She pushed past Shayne. Wynn was still down on the track, his legs splayed, supporting himself on his hands, while the handlers and dogs raced around him. He felt the need to spit. His mouth worked, and a stream of juice jetted out halfway to the paddock entrance.
“You see such wonderful backwoods types here,” a heavily jeweled woman said in the box above Shayne. “I mean, it’s America, isn’t it?”
Chapter 7
Shayne finished his drink and went back to thinking about the Geary family and his own problem. Security men helped Wynn to the paddock, hopping on one leg. New greyhounds were called out, and again the numbers began to move on the board.
A waiter brought Shayne a folded note. It was crudely lettered, in block capitals: GOT SOMETHING FOR YOU, $$ INVOLVED, MEN’S LAV, B LEVEL GRANDSTAND. SIXTH RACE. IMPORTANT BE THERE.
The sixth race was next; there were seven minutes until post time. Shayne refolded the note and tapped his knuckles with it. He stood up, leaving the glass on the rail. He read the note again, standing. It didn’t fit in with any of his various guesses, and he already knew that unless he was extremely careful with his next few moves, something much worse than being knocked down by a mechanical rabbit and trampled by dogs was likely to happen.
At the gate into the grandstand area, he had his clubhouse ticket punched so he could get back without paying a new admission. Instead of trying to make his way through the great cavern between the grandstand and the theater, he went outside to the terrace between the stand and the track. The greyhounds were being introduced. At the far end of the terrace, he went back up one tier, stopping just after reentering the betting room.
The lines were snaking up to the windows. This was a beer-drinking crowd, and to make access easier during periods of heavy use, the entrance to the men’s room in the far corner was an open archway, reached by passing a double baffle. A notice had been posted on the outside partition.
Shayne stopped a woman returning to the grandstand. “Could I borrow your glasses? A guy’s buying some tickets with my money, and I think he’s trying to stiff me.”
“Oh, dear, you’re going to change the eye-setting. But I don’t guess it would be Christian to refuse.”
Shayne focussed on one of the betting lines, and lifted the glasses slightly to get the small sign at the men’s room entrance. It had been printed in the same block capitals as the note: CLOSED. USE OTHER FACILITIES.
He returned the glasses. “Thanks. If you want a winner, bet some money on the six dog.”
“Six?” she said breathlessly. “Are you sure?”
“It’s a tip from the kennel.”
She turned back to the windows, feeling for money. Shayne returned to the grandstand and stepped along an empty row until he spotted a stringy old man sitting alone with a hot dog and a plastic glass of beer. He was wearing a battered, broad-brimmed straw hat with a sweat-stained band.
Shayne sat down beside him. “Evening.”
“Evening.”
“I wanted to ask you if that hat is for sale.”
The old man’s eyebrows lifted. “This old hat?”
“I’ve got a dog in the next race,” Shayne explained, “and I’ve got a nice little bundle riding on him. The last two times he won for me, I was wearing a big straw just like yours. Not that I’m superstitious, but I’ll give you ten dollars for it.”
The old man cackled. “Oh, no, you’re not superstitious. Ten dollars is a sight more than it’s worth.” He removed the hat, exposing a bald, freckled skull. “Reckon I won’t get me a sunburn from these mercury lights. It’s a seven and three-eighths, and it’s given me good service.”
Shayne paid him and put on the hat.
“Don’t fit too bad,” the old man observed. “Now if I was a gambling man, I’d ask for the number of that dog. But you can’t bet dogs on the Social Security, unless you’re a pretty sorry damn fool. I come out here to pay my fifty cents and watch the show. Good luck to you, son.”
Shayne returned to the betting room, headed for the glow of one of the stand-up bars, and ordered whiskey. Nobody lingered here. The drinkers ordered, drank up, and left. In a moment or two Shayne had worked himself into a spot at the end, from which he could watch the closed men’s room from beneath the brim of the big hat. If somebody was inside waiting to meet him during the sixth race, sooner or later he would have to come out.
