Lady, Be Bad

by Brett Halliday

  “Who’s going to pass out the licenses if the bill goes through?”

  “That’s all been taken care of. Behind the scenes, as it were.”

  “You plan to move to Dade County?”

  “I believe I’ll have to. My roots are on the Gulf, but when this kind of opportunity comes along I’m not about to say no. I’m one of the few people on the list who’s as clean as a hound’s tooth. No arrest record at all, casino experience to boot.”

  “What casino experience?”

  “In St. Albans. I operated one of the best stores in the Caribbean, for three-and-a-half years. A little dust at the end about an educated wheel, but nobody proved anything. I parted friends with everybody, including the commissioners. I’m liquid. I can lay my hands on the necessary capital on a few days’ notice. I see why you’re playing it cagey, because naturally you want to be covered, either way. All I’m saying, the cagiest thing you can do is get out of Tallahassee for twenty-four hours, and I’m going to help you and take care of your expenses.”

  “How does it happen you don’t have a record?”

  “Partly luck. Partly good sense. Then in St. A., those three-and-a-half years, I was legit. I was corresponding secretary of the goddamn chamber of commerce.” He leaned forward and breathed on Shayne; he could have played the lead in a bad-breath commercial. “Time we were moving. I’ll carry your case.”

  “What do you have in mind, and why should I cooperate?”

  “I’ve got your chick. Dig? That helicopter thing this morning—we threw it together on the spur of the moment. There wasn’t much planning involved. This way is better. Kind of corny, but no reason it shouldn’t work.”

  Shayne shook out a cigarette and lit it. “Even if the bill goes through, maybe you ought to stay out of Miami.”

  “But why?” Gregory blinked. “No, let’s kick this around. I don’t want any misunderstanding. Put yourself in my shoes. I’ve got real dough tied up in this thing, and I can’t just sit on my hands. With anybody else, I might be tempted to blast you. But in the first place it would hurt the bill. Mafia methods and all that garbage. Or I could put you in the intensive-care unit of some hospital. But that wouldn’t be too ideal, because you’d go back to Miami bearing a grudge. Never mind about my tattoo. I don’t run from trouble, but if I can avoid it, well and good.”

  “Wouldn’t you feel better about everything if you paid me some money?”

  Gregory studied him. “You’re kidding,” he decided. “No, this is best. The chick’s going to be o.k. My people have strict instructions not to lay a finger on her or on the guy either, unless you give me some trouble.”

  “How far are you sending me?”

  “As far as you can get on a tankful of gas. I chartered a Lear Executive, a JetStar. I’ll pay for your lunch.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  Shayne reached for his wallet, but Gregory was less relaxed than he wanted to seem. “Keep your hands where I can see them!”

  Ramon wheeled as he saw them coming, and exchanged a look with his employer. Gregory paid the check. They left the coffee shop in three sections of the revolving door, with Shayne in the middle.

  The same man who had been driving the Volkswagen that morning was outside guarding a gray Cadillac. A fourth man came out of a drugstore doorway. Shayne, badly outnumbered, ended up between the two men in the rear seat, with Gregory in front beside the driver. The Cadillac moved out into the heavy noontime traffic, and was stopped immediately by a red light.

  Gregory smiled at Shayne. “I like a man who knows when it’s time to be realistic. We’re going to get along great.”

  “To clear up one thing, how long do you plan on holding Jackie and Rourke?”

  “Only till your plane’s in the air. I’m not top worried about them. The minute you’re off the ground I’ll put in a phone call, and that’s a promise.”

  “If anything happens to either of them I’ll come looking for you,” Shayne said mildly. “That’s a promise.”

  “I know that, for God’s sake! It’s going to be smooth as silk.”

  Shayne shrugged and asked for a drink. When Gregory nodded, Ramon opened the attaché case and uncapped the cognac. Shayne drank from the bottle. He offered it around. When the others refused he drank again, deeply.

  “But it’s out of proportion, Boots. You’ve got Judge Kendrick in the bag, and even if I felt that strongly about it, what could I do?”

