Fourth Down to Death

by Brett Halliday

  The bartender was a meat-faced man in a derby and a handlebar mustache. Shayne ordered a drink.

  “I’m supposed to meet somebody here,” he said when the cognac was poured. “A little pencil-line mustache. Cheekbones.”

  The bartender moved his shoulders. “I don’t look at them that close, to tell you the truth.”

  “He phoned from here. He was drinking bourbon, and he’d already put away quite a few. His topic was football.”

  The doubt cleared out of the bartender’s face. “Sure. I’ve been getting a lot of them lately—inside information on how the game’s going to turn out. He left about—oh, five minutes ago. Took a phone call and blew.”

  Shayne downed his drink and gave the man a flash of his identification. “Where did he get the call, in the booth?”

  “No, it came in on the bar phone.” He put both hands on the bar and gave Shayne an upward glance, preparing to negotiate. “If I heard part of the conversation, would it be worth anything to you?”

  Shayne put down enough change to pay for his drink and started away.

  The bartender called after him, “I’m not talking important money. Buy me a drink, for Christ’s sake.”

  Shayne turned back and dropped two singles on the bar. They disappeared into the bartender’s shirt pocket.

  “Like it was a guy’s voice, but kind of faggy? Said, ‘Fellow there at the bar named Skitch?’ Guy took the phone. Said, ‘Yeah, Skitch talking. Blah blah blah.’ Said, ‘I’ll talk about it but, man, I got you pinned to the board.’ It struck me, the way he said it. ‘Pinned to the board.’ Said ‘I’m open, but the thing is, what have you got to trade?’ Then bang, he slammed down the phone and was out of here. Five minutes ago, ten, I didn’t notice the time.”

  “Too bad you only heard one end,” Shayne said.

  “I don’t have X-ray hearing.”

  Outside on the sidewalk, Shayne hesitated. As he started for his car a motor coughed further up the block. Headlights pulled out of line and came at him. The light reflected from the windshield was broken into many tiny glints. Shayne moved aside, recognizing the car as Stitch Reddick’s black Olds, its windshield starred by blows from Bea Truszowski’s lug wrench.

  As it came abreast of Shayne, moving slowly in low, Shayne caught the door handle and wrenched the door open. Stitch Reddick, at the wheel, goggled around at him. His lank brown hair was disheveled. He seemed very drunk, barely under control.

  “Mike Shayne?”

  The Olds veered toward the parked cars. Shayne had one leg inside the front seat by the time Reddick’s blurred brain made the necessary correction. Veering back, he stepped hard on the gas. The sudden acceleration swung Shayne’s body out of the car. Shayne kept his foothold, recovering as their forward momentum checked slightly when Reddick changed gears.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Reddick shouted. “Not twice in one night! This is mine! Get the hell out of the car!”

  He stayed in second, and as he turned his head to shout he slipped into the wrong lane. A horn bleated. An oncoming sedan missed the Olds by inches. Reddick pulled at the wheel as the car rocked.

  He stamped hard on his brake. The door swung open all the way, and Shayne, fighting to hang on, swung with it. Again Reddick hit the gas and the door came back. Shayne caught at the open window and felt a sliver of glass rake his hand.

  Reddick braked, accelerated, and at the next corner skidded into a turn. For an instant the Olds drifted. The wheels took hold just in time to prevent a crash. Reddick went back into a tight S, alternating brakes and gas in an attempt to shake Shayne loose.

  “Pull over!” Shayne yelled. “Goddamn it—”

  “You bastard, how many times do you think you can mess me up? Let go of that door or I’ll kill you!”

  Shayne worked his other knee in onto the front seat. He was back in balance, ready to let the next small shift in speed carry him into the car.

  Reddick snarled and ran his inner wheels up on the sidewalk. There was a utility pole ahead. He aimed to the left of the pole and accelerated, hoping to scrape Shayne off as he passed. At the last instant Shayne jumped clear. The Olds banged against the pole and caromed back onto the street.

