his grasp so Shayne could work one hand inside the hold and break it.
There was a sound of glass being broken.
That changed the nature of the fight. The customers nearest the door drained into the street. The tall man, facing Shayne in a knife-fighter’s crouch, had a jagged beer bottle in one hand. The jukebox was silent.
“Why don’t we stop this before somebody gets hurt?” Shayne said reasonably. “I asked you to point somebody out for me. You did it. Thanks.”
Two of the men were advancing on Shayne, less eager to jump him now. The tall man said jerkily, “No, boys, I want to take care of him myself. Boys. Let me. Did you see the way he slugged Sandy?”
The girl lay on the floor in an obscene tumble, her skirt above her waist. Blood gushed from her mouth.
“That was an accident,” Shayne said. “It looks worse than it is. Just a couple of teeth. Why don’t we call this off so we can get her to a doctor?”
“You’ve got something coming to you, mister,” the tall man said.
Shayne’s hand lay on the bar, palm up. He was hoping the bartender would have the sense to put a sap in it. On the floor, Petrocelli crawled toward him, but he was going to be no help.
The tall man glided forward, his right foot advanced, the bottle low. Shayne wished he knew how drunk he was. Even without the bottle he out-reached Shayne by inches. The bottle, unlike a knife, could only be used in a forward direction, and if he moved as deliberately as when he was swinging at Petrocelli, there was nothing to worry about.
Shayne felt something hard in his hand. He was looking into the man’s eyes. They were a pale watery blue, without depth, with tiny pupils. They changed slightly.
Shayne brought the club around as the man struck with the speed of a snake, aiming to the right to catch Shayne’s abdomen if he moved that way. Shayne had him beaten, and he was only going to be allowed the one move. Seeing the club whirl toward him, the man lurched and brought the jagged bottle upward toward Shayne’s face. If Shayne had been without a weapon, he would have had to parry it with his hand. He deflected the blow with a hard flick of the billy, then brought the wood in against the tall man’s head.
There was a solid clunk. That was that.
“Can you stand up?” Shayne said to Petrocelli.
Petrocelli moved his head. “No.”
“Try,” Shayne told him.
The short wooden club discouraged the tall man’s friends. Petrocelli clawed himself up with the help of the bar and stared blearily at Shayne. This time the fight was really over. To make it official a siren sounded. It was on Collins, coming fast.
Shayne grunted. He wasn’t welcome on this side of the bay. Peter Painter, the Miami Beach Chief of Detectives, was an old enemy, who loved to harass the detective and would give a week’s pay for the chance to book him for knocking out a woman’s teeth in a fight in a bar. He had tied Shayne up for as long as twelve hours on a traffic violation, and this time, through pure chance, he had something more serious.
Shayne was moving the point of the short wooden club in an arc. With his other hand under Petrocelli’s arm, he started along the bar in the opposite direction from the street.
“Leave the nightstick,” the bartender said behind him.
“In a minute. Tell the cops I was an innocent bystander here. If they have any questions I’ll call in tomorrow.”
The drinkers fell away in front of him. When he reached the serving door he dropped the club on the bar. He pulled Petrocelli into a small unoccupied kitchen, through another bare room into an alley.
When they reached the end of the alley the siren was dying. Shayne looked up carefully. Three cops jumped from the cruiser and entered the bar through the front entrance.
CHAPTER 5
Petrocelli was nearly strong enough to walk by himself.
“They’ve got nothing on me,” he said, resisting Shayne’s pull. “I didn’t start that fight.”
“You weren’t even in it.” Shayne continued to walk him toward the Buick. “That’s not the point. By the time they get everything straightened out it would be this time tomorrow night. I suppose that was Jerry’s girl you were with?”
“He may think she’s his girl. That’s not what she told me.”
Shayne opened the car door and put Petrocelli inside. Petrocelli touched his head.
“The sons of bitches got my cap.”
Shayne started the motor and took the next right. Another right brought them to Collins. He headed south.
“I’ve had that cap a long time,” Petrocelli said. “I just about had the bastard broken in.”
“Tough,” Shayne commented.
“Now wait a minute,” Petrocelli said more strongly. “I don’t know who you are, or where the hell you think you’re going-”
“I’m Mike Shayne, a private detective. I didn’t walk into that because I get any pleasure out of fighting six- and-a-half-foot drunks with broken beer bottles. I want to ask you why the De Rhams fired you, and I didn’t want him to rupture your kidneys first.”
Petrocelli groaned. “That’s right, remind me.” He prodded his midsection. “He was kicking me, wasn’t he?”
“Just with loafers,” Shayne said. “Do you want a drink?”
“Man, I’m dying for a drink.”
There was no convenient place to park in Miami Beach any more. Shayne pulled into a hotel parking lot, paying heavily to be allowed through the gates. The instant he cut his lights and the ignition Petrocelli started to get out.
“They won’t let you in a bar with that much blood on you,” Shayne said. Switching on the dome light, he reached over and opened the little refrigerator built into the back of the front seat. “Is whiskey all right?”
“Gin, if you’ve got it. Just on ice, and forget the vermouth.”
Shayne broke out the ice cubes, dropped two in a glass and filled the glass with gin.
“You don’t happen to have Beefeater?” Petrocelli said.
“Hell, no. Do you want Gilbey’s, or don’t you?”
Petrocelli put out his hand for the glass. Most of the gin was gone by the time Shayne had taken the top off a flask of brandy and filled it.
“That’s better,” Petrocelli said, breathing out. “I liked the sound that sap made against that jerk’s head. What a surprise! I mean, the fox is O.K., but she’s definitely not the big thing in my life. And he didn’t say one word. Just walked up and tapped me on the shoulder and pow!”
Shayne had left the dashboard lights on. He saw an apparently easy-going, self-satisfied man in his mid- thirties, less good looking than he once had been. There was a thickening around his jowls. The fight had sobered him, but the new gin seemed to be spreading rapidly.
“Is it true that you made a pass at Mrs. De Rham?” Shayne said.
Petrocelli had just taken a mouthful of cold gin. He sputtered some of it up.
“Is that what they’re telling people?”
“Words to that effect. Isn’t it true?”
“It’s the pure exact opposite of true!” Petrocelli said emphatically. “It’s an absolute goddamn lie. If that’s the rap they’re trying to hang on me, I better start using the old apple. You skipped the bit about being careful what I say because you can use it against me. Everybody’s supposed to get that. And I’d like some more Gilbey’s if you don’t mind. I spilled part of it.”
“As soon as we clear up a few points.”
“Such as who are you working for?”
“I had a call tonight from Mrs. De Rham’s attorney in New York City. She told him her captain got out of line