  “Not a damn thing,” Gregory said drily, “if you’re in Arizona. In Tallahassee you might think of something.” Shayne looked at the unfriendly faces on each side, shook his head humorously and drank again.

  “Yeah,” he said, breathing out. “Nothing like good cognac. This is all going to be very painless. You may not realize, Boots, but I only have a token client. Senator Maslow was afraid I’d hurt the image. The News is paying me a lousy fifty bucks to bodyguard Tim Rourke. You could probably top that, but I suppose you’d ask yourself, could you trust me?”

  “That’s the first question I’d ask myself.”

  The three men in the back seat leaned over in unison as the Cadillac took a corner.

  Shayne continued, “It must be a great feeling, having that much cash to spread around. It makes everything so simple. But Sam surprises me. In the last year or two he’s slowed way down.”

  “He’s only got a limited time,” Gregory agreed cautiously.

  “And here he is, kicking up his heels like a yearling. Maybe the doctors have been feeding him hormones.”

  He drank again, and held the bottle to the light. He was nearing the bottom, and he got there with the next long pull. He handed the empty bottle to Ramon.

  “Don’t want to attract attention throwing bottles. When Sam goes,” he went on, “and he could go any day, it’s going to leave a vacuum in Miami. We could have a small civil war on our hands. That’s bad for a town.”

  “You’re so right,” Gregory said, studying him.

  Shayne smiled amiably. “Boots, maybe you shouldn’t wait for a natural death. Maybe you ought to move before everybody else gets the same idea. Take the initiative. That’s the big thing. It’s a matter of indifference to me, except that a private detective does better when he’s on good terms with the people who run the town. You’ve got an organization and money. You’ve got the desire. I think I’d better stay downwind of you, Boots. Hell, why don’t we deal?”

  “Not on this,” Gregory said briefly.

  “Then let’s break into that other bottle.”

  Again Gregory nodded, and Ramon went into the attaché case for the second pint of cognac. Shayne tipped it almost straight up. Three pairs of eyes were watching him closely, and he caught the driver’s eyes in the mirror. He couldn’t fake it. He lowered the level by about a third in the next ten minutes, while the Cadillac worked its way jerkily out of town.

  Shayne went on talking about the compromises a private detective has to make if he doesn’t want to end up discredited and broke. He could feel the men on either side begin to relax, but Gregory’s eyes were still alive with suspicion.

  The Cadillac turned into the curving approach to the airport.

  Shayne said, “Why don’t you change your mind, Boots? I hate to read about something like this in the paper afterward. You never get the real story.”

  “Stop trying. I already paid for the plane.”

  Shayne had another drink. “You’ll have to pour me on,” he mumbled, his tongue thick. “Been in the business a long time, never let anybody run me out of town. Not blaming you, you understand. My own damn fault, let you ambush me. Hell, this is the humane way. I shot that kid of yours in the chopper. You don’t hold it against me. What’s a little ride in an airplane? Not even very embarrassing.”

  He gestured with the uncapped bottle, and drank again. He had to stop at exactly the right moment, before he was incapable of action. But his judgment was blurring.

  “I want to thank you for your consideration,” he sa
id with a drunken attempt at dignity. “Appreciate your restraint. Statesmanship. Move to Miami, Boots. I can get you a good buy in a co-op apartment. We’re going to be friends.”

  They were out of the car. Shayne found that he still had the bottle in his hand. He told himself that it was time to move. The afternoon was splintering around him.

  “Wait,” he commanded. “What happened? I’m drunk as a skunk.”

  They were pressing him closely. He heard Gregory’s voice say gently, “Finish the bottle, Mike. You don’t want to waste good cognac.”

  “Had enough,” Shayne said stupidly. “Christ—”

  They had pulled into a little access road beyond the terminal. A jet blasted off, and he felt its smoky exhaust wash over him. The faces of Gregory and his three companions swam in and out through the warm murk. He felt a murderous impulse to smash the nearest face with the bottle. He knew he could do a certain amount of damage before they pounded him into unconsciousness and dragged him aboard the plane. But he also knew, with the remnants of intelligence that flickered somewhere on the far side of the haze, that his reflexes were far from normal, that orders starting in his brain would be blocked or rerouted before they could arrive at his muscles. He had to shorten the odds.