  Shayne landed well, with a shoulder roll. Reddick yelled back, “Get lost, bastard!”

  He laughed wildly and gave a one-finger salute out the open window.

  Shayne pivoted and set out for his Buick at a hard run. As he turned the corner he glanced back without breaking stride. The taillights of Reddick’s Olds were moving west, toward Coral Gables. After sloughing off Shayne, Reddick had slowed down, and was wobbling back and forth across the center line, his brakelights flaring occasionally as he gave himself contradictory commands.

  Shayne leaped into his Buick and hit everything at once. The phone was ringing. He ignored it. He came about in a tight U-turn and opened the Buick up. A taxi was coming around the corner. Shayne bulled it out of his way. As he came out of the turn he saw Reddick’s Olds, a half-dozen blocks ahead, swing sharply north.

  Shayne began working west toward 27th Avenue, letting his brakes help him around corners. Much of the time he was fifteen to twenty miles an hour over a safe speed. Running parallel to Reddick, one block over, he nearly passed him. Jumping a red light at the corner of 27th, he picked up the wobbling taillights, and slowed abruptly.

  Reddick was off in his own time zone. He drove more and more slowly, until finally he was meandering along at little over walking speed. He took turns apparently at random. Several times he found himself in a squeeze, and he made the other cars move. Shayne hung a block behind. The interval widened as they came into a patch of heavier traffic.

  In West Miami, Reddick started south. Before long he was up to sixty again, keeping a straight course as long as he was going fast. Whenever he slowed, his attention seemed to wander. They were approaching the bridge over the Coral Gables Canal. Reddick was well within the speed limit now, not using his brakes. He drifted too far to the right, failed to notice it in time, and when he felt the rough shoulder under him he swung the wheel the wrong way. He rode over a stanchion and through a restraining cable, and plunged down an embankment out of sight.

  Shayne skidded to a stop and leaping out, ran to the break. The Old’s headlights, below him, were still burning, but they were in the water.

  He heard a hissing sound. Shayne scrambled down to the wrecked car. It jerked forward a few inches, then stopped again. He wrenched the door open and Reddick fell against him.

  Reaching in, Shayne set the emergency brake, and retrieved Reddick as he began to slide toward the water. The bank was slippery. Shayne’s leg went in to the knee.

  Reddick mumbled something thickly and threw out both arms.

  “Cooperate, damn it,” Shayne snapped, struggling with him. “That car’s going to be down on top of us in another minute.”

  Reddick’s full weight came against Shayne and knocked him backward. Shayne dug in, but the footing was precarious and Reddick flopped away. His face was a mask of blood.

  A car stopped on the road above them. Reddick’s Olds lurched suddenly, its rear end beginning to come around. Swearing savagely, Shayne yanked Reddick aside as the car slipped slowly past into the water. Reddick was no longer trying to fight. Shayne laid him flat on the bank and worked an arm under his knees.

  “Big,” Reddick said quietly. “Millions involved, millions.”

  “That’s good. Lie still and I’ll try to get us up out of here.”

  One of Reddick’s arms fastened around his neck. Shayne pried him loose and managed to hitch him up a short way before he slipped again.

  “She worked it,” Reddick said. “Mrs. Z. Coach Lynch, everybody. Hurry. Give you fifty percent, Shayne. Half. We’ll clean up, man.”

  Shayne forced Reddick up another foot, and anchored him there while he dug in and gathered himself for the lift. It was an awkward place, lit only by the headlights on the road. He took a deep breath.

  Suddenly the h
eadlights went out. Then there was a quick slithering rush, a shattering explosion inside Shayne’s skull. He lost Reddick, and went feet first into the water.

  The canal was warm and sluggish, and tugged at his clothes. He swallowed some of it. He could feel himself sinking. His arms and legs were heavy, and didn’t seem to be part of him at all. The pain was bad. His body revolved slowly.

  Something struck the back of his hand. His fingers closed on Reddick’s shoulder.