“And heeeere comes Speedy.”
The lure came around, and the greyhounds broke from the box. The bartender, a fat man in the concessionaire’s white and orange uniform, yelled at the nearest TV screen, “One-four-seven. Come on, one-four-seven.” A trifecta bettor, one of those foolish people who think they can guess which three dogs will come in first, second and third, in that order. The crowd noises, very loud at first, died to a whisper, building up again to a roar as the dogs came into the stretch. The six dog won by a length. The bartender had placed two of his dogs in the top three, but Shayne’s casual pick had spoiled the bet for him.
The crowd drifted back to the betting arena to see the race replayed. It seemed just as tense the second time, and even a shade more real. Shayne ordered a fresh drink and turned to the next page in his program.
Presently another eight dogs circled the track, this time starting from the backstretch and running nine-sixteenths of a mile. At the end of that race, the seventh, a man came out of the men’s room. His skin was the color of light chocolate. A gold hoop, the size of a half dollar, swung from one ear. He was hatless, his black hair close to his scalp in overlapping ringlets. He was wearing Adidas running shoes, and he was very loose.
Shayne’s head was down, much of his face screened by the brim. The man with the ear hoop walked toward the monitors, stopping beside a heavily built man who was studying the morning line for the upcoming race. He wasn’t comparing numbers with his program. He was merely staring.
After a quick exchange, the smaller man returned to the men’s room. Shayne moved out into the crowd. When the man at the monitor turned, Shayne turned with him. After a close look at his clothes and the way they hung, Shayne stepped in close from behind and slipped one hand around his waist, encircling him brusquely and covering the gun in the clip-on belt holster against his right hipbone. With his other hand, Shayne kept him from twisting.
“Are you Arthur Jacobs?” Shayne asked softly.
“No, you got the wrong guy.”
“Let’s take a walk.”
The man tried to stomp on Shayne’s instep. Swinging him on one hip, Shayne lifted him clear of the floor.
“And let’s try not to disturb people. They’ve got their minds on the next race.”
Shayne walked him to a phone booth and put him in, coming part of the way in with him and holding him with his knees and one elbow while he pulled the gun, a .32 automatic. Then he eased up and let him slip down on the half-seat. Shayne didn’t know him, but he knew others like him. He had red-veined eyes and a muddy complexion. People who lead ordinary lives would have been terrified or sputtering, but apparently this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to him.
“I tell you you’re making a mistake.”
“What’s the gun for?”
“In case I get lucky and win some of their money. I don’t want to get hijacked.”
“Just another ten-dollar bettor? What dog won the last race?”
“I was watching that one. Nothing looked good to me.”
“Everybody else has a program. Not you. Take everything out of your pockets and put it on the shelf.”
“Is that what this is, a stickup?”
“If you think so, yell for security. Somebody may hear you.”
“Yeah, and get myself shot in the ear with my own gun. I know the rules.”
He shifted to get to his pockets. When his wallet came out, Shayne thumbed it open.
“A Miami address. Angelo Paniatti. Funny I don’t know you. O.K., Angelo—a quick explanation.”
“Explanation of wha
t? I paid admission. I don’t like people standing this close to me. We’re using the same air.”
Shayne slapped him with the wallet. When he tried to get up, Shayne held him in place and slapped him again. He was blocking the doorway, but the walls of the booth were glass, and some of the people streaming past must have seen what was happening. But as Shayne had remarked, they had more pressing things on their minds. The betting machines would be locked in another two minutes.
“The guy with the ring in his ear,” Shayne said. Angelo started another evasive answer, but Shayne’s expression stopped him.
“With the ring in his ear. All I know, his name’s Pedro. Pete, they call him.”
“What do you specialize in, Angelo?”
“This and that, whatever turns up.”
“You didn’t finish your pockets. There’s one more.”
Angelo put his hand on the outside of his jacket pocket. “Just some bills and junk. Mail.”
Shayne said patiently, “I know you’re not used to going one on one, without guns. Take it out, or I’ll slug you with something harder than a wallet.”