  Gregory continued in the same soft tone, “I’ll be happier when the bottle’s empty, Mike. I’ll be able to relax.”

  Something hard jabbed Shayne in the shoulderblade. “Drink up, Mike, or Ramon’s going to shoot you in the shoulder. Not in the gut, the shoulder. Then you get nothing but first-aid till the plane lands.”

  “Don’t want that.”

  There was movement at the fringe of Shayne’s vision; a taxi departed from in front of the terminal. Again the sundrenched expanse of asphalt was empty. He smiled foolishly at Gregory and tilted the bottle. He let his mouth overflow. “Sloppy drinker,” somebody said with a laugh.

  Then the bottle was empty. He hurled it away, hearing it spatter, and exclaimed, “Full of vitamins. Boots, you’re one sweet guy, and I love you.”

  He lurched toward Gregory, but the pavement tilted and he went down on his knees. He discovered from the pull on his wrist that he and Ramon were handcuffed together. Ramon pulled him erect, with a vicious obscenity.

  “Easy,” Gregory said. “Easy. Mike’s going to introduce us to his friends when we get to Miami.”

  “Boots, people say you’re a cheap punk,” Shayne said. “All wrong. Real power. The one thing I respect.”

  They moved into the terminal in a tight group. A rain coat had been thrown over the cuffs, and the muscular youth in the dark glasses had Shayne by his other arm. Shayne exaggerated the roll. Time was running away.

  “Hey!” he exclaimed, seeing an airline official, and something dealt him a paralyzing blow in the kidneys from behind.

  They entered a long echoing corridor.

  “Stay on your feet,” Gregory said. “You’re doing fine.”

  Shayne pulled up short, digging in.

  “Jackie better be o.k.,” he said threateningly.

  “She’s in good hands. I gave you my promise. As soon as you’re off the ground.”

  A plane was waiting when they emerged into the hard sunlight. Its engines muttered. Shayne’s coordination was going. He let them drag him, and fell twice on the steps.

  Ramon, ahead, jerked at his wrist while the others heaved from behind.

  “I thought this was supposed to be a hard man,” Ramon sneered. “What a creampuff. You could buy him for peanuts, Boots. All this expense you went to, for what?”

  “Just watch it,” Gregory told him. “Don’t take any goddamn chances.”

  “Watch what? He’s stoned out of his mind. Over a quart of booze in fifteen minutes—”

  The cabin was furnished with upholstered chairs, a big desk, a couch. Shayne made a quick half-turn. Ramon yanked him cruelly as he fell on the couch. Shayne felt a thumb at his eyelid, and he batted weakly at an arm. Then he slumped back and down a rapidly revolving funnel.

  He heard voices across the cabin. The plane began to move.

  Shayne was talking to himself. The words echoed harshly in his numbed brain. It was too late. He was uncommitted. After he’d slept he would see if there was anything he could do. Gregory would be sorry about this sometime, but Shayne wasn’t Superman. He had never learned to fly.

  Meanwhile, he was building his strength. Making an immense effort, he opened his eyes.

  He and Ramon were alone in the cabin. A small tug showed Shayne that they were still connected by handcuffs. Ramon was sitting on the edge of the couch, his features in rapid motion, the hard little eyes fleeing here and there around his face.

  “Maybe we have an accident on the way, eh?” Ramon said caressingly. “You shot Jerry. My friend, my very dear friend, we were together two years. So lovely, so delicate, not like you. I kill you for that, can you understand me. Hell with Boots, who needs him?”

  The funnel Shayne was caught in reversed direction. Perhaps the plane was turning. The noise intensified.

  He could feel the accumulating pressure. Every muscle was tense. Something happened, and he discovered that he could raise his hand. He waved it gently, feeling the strength flow into his fingers. Then he took Ramon by the throat.

  The movement carried them both off the couch. Ramon croaked and tore at Shayne’s fingers. Shayne’s weight held him down.