  They drifted, and when Shayne came languidly to the surface, he brought Reddick with him. He breathed in deeply. Reddick was floating face down. Shayne knew he should do something about that, but first he had to solve the puzzle of his legs. He went under briefly. Then suddenly the pain broke. He lashed out violently and brought them both against the bank.

  Somebody shouted, “There’s a car in the water!”

  Shayne let the slow current turn Reddick’s face to the sky. He was easier to handle now.

  They had drifted under the bridge and all the way out the opposite side. He splashed to attract attention, but the onlookers were all on the other side of the bridge. There was a babble of voices.

  Shayne began to work back toward the bridge. The bank was steeper here, shelving off abruptly. He tried once to get out, but he slipped back and Reddick, twisting, almost got away.

  Shayne’s strength was returning slowly. Reaching the bridge, he swam back under it on his back, holding Reddick’s face out of the water. On the far side, he pushed Reddick up on the bank and was able to get out himself an instant later.

  Somebody said, “I’ve got him.”

  Two men had lowered themselves from the road, hanging on by the broken cable. They carried Reddick up, following the track made by the Olds as it came down. Shayne’s fingers touched a length of galvanized pipe, and he took it up with him.

  Reddick lay at the edge of the pavement. Three cars were drawn up behind Shayne’s Buick, and a half-dozen people were around him. There was an ugly gash on Reddick’s forehead, but the canal water had washed off most of the blood.

  Shayne knelt beside him and blew hard into his open mouth. The lips had a warm, sour taste. He blew again, settled back on his heels and began to work into the rhythm. The people around him continued to talk quietly.

  Other cars stopped. Shayne went on trying until he heard a siren. An ambulance pulled up in front of the lined-up cars and an attendant, jumping down, shouldered Shayne aside. Shayne sat back wearily.

  “Mouth-to-mouth won’t bring this one back,” the attendant said presently. “He’s dead, baby.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The attendant and the driver moved Reddick into the ambulance.

  “Get in,” the attendant told Shayne.

  “I’m all right,” Shayne said, standing up.

  “You sure as hell don’t look it.”

  The bright interior light in the ambulance illuminated Reddick’s face. A white sliver of bone showed in the face wound. Shayne went through his pockets quickly, taking nothing but a small tape recorder clipped to the inside of the soggy jacket.

  “Don’t knock him around on the way in,” Shayne said. “We’re going to want an autopsy.”

  The attendant looked at him curiously. “Didn’t I take you in earlier this evening?”

  “You may have.”

  The attendant shook his head. “How do you do it? I thought you were through for the weekend.”

  He slammed the rear doors, got in beside the driver, and the ambulance moved off, its siren beginning to complain.

  Shayne could hear the phone ringing in his own car. He picked up the length of pipe he had found at the water’s edge and took it with him. The phone continued to insist. He got in, thumbed open the glove compartment and took out the cognac. After drinking he waited a moment. Then he took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

  “Chan Zacharias,” a voice said. “Mike, I want to talk to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  There was a brief pause. “Has anything happened? You sound—I don’t know, a little remote.”

  “I always sound this way when I’ve been slugged with a galvanized pipe. I didn’t call you, you called me. I’m listening.”

  “You were slugged! Who by?”

  “Somebody connected with professional football or professional bookmaking. I don’t know which.”

  “Oh, dear. That makes my problem seem—Are you OK?”

  “I’m functioning. Not at capacity yet.”

  “Have you bumped into Stitch Reddick?”

  “Twice.”

  “Could you be a little more forthcoming, Michael? Naturally I’m sorry about what’s happened, but I’m curious, too. I’m sitting in an empty house looking at a Stone Age movie on television, and none of it has been registering. You promised you’d call.”

  “I’m not ready to turn in a report yet, Mrs. Zacharias. I still have people to see. I’ll be in touch in the morning.”

  “Mike, don’t wait till then! I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep.”

  He drank without replying. The bite and afterglow of the excellent cognac started him on the slow climb back.