Angelo dug in the pocket and brought out a sheaf of glossy three-by-five prints, all of them of Shayne.
“About six hundred bucks in the wallet,” Shayne said. “I hope I’m wrong, for your sake, but this is beginning to look like a hit.”
“A hit?” he said, his voice rising. “What are you talking? I’m small scale. Burglary’s the most I ever—Ask anybody. You know the Miami cops, they’ll tell you.”
“This is between you and me, Angelo. We don’t need arbitration.” He threw the automatic’s slide, putting a round under the hammer, and jammed the muzzle against the man’s throat. “Why are you carrying my picture, in three sentences or less.”
Angelo squealed, a high note that cut through the echoing babble. Shayne didn’t think they could continue this much longer.
“All I know is,” Angelo said, “all he told me, he wanted to talk business where you wouldn’t be bothered. I was supposed to stand at the door and not let anybody in.”
“They’re paying six hundred for that?”
“I wondered, sure, but I didn’t think he’d do anything major here with this many people.”
“It’s the best place for it. Who’s he working for?”
“That’s all I know! A policy of mine, don’t ask too many questions.”
“Who else is in there with him?”
“Nobody.”
A voice behind Shayne said, “What’s going on here?”
It was one of the security guards, an off-duty Miami Beach detective, supplementing his city salary.
“Mike Shayne? Now what?”
“Nothing much,” Shayne said. “This is Angelo Paniatti, and he’s been ejected from every dog track in Massachusetts and Florida. He’s been buying up Double Q tickets. You take over. I don’t have time to process him.”
He walked away.
He crossed to the men’s room and went on to the exit, some forty feet further. Here, too, the open archway was blocked by an arrangement of baffles, two overlapping wooden panels. Inside the first, Shayne dropped to his knees on the filthy floor, got rid of the big hat and edged around the next panel.
The long gang lavatory was brightly lighted, and Shayne moved forward carefully. No feet showed in any of the stalls. He kept moving until he saw a pant leg and the striped Adidas shoe, at the sinks. He brought his legs up under him and went in at a bound, the .32 in his fist.
Pedro, no longer expecting anybody, was combing his tight hair, bending forward to admire his reflection in the mirror. Shayne was on him before he could turn. His skin was extremely smooth, his eyes brown and soft. Shayne jabbed the automatic against him and he fell back with a groan. Shayne grabbed him around the neck, in the mugger’s position, and whirled him so they both faced the closed stalls.
But Angelo had lied to him. Before the movement was complete, one of the doors opened and a second man came barreling out, a wide figure in workingman’s clothes, pumping hard. He was armed with a more imposing weapon than Shayne’s, a .45 that looked as big as a cannon. He fired it from chest level. It not only looked like a cannon, it made a bang like a cannon. A mirror shattered. Clearly Shayne couldn’t use Pedro as a shield; his colleague intended to shoot Pedro out of the way, and then shoot Shayne.
Shayne took a quick stutter step toward the moving man and threw Pedro at him. Pedro skittered across the tiled floor, sawing the air, and the two men collided hard. Both went down. Shayne kicked at a head, but missed. Pedro continued to slide, ending up against the urinals. There was another heavy hammering explosion. The shooter was up on one knee, his face contorted. That was the last shot he meant to miss. Shayne, still off balance, snapped a shot from five feet. He was firing at the man’s body but the bullet went high, striking him in the forehead.
It was the only place a small-caliber gun would have stopped him. The .45 continued in an upward arc and went sailing. The man clutched at nothing and went forward on his face.
Pedro, still on the floor and groggy, fumbled with a knife. Shayne extended his arm and shouted, “Hold it!”
He retrieved the .45, then came in on Pedro, kicked the knife out of his hand, and swung the heavy gun, checking it an inch from Pedro’s head.
“Say it fast. When you shoot one, they let you shoot the second one free. Who sent you?”
Pedro shook his head. The heavy hoop in his ear swung and glinted. Shayne picked him off the floor and slammed him against the urinals. He pulled him back and did it again.