  A JetStar, Shayne thought. Two men at the controls. As soon as they climbed to cruising level, one would come back to make sure the passenger was giving no trouble. A quick series of events leaped into Shayne’s mind. He would find the key to the handcuffs, then Ramon’s gun. He would carry the gun into the cockpit and issue orders for an immediate return to ground. Frightened by the light in his eye, they would obey him at once.

  But he knew it was beyond him. He could make only the basic moves, and only one at a time.

  He realized that Ramon had stopped struggling. He began feeling through pockets to find the key, his mind wheeling and dipping. He gave up finally and raised his head. A red notice on the window over the wing caught his eye. He lurched to his knees. To his surprise, the plane was still on the ground. It was coming about. He dragged Ramon to the window and peered out.

  They were on the furthest runway. An oily haze shimmered above the blacktop. On the other side of the field, a cluster of 707s blocked the view of anyone watching the takeoff from ground level. Another fantasy began to unreel in Shayne’s mind.

  Flopping, he resumed his search for the key. The plane completed its turns and began to roll forward in a straight line. To Shayne it was a weaving, rocking motion. He raised his head again, and saw a fence sliding rapidly past the window. Suddenly the jets cut loose.

  The scream and the sudden forward surge whirled Shayne across the cabin. With his free hand he slapped upward at the rod holding the emergency window. The rod snapped up, the window fell away.

  Dragging the unconscious Ramon, Shayne jumped onto the sloping surface of the wing. The engines screamed insanely. The forward rush of the plane pulled the wing out from under the two men, and Shayne had his first clear thought. Drunks survive falls that would kill or cripple them when sober.

  He embraced Ramon loosely. They reversed in the air. He landed, completely relaxed, with Ramon beneath him to break his fall.

  They rolled twice.

  After the runway stopped heaving around Shayne, he lay still for a long moment. The air was foul with the jet’s exhaust. He raised his head slowly and watched the plane leave the ground and go into its slow climbing turn.

  It was only when he went back to looking for the handcuff key that he understood that Ramon was dead.

  He wasted a moment scrabbling for a pulse, but gave that up when he saw what had happened to the back of Ramon’s head. He tried to rise, and was reminded again of the handcuffs. A plane whispered past high overhead, perhaps waiting for clearance to land. He fumbled desperately in the dead man’s pockets. Another plane approached, much l
ower, uttering its terrible scream. Then all at once he was slipping the key into the lock. The handcuffs sprang open.

  He dragged Ramon into the tall weeds between the runway and the fence. All this time, he realized, he had been waiting for a siren. He looked across the field at the terminal. The planes and the buildings danced in the hot haze. A baggage truck moved out to a newly arrived plane. Everything seemed peaceful.

  He started for a gate. He was almost there when the cognac closed its fist. The wild jet scream rose in intensity and pitch and sucked Shayne with it. The weeds around him swayed violently in the wind.

  CHAPTER 4

  Shayne woke up in a darkened room.

  He was wearing only his shorts. When he raised his head from the pillow there was a blinding explosion and he had the distinct sensation that the ceiling had come down on him.

  Later, he was awakened by the sound of a key. A light flashed, and Jackie Wales was standing beside the bed looking down at him.

  “Mike, you’re awake.”

  He blinked slowly, reached out and touched her.

  “Boy!” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be communicating again for days.”

  “Timesit?” He cleared his throat raspingly and tried again. “What time is it?”

  “Nine-thirty in the evening. Everything under control.” She came down on the bed beside him. “I was scared out of my wits when you opened the door and fell in. Mike, you looked like death—your clothes ripped, oil on your face, your wrist bleeding. I called a doctor and he said not to worry. You’d been drinking.”

  “I had a few. Now I need some coffee. Hot, black—lots of it.”

  She kissed him lightly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As soon as he was alone, Shayne slid his legs out of bed and worked himself into a sitting position. There was an arrow of pain behind his right eye. Gathering himself, he came to his feet and zigzagged to the bathroom, where he turned on the hot water in the shower and sat on the closed toilet while the room filled with steam. Soon he was running with sweat. He switched on the cold water and stepped into the icy stream, which shocked him fully awake for the first time. Then he switched over to hot again and steamed out more cognac.