Brett Halliday - I Come to Kill You

Sarah: “He had a few fights with people. He fell down a few times in public. He began slopping down cognac like ginger ale. He borrowed money from one of your shylocks and lost it at blackjack. All very easy and obvious. And you fell for it.”

Siracusa: “That’s been going on for months, the whole bit. We investigated all the angles.”

Sarah: “Not quite all the angles, I think, if you didn’t find out he was working for Mrs. Meister.”

Siracusa: “Let go my neck. That’s enough.”

Sarah: “She hired him to find out who killed her husband. Oh, he did it very well. He fooled me completely at first.”

Siracusa: “Christ, the guy robbed a tourist down there. That was no con.”

Sarah: “How do you know who that man really was? He probably had credentials, but did anybody really check?”

Siracusa: “Him and Rourke—”

Sarah: “They cooked that up between them. What’s a little thing like a punch in the nose, if you can get the famous Dominick De Blasio for murder? Look — Shayne’s broke, right? That’s the crucial thing. But what happened to all those big fees he pulled down in the last few years? The idea is that he lost money shooting craps and took a bath in the over-the-counter market. He bought a stock on margin just before the bottom fell out.”

Siracusa: “That’s one of the angles. We checked the broker.”

Sarah: “Who happens to be an old friend of Mike Shayne’s, I’m sure. Those were wash sales. Never mind how I know, I know.”

That was enough. Shayne, in the garage, swore viciously and jerked the spike out of the ceiling. He didn’t have much time. Nevertheless, he waited a moment, snapping his fingers soundlessly, before he lifted an overhead door and started for the house.

He entered by the terrace. Carl De Blasio’s wife, Nicola, met him in the hall and told him her father-in-law wanted to see him as soon as he came in.

“I’ll show you. I had a nice talk with Sarah.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s a very intelligent person, isn’t she? The places she’s been! I’m going to find out from my father-in-law if it would be all right to take her for a sail later. Sometimes it’s all right.”

They had gone down a half-flight. She knocked on a closed door and looked in.

Carl said angrily, “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

She stepped back, and Shayne went into a big paneled room, large enough for both a pool table and a Ping-Pong table without seeming crowded. There was also an old-fashioned pinball machine, the type that had once been one of the mainstays of the De Blasio family business, a huge television set, a stereo sound system, a fireplace, and a bar. Shayne went to the bar.

De Blasio and his son, Carl, had been conferring in an octagonal bay window looking out over the water. De Blasio’s jaws were clenched tightly on his cigar. It took him a moment to smooth the anger out of his face and say cordially to Shayne, “You’re my boy.”

While Shayne was looking for the cognac and the right kind of glass, he was also looking for the Mafia folders he had taken from Tim Rourke’s desk. He saw them on a table beyond the window. One of the folders was open, and he recognized the sheet of yellow copy paper that was uppermost. It was the message he had typed on Rourke’s machine — apparently a reminder from Rourke not to forget to call M.S., at Musso Siracusa’s number, and to be prepared to pay $250 for information.

He poured a sizable drink and drank it thirstily. “Good liquor,” he said, breathing out.

De Blasio came up to the bar and hit his shoulder with a mock punch. “You did a beautiful job, Mike. I only wish we got together years ago. Think of the time we wasted.”

“It wasn’t perfect,” Shayne said, refilling his glass. “I had to cool him. It won’t surprise me if the Miami Police Department starts talking about me on the shortwave.”

“Not yet, anyway,” De Blasio told him. “They took him to Mercy Hospital, and he’s still unconscious, according to our information. He has a jaw that somebody broke in three places.”

“Well, hell,” Shayne said defensively, “I tried to reason with the guy, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s always been a hard-nose.”

Carl guffawed. “I hear you took care of that, too, Shayne. Kaboom.”

Shayne failed to respond to the joke. “Yeah.”

“He may not realize somebody robbed his folders till he goes back to work,” De Blasio said. “We’ve got a pipeline at headquarters, and the minute the name Shayne comes into the matter, we’ll hear about it. I don’t want you to worry. We’ll take care of the whole thing.”

“You may not have quite the clout you thought you had a couple of months ago.”

“You’re not telling me anything,” De Blasio said. “With the judges especially, they’re always looking for ways to get out of their obligations. But this is only a minor assault, a little routine slapping around. That we can handle under the table.”

“I hope those folders are what you wanted. They were the only ones I could find.”

“Mike, you did a great job.”

“Then this puts us even? Tell Larry Zito.”

“As far as that goes. Can we talk?”

Shayne looked at him curiously. “Go ahead.”

“You don’t want to be in too big a hurry. The smart thing to do is stay quiet here, more or less, until we find out where we’re at with this Rourke. If he dies or anything. If he brings robbery charges. You’ve got a lady friend here, what more do you need?”

“She wasn’t too happy about coming. She won’t want to stay.”

“You can persuade her. If the lawyers say it’d be better to get out of the state temporarily, let me handle the details. You say you’re even, financially. Put it a different way, you’re back to zero. While you’re knocking around here, banging your lady, boozing it up, would you have any objections to picking up a little change?”

“Doing what?”

“A little nothing. I’ll describe it to you, and you can say yes or no, according. We’re feeling some heat, you know that. I have something moving I’d like to go ahead with, but it’s going to take a new face.”

“Not mine.”

“Yours would be ideal,” De Blasio said, “and let me tell you how simple. There’s this meet scheduled at such and such a pinpoint in the open ocean off Key Biscayne. Now, this is between you and I. Not to leave this room. Another guy made the appointment, and we want to take it over. Nothing’s going to change hands, I’ll guarantee that. It’s to sit down and talk about a deal, and the individual we want to meet is a bust-out guy, a Latino, and he gets a little excitable, you know? If he sees Carlo or somebody he knows, zzt!” He made a gesture pantomiming a rapid departure. “And at a bad time, because we need the action.”

Shayne drank. “How much choice do I have?”

“All kinds of choice. We’re not trying to force you. I don’t expect any problems, but when you’re doing business with this guy, there’s an outside chance some crazy might pull a gun, if that’s what’s on your mind. I want Carlo to go, and one other good man. Siracusa — he’s been like a rock for twenty years, and you can be assured he won’t do anything on a sudden impulse. Here’s the way I see it. You’re the only one on deck. When the guy’s boat comes alongside, you throw him a line. Then you let them look at your muscles until Carlo and Musso can make their point, the point being that we’re still in business, still the people to deal with in Miami.”

“Deal with on what?”

“No reason I shouldn’t tell you. Not narcotics.”

Shayne snorted. “That’s what it sounds like.”

“Mike,” De Blasio said with sincerity, “I’ll give you my word on this. We have an ironclad law — we don’t handle the stuff. It’s people, Mike. Italians, outside the quota. They pay five hundred a head, we get jobs for them, and after that, when we need somebody we can call on…”