He hesitated. “What’s all this got to do with an emerald bracelet?”

“I don’t know, Mike. Honest to God, I don’t know. But I’m frightened.”

“Because you’re afraid the bracelet will be recovered?”

“That’s a strange thing to say.”

Shayne growled, “Lots of strange things are happening tonight. So… you’re frightened. Why?”

“I received an anonymous note this morning.”

“My God, someone is certainly on a writing spree. What did yours say?”

“Mine? Were there others?”

Shayne said, “Skip it for now. Was it typewritten or printed with pen and ink?”

“Neither one. It was scrawled in a heavy black pencil… almost illiterate. It said: Go to the bar called Las Putas Buenas in Miami alone tonight between ten and twelve. Sit at a table and order cerveza. You will regret it, if you don’t! Mike! What does it mean?” Laura’s voice became tremulous and she put out her hand to grasp his arm tightly.

He said, “Why don’t you tell me?”

“But I don’t know. I don’t know what it means.”

“Let me see the note.”

“I don’t have it,” she confessed. “I tore it up. I wasn’t going to pay any attention to a thing like that. But I kept thinking and thinking. Who wrote it? Why? What would happen if I don’t go?”

“So you decided to ring me in as an escort?” Shayne’s voice was harsh.

“It came to me this evening when you were at the house,” she confessed. “I’d feel safe with you.”

“It said to come alone,” Shayne reminded her.

“I know. I thought you could drop me off and I’d go in alone. Then, when you came in and pretended not to know me, no one would know why you were there. I wouldn’t be afraid, knowing you were there, Mike.”

“How much of this were you going to tell me if I hadn’t dragged it out of you?” demanded Shayne.

“I don’t know. I was sort of feeling my way.”

“Why did you use the adjectives ‘rancid’ and ‘depraved’ when you first described the sort of place you wanted to go to?”

“I honestly don’t know, Mike. I’ve been racking my brains all day trying to remember where I ever heard of Las Putas Buenas. I know I have. I know it strikes some chord. My best guess is that I once heard either Nathaniel or Felice mention the name. I can’t recall the context, but I have the vague impression it’s a very low-down sort of joint.”

“Felice being your former maid,” muttered Shayne. “Did she and Freed often discuss low-down joints in front of you?”

“You know how it is,” Laura said impatiently. “You hear people talking.”

“Then you think one or both of them knew the place?”

“By reputation, at least. I know I’ve heard the name mentioned recently. Will you take me, Mike?”

“If you really want something to happen, I think you’d better go alone,” Shayne advised her bluntly. “If I drive up and drop you at the door, the whole deal will be ruined.”

“Why not let me off a block away?”

Shayne shook his head. “To do it right, you’d better drive up openly in your own Cadillac convertible. Do you know the address?” he went on briskly.

“Yes. I looked it up today. It’s down on the Miami riverfront.”

“All right.” Shayne leaned past her and opened the door. “I’ll go first. You come along in a few minutes. By the time you get there, I’ll be inside at the bar. Don’t pay any attention to me. Just sit at a table and order beer and see what happens.”

“Is beer cerveza in Spanish?” she asked in a dubious voice.

“That’s right.” Shayne had not drawn back from opening the car door on her side. Now, he brought his left hand up slowly to the side of her face, and turned it toward him. She didn’t close her eyes this time, but she didn’t close her mouth either.

When he released her, she slid off the seat and onto the ground, but hesitated before closing the door. She said, “I see what you meant about ending up at your place. Maybe…do you think we can, Mike?”

He said gruffly, “Get your car and come on down to Las Putas Buenas. If we do end up at my place, I’ll translate it for you.”

She nodded and closed the door and walked away in the moonlight with her shoulders back and her head erect. Shayne sat and watched her disappear around a row of parked cars. There were a hell of a lot of unanswered questions about the Peralta case. At this point, Laura Peralta was the most important one.

When she was out of sight, he started the motor and drove out of the parking lot. Las Putas Buenas was located in the Southeast section of the city, on the bank of the Miami River, and was frequented mostly by Spanish-speaking dock-workers and crews from small fishing boats anchored in the vicinity.

There was a small, private parking lot adjoining the low building that extended out over the tide-flat on pilings. There were only half a dozen cars there, and no attendant in sight when Shayne drove Rourke’s car in and got out. There was only one dim light over the door and the muted sound of a carioca coming from a jukebox as Shayne went up to the door and opened it on a square, very low-raftered room heavy with smoke that was thickly tinged with the acrid odor of marijuana and pervaded by the smell of garlicky sweat.

There were half a dozen empty tables along the right-hand wall, Shayne noted as he entered, and three or four couples were dancing in a small cleared space between crowded tables on the other side of the room. Directly ahead was a right-angled bar with three stools at the end of it, empty, and Shayne strode forward to the first of them which would afford him an excellent view of the empty tables where Laura Peralta was most likely to sit.

The bartender was a dapper Cuban with a black hairline mustache that reminded Shayne of Peter Painter’s, and with very white teeth which he displayed in a welcoming smile as the redhead seated himself.