“This is no fucking joke. It’s trouble for everybody. Who are you working for?”
Pedro spat in his face and tried to bring up his knee. Shayne hit him with the .45, taking a little off the swing because he didn’t want to kill him yet. Metal crunched against bone.
The off-duty policeman who had broken in on Shayne’s questioning stepped in with his gun out. Angelo was behind him. Shayne had never been popular with the Miami Beach force, and now, after Painter’s press-conference charges, he was fair game. The cop looked at the body.
“It’s all over,” Shayne said. “Put it away.”
He was speaking calmly, but the cop had already started a sequence of movements that could only end with the gun being fired. He was in a tight crouch, his shoulders forward, the gun in both hands. Shayne had seen cops in that position before, and he didn’t hesitate. Gunfire was the only answer for gunfire. He fired at the long neon tube overhead. It exploded with a quick spurt of escaping gas. Glass pattered down. Shayne went to one side in the sudden darkness, and knocked against Pedro, who had a second knife or had managed to recover the first one. Pedro struck out, raking Shayne’s shoulder.
“Kill him!” Angelo yelled.
For an instant Shayne’s moving figure was outlined against the light from the betting room, and another shot was fired. And then he was through the baffle. He checked, seeing a security man coming toward him. Because of the crowd, Shayne didn’t believe there would be any more shooting, but he stopped believing that when the cop pointed his gun and fired.
Again Shayne went into the men’s room at a crawl, much faster than the first time. He was beginning to get pain from the knife wound.
He found the dead man and dragged him back through the baffle. The people behind him were moving cautiously, remembering that he was the one with the .45. He heaved the body up to a standing position and walked it out.
The crowd had finally realized that something dangerous was happening, and was draining toward the exits. The cop was standing ten feet away, still in the grip of the shooting hysteria. Having fired his gun once, he wanted passionately to fire it again.
The track announcer was calling, “And going into the backstretch it’s Josie S. on the inside—”
Shayne lifted the body so the feet were clear, and ran at the cop. Unnerved by the shattered face and the rotating arms, the cop tried to go two ways at once, and stumbled. Shayne released t
he body with a yell, and jumped at the escalator.
Several customers were riding up from the ground floor. Shayne, a frightening sight himself by this time, swung out on the strip between the two staircases and slid to the ground floor.
A security guard was running to warn the others at the turnstiles. Shayne made the opposite turn, away from the gate. He wrenched open a door—“Press, Public Relations”—and walked in, colliding with Linda Geary.
She recoiled, and said accusingly, “You got blood on me.”
“That’s because I’ve got blood on me,” Shayne said. “It’s nice to meet somebody for a change who isn’t waving a gun.”
She stared at him, brushing at the blood on her hands. “For heaven’s sake, what happened?”
“I’ve been shot at and knifed, and don’t ask me why because I don’t know. Your cops think the only way to stop me now is to kill me, so will you lock the door and tell them you’re lying down with a headache?”
“There’s no lock on the door. Who shot at you?”
“I’d say they’re professionals. That’s all I have time for.”
Blood was dripping off his fingertips. He put the .45 in his belt and worked his jacket off his injured shoulder. Linda made a small distressed sound.
“Do you think your father was murdered, Linda?” Shayne said.
“No!” She raised a hand as though she thought he was about to hit her. “Murdered! He was drunk, he went off the road—”
“Maybe somebody was parked there waiting, and nudged him off. Did he believe in using his seat belt?”
“The car made an awful noise when he didn’t.”
“It was sitting out there in a dark parking lot all evening. Sprinkle a few pints of gas on the motor, and it’d be sure to catch on fire. That might explain why everybody seems so tense.”
He was using his ripped shirt to sponge off the blood. The knife blade had gone deep into the muscle, and had probably touched bone. Linda had the back of her hand to her mouth.
“It’ll look better when it’s sewn up,” Shayne told her. “You know your way around this place. What about emergency exits?”
Million Dollar Handle Page 7
