Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

Texas was a lot like Miami. It was full of sound and fury, death and destruction. Mike Shayne felt right at home. It was one of the worst feelings he’d ever had!

Michael Shayne was just stepping out of the building on Flagler Street where his office was located, when a rough hand suddenly grabbed his arm in an iron grip and spun him around. “Shayne, you goddam shamus!” someone roared, and then Shayne saw a big fist coming right at his face.

He ducked, letting his reflexes take over. The punch sailed by harmlessly, and Shayne stepped in closer to the man who had thrown it. He hooked a short, vicious left to the man’s unprotected stomach, followed with a devastating right cross that lifted the attacker off his feet and sent him sprawling on the sidewalk.

The man looked up at Shayne and rubbed a jaw that was going to be plenty sore, as bystanders hurried to get out of the way. Shayne’s pulse was pounding, pumping adrenalin through him in preparation for the fight to continue. But it was evident from the grin that broke out on the other man’s face that the fight was over.

“Damn, you can still hit!” the man said with a rueful chuckle. “Remember that night in Tampico when those merchant marine boys got into a brawl and you pitched in to help them out? You really cleared the decks in that bar, fella.”

Shayne’s lean face was a study in consternation now. Of all the people who might attack him in downtown Miami, Shayne would never have expected this one.

He took a deep breath. “Lomack, you’re as crazy as you ever were,” he said. “I’ll bet they still call you Mad Jack, don’t they?”

The man grinned even wider and held out a hand for Shayne to take. As the big detective helped his former assailant up, the man said, “Hell, yeah, they still call me Mad Jack. Only it’s behind my back now.” His voice dropped to a mock whisper. “Seems they’re afraid of the big boss, afraid I might fire ‘em.”

The man started dusting his expensive suit off, and Shayne said, “The last I heard of you, you were still in Texas. What are you doing here?”

“What, can’t I come see an old friend? After all, you’re the famous private detective, Mike Shayne, and I knew you when you were still roughnecking in the oil fields.”

“That was a long time ago,” Shayne said, “and I knew you when you were doing the same thing. But now you’re Mad Jack Lomack, the millionaire wildcatter.”

“Yeah, things change for all of us, don’t they, Mike?”

They sure as hell did, Shayne thought as he looked at this man who had been one of his closest friends, a lot of years back and a lot of miles away. Lomack still looked about the same, allowing for the passage of time. He was a few inches shorter than Shayne, thick-waisted and broad-shouldered. The closely-cropped beard was still a thick, luxurious brown, and the hair was the same, though there was a little less of it now. Lomack was wearing more expensive clothes now, too. He looked prosperous, which he had never been in the old days. The oil business had obviously been good to him.

“We really raised some hell in our time, though, didn’t we?” Lomack went on. “Good times, good times. And it’s really good to see you again, Mike.” He massaged his jaw again and added, “I just wish I hadn’t decided to see if you’re still as quick as you used to be. You are.”

“I’ve slowed down some. What do you say to a drink?”

Lomack clapped Shayne on the back and laughed. “I say what took you so long to ask? Is there a good place around here?”

“I was just on my way,” Shayne said. “Come on.”

It was late afternoon, and Shayne had just left the office for the day when Lomack made his unexpected appearance. Lucy Hamilton, the big redhead’s beautiful secretary, was still upstairs, finishing up the day’s paperwork. Shayne was supposed to meet her for dinner later on. He hoped Lomack would be able to join them, and said as much to the oilman.

“Well, I’d like to, Mike,” Lomack said, “but to tell you the truth, this isn’t just a social visit. I’ve got a problem I’m hoping you can help me with.”

Shayne had figured as much. They had reached a nice little cocktail lounge a couple of blocks away from the office, and as he opened the door, Shayne said, “You can tell me all about it over that drink, Jack.”

“You still drinking Martell, ice water on the side? It used to amaze me how you could come up with cognac in those jerkwater Mexican towns a hundred miles from nowhere!”

As they settled into a booth, Shayne hoped that Lomack’s problem wasn’t a major one. The two of them had shared drinks and brawls and hour after hour of hard, backbreaking work in the oilfields. He didn’t like the thought of Jack Lomack in trouble.

It looked like that was the case, though. Lomack kept up the jovial front until after their drinks had arrived, laughing over the reminiscences of earlier, wilder days. But then as he wrapped his fingers around a tumbler full of whiskey and took a long swallow from it, Shayne saw the change come over his face.

“What’s the trouble, Jack?” Shayne asked as he sipped on the cognac he had ordered.

Lomack put his glass down carelessly, sloshing some of the amber liquid out. He ignored it and sighed heavily. “It’s pretty simple, Mike,” he said. “Some folks back in Texas think I killed about two dozen people.”

Shayne’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. He had heard a lot of surprising statements in his years as a private detective, and he had learned to automatically stifle his reactions. But he couldn’t prevent the sudden tightening of his face, the narrowing of his eyes as he frowned. And he couldn’t stop the hand that lifted to his earlobe, to tug on it absently.

“Doesn’t sound too good, Jack,” he said after a long moment of silence. “Maybe you’d better start at the beginning.”

Lomack showed his age more now as he said, “I guess you heard about the drilling rig going down off the South Texas coast a few weeks back. That was one of my rigs, Mike.”

Shayne remembered seeing the story on a television newscast. He said, “I didn’t hear much about it, but I know what you’re talking about. There was some kind of explosion on the rig and it sank, is that right?”

“Right. It sank, with twenty-seven people on it. By the time the rescue people got there, only two of them were still alive and hanging onto some debris. Those two are still alive, or at least they were when I left Texas; the other twenty-five are at the bottom of the Gulf.”

“And you’re saying that somebody holds you responsible for that disaster?”

Lomack nodded. “The insurance company, for one. They’ve got an investigator on the case, and they’re going to hold up my settlement as long as they can.”

“That’s normal, in a case that big, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I suppose so. And they know my company has been having some trouble lately.” Lomack’s fist came down on the table sharply. “But dammit, it’s awful when somebody thinks you’d kill all those people just to get a little money.”

“It’s been known to happen,” Shayne said softly. “Not everybody is as honest as you, Jack.”

“Crazy but honest,” Lomack said, more than a trace of bitterness in his voice. He shook his head. “That’s bad enough,” he went on. “But then these things started showing up.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and put it on the table.