  “Mike?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. You didn’t give me much when you talked to me before. Have you changed your mind?”

  “I suppose you could say that. Sid thought we’d be better off if you didn’t start with any preconceived ideas, but that was a little unfair to you, I think. I was so keyed up after that stupid quarrel with Sid, I didn’t know what I was saying. Time has passed. I’ve relaxed. If you give me a second chance I think I’ll do better.… I’d like to try being completely honest, and see if it helps. Will you come over?”

  “Now?”

  “Whenever you can make it. I have no plans at all about going to bed.”

  “Has anybody told you Ronnie James may be playing tomorrow?”

  “What?” she screamed. “Ronnie? How can he? He’s been in the hospital all week…”

  “He’s had very good care. You’d better get some money down while they’re still giving seventeen points. I’ve got to change clothes on the way. Twenty minutes.”

  He broke the connection and called the police.

  He was put through to a captain he knew, named Squire. Shayne gave his location and described what had happened. Squire listened, making notes, coming to full attention only when Shayne mentioned Reddick’s football connection. That changed a routine highway fatality to a front-page news story.

  “I want to understand this, Mike. You were chasing him?”

  “Following him,” Shayne said. “I don’t think he knew I was there. There’s no doubt he was drunk. He was driving in spurts, very fast and then very slow. I was hoping one of your people would pull him over—I knew if I came up alongside he’d try to outrun me. When he went off the road he wasn’t doing any more than thirty-five and he wasn’t using his brakes. He was thrown against the windshield, and after that he was underwater. I’d like to know exactly what killed him. Is there a chance you could run an autopsy tonight?”

  “At this time Saturday night, Mike?”

  “Even if it may have been homicide?”

  “Homicide! Did I miss something? You said he was alone in the car, drunk, driving erratically. He went through a retainer into the canal. Do you think the car was tampered with?”

  “Probably not. He’d been weaving all over the road, part of the time at high speeds, and it would have shown up before then. But more than one person is going to benefit from this. Some funny things have been going on. He’d stumbled onto some kind of betting scandal and he was trying to use it for blackmail. I can’t tell you any more than that—I’m still trying to put it together. An autopsy report might help.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Squire said dubiously. “But there’s going to be some wailing and complaining.”

  After hanging up, Shayne examined the tape recorder Reddick had been carrying. In the world of pro football, Reddick was known to lean heavily on el
ectronic equipment. Someone had called him while he waited for Shayne at the Half-a-Sixpence. I’m open, he had said, according to the bartender, but the thing is, what have you got to trade? Then he had bolted out to the street. He had still been on the block when Shayne arrived some minutes later. Obviously the rest of the conversation had taken place in a car.

  Shayne reversed the tape, stopped it, and went into playback at the machine’s usual speed of one and seven-eighths inches a second. There was no sound at first except for a vague rustling and footsteps. Then music was heard, becoming louder and louder until it drowned out all background noises. It stopped abruptly and a voice that unmistakably belonged to a radio disc jockey began shouting.

  He was silenced, and Stitch Reddick’s voice said, “I can’t hear myself think with that damn radio on.”

  The disc jockey came roaring back, smothering the reply. Even under optimal conditions, bugging devices are seldom completely reliable, which was why Shayne himself rarely used them. This music was heavily amplified, with a strong bass beat which would prevent the police technicians from sorting out the voice-range frequencies.

  A song ended and a commercial for a teen-age skin cream followed. Shayne was listening closely, but nothing came through except an occasional unsatisfactory fragment: “… a drink… it should pay… game plan… guaran—…”

  There was another complete phrase: “… if you hurry.” This was followed by the slamming of the car door.

  He played the tape again. He was beginning to see a possible explanation for Reddick’s strange behavior and the words he had spoken at the edge of the canal, but he needed more than this.

  A police car swung past him and parked. Shayne knew both cops slightly. He took them out on the bridge and showed them the submerged Olds. The tip of one of the twin radio aerials could be seen jutting out of the black water.