the built-in liquor cabinet with an array of glasses and bottles behind the glass doors. “Why not?” he demanded. “If I had a bracer-”
Shayne shook his head, saying, “I’m wasting my time on you, but that’s no reason why I should waste good liquor, too. Have you had a fight with Tim?”
“No,” muttered Jackson. “I haven’t seen him for weeks.”
Shayne took a final drag on his cigarette and rubbed it out in an ash tray, made an impatient gesture, and pushed his chair back.
“I don’t know why I’m sitting here beating around the bush like a tongue-tied fool,” Jackson burst out. “As if, by God, I’m afraid I’ll shock you. A guy like you.” He laughed again, harshly and derisively.
A muscle tightened in Shayne’s left cheek, and his gray eyes were cold. “A guy like me,” he said evenly, “is pretty hard to shock.”
“Sure. That’s what I’ve been telling myself the last few days while I’ve been trying to work up nerve to approach you. From everything I’ve heard about you, this is right up your alley.” Jackson relaxed and slid back to his former position, took off his hat, tossed it on the floor, and wiped the beads of sweat from his face.
“You can hear all sorts of things about me in Miami,” Shayne told him. “What do you think is right up my alley?”
“I’ve got a proposition.” Jackson sat up again, slid forward in the chair. “Look-could I have that drink now?”
“If you’re ready to say something that makes sense.”
“You needn’t worry about wasting the price of a drink,” Jackson told him, a strange smile spreading his blond mustache. “There’ll be several thousands in it for you, Shayne.”
“That’ll buy a lot of liquor,” the redhead agreed. He got up and crossed to the cabinet, asking, “Bourbon or rye?”
“Rye. Mixed with a little plain water-if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” said Shayne, “if you want to ruin good whisky.” He poured rye in a tall glass, took another empty glass into the kitchenette where he put ice cubes and water in both, and returned to pour himself a glass of cognac. He carried the rye-and-water to Jackson, and when he was settled behind the desk with ice water and cognac he said, “Let’s have it.”
Jackson took a long drink, settled back with the tall glass clutched in one hand, and began.
“I’ve got hold of something so hot it’s scorching my fingers. I’ve been covering City Hall for the Tribune the last two months. An open assignment. Digging up any small items I could. I ran onto this thing and I’ve been holding it back while I covered all the angles. Now I’ve got it!” His tone was exultant. “Names, affidavits-everything. The biggest damned political scandal that ever hit Miami.”
“Miami,” said Shayne, “has had some lovely political stinks in the past.”
“But nothing like this one,” Jackson vowed, jerking himself erect again, squirming around in his chair. “I’ll crack the present administration wide open at its rotten seams and send one V.I.P. to the penitentiary for a long stretch-if my stuff is ever published,” he ended slowly and with waning enthusiasm.
Shayne took a sip of cognac and lazily washed it down with ice water while Jackson gulped a drink of rye. “If?” said the detective quietly.
“That’s what I said. I’ve got this exclusive, see? No one else is in on it. I haven’t peeped a word about it to the office. They don’t even know there is such a story floating around-else they’d never have turned me loose to dig it out.”
“Why are you holding it out if it’s so hot?”
“I’ll tell you why.” Bert Jackson slammed his glass down on the arm of his chair, pounded the opposite arm with his fist, and exploded, “Because I’ll be double-damned if I’m going to watch it die the way other stories like this one died. You know the sort of rag the Trib is.”
“I thought it was a pretty good paper,” said Shayne mildly.
Jackson’s mouth twisted in a snarl. “It’s nothing but a damned mouthpiece for the administration. I’ve watched this happen before. A story like mine hasn’t got the chance of a snowflake in hell. Not a word would ever see print if I were fool enough to turn it in.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Shayne argued. “Newspapers live on circulation. If this story is as sensational as you claim-”
“Nuts!” the reporter interrupted violently. “I’ve been around for two years now, finding out what oils the wheels. The Trib is no worse than any other paper. They all distort the news to fit their private policies. Deliberately play down certain stories, and front-page other stuff that doesn’t deserve more than a few lines. It’s a stinking, rotten business, and I’m sick of playing sucker.”
Shayne took time to light a cigarette and take a sip of cognac before saying, “I’ve known Timothy Rourke a lot of years, Jackson, and I never heard him complain that a story of his was killed because it didn’t conform to his paper’s policy. That expose of insurance rackets a couple of years ago that won him the Pulitzer prize. I happen to know his publisher was one of the biggest stockholders in one of the companies involved, yet there was never the slightest pressure on him to stop the investigation.”
“Oh, sure,” agreed Bert Jackson sourly. “A guy like Tim Rourke-Pulitzer prize winner. No one dares edit his copy. That’s why-I decided to get in touch with you.”
“Why?”
“I need money.”
“Most of us do these days.”
“I mean money.” Jackson surged to his feet with drink in hand, shaking a tight left fist at Shayne. “A lot of money. Ten grand. And I need it fast.”
“What for?”
“That’s my business,” flared Jackson, the red streaks in his eyes glinting between half-closed lids.
Shayne took a long puff on his cigarette and deliberately blew smoke upward, trying to decide whether to throw the reporter out on his ear or encourage him to keep on talking.
Jackson gulped another drink, set the glass down, and began to pace up and down the room, his hands alternately clawing at his long, sandy hair and ramming deep in his pockets, his angry words flowing rapidly.
“Know what my salary is? Sixty-two fifty a week. Know what my take-home pay is? Figure it out. I’m sick of scrimping and splitting pennies to make ends meet. I’m damned fed up with taking Betty to a juke joint on Saturday night for a beer while crooked bastards like this big shot I’m talking about are drinking champagne at swell hotels.
“Betty’s sick of it, too, and I don’t blame her. It isn’t what she expected when she married me. All that stuff Tim Rourke spread around about me being a big-shot reporter in a few years!” He choked over this, and hurried on. “I don’t blame Betty for stepping out on me. Why shouldn’t she have some fun?” he demanded, stopping in front of Shayne and glaring down at him.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Shayne drawled. “Your wife is stepping out on you because you don’t earn enough money to take her places. Is that all that’s bothering you?”
“That and a lot more,” he answered with tight-lipped fury. “What’s it got me to play it straight these two years? I dig up a real story like this, and what happens? Do I get credit for doing a job? Nuts. If I play Little Boy Blue and turn it over to the front desk, what happens? It lays an egg. A damned rotten egg. And I go on working for peanuts. To hell with that. Why shouldn’t I cash in?”
“How?” asked Shayne coldly.
“How much do you think Mr. Big would pay to have my story suppressed? What’s ten thousand to him? He’ll pick up four times that amount in graft in the next twelve months if he stays out of the pen. Why in hell shouldn’t he split some of it with me?”
Shayne lifted one shoulder and settled deeper in his swivel chair. “Shakedowns are dangerous.
“I’m not afraid of a little danger,” Jackson snorted. “All I want is my share.”
“If you want my advice-” Shayne began.
“I don’t want your advice,” Jackson interrupted. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Shayne snapped. “Frankly, I’m not interested in your personal problems. It’s no concern of mine if you’re married to a money-hungry female. Go ahead with your sophomoric shakedown and get your ears pinned back.”
