“It’s scattered and fairly silent,” Jackie told him. “Sam Rapp and his people have been making most of the noise. I didn’t have a chance to explain about the committee we’ve set up. To get all the bad news out of the way at once, it was Shell Maslow’s idea.”
When Shayne looked at her, she said hurriedly, “I know what you think of him, Mike, that he’s far too ambitious and a little phoney. But at this stage in my so-called business career, I’m in no position to pick my clients.”
“I can think of one or two you’ve turned down,” Shayne said.
“True, and as a result I spend too much time at an uncluttered desk thinking about how I can pay the rent. I can stand Senator Sheldon Maslow. He makes me a little nervous, but I think he’s sincere.”
Rourke made a rude noise.
“He wants to be governor,” Jackie said. “There are worse things to want to be.”
“He wants to be God,” Rourke said.
“Tim, why do you always have to run people down and suspect their motives? Of course he wants publicity, all he can get, and he’s probably too obvious about it. And maybe there’s an element of calculation in his crime investigation, but what does it matter? That’s a traditional way to get ahead in politics. He came to me to suggest organizing a statewide campaign against the bill. I’m opposed to the idea of legalized gambling, and I hope it gets clobbered. If Sheldon Maslow can defeat a proposal backed by Judge Kendrick, it will be very good for Sheldon Maslow. Does that mean I should call the janitor and have him thrown out of my office?”
Shayne patted her knee. “Calm down. What’s the arrangement? Is Maslow your client?”
“Not exactly. I lined up a dozen names for a letterhead, and he guaranteed my phone bill and raised the money for a newspaper ad appealing for contributions. That brought in just about enough to pay expenses. Which is all right, because this is wonderful exposure for me, too. If we win I’ll get some of the credit. So be persuasive today, Mike.”
The beat of the rotor dropped off abruptly and they began to descend. Rourke peered out the window at the domed capitol.
“Here we are. What you ought to do, Jackie, is invest some more dough and hire Mike to find out how they got the Judge to make that statement. It’s the kind of thing he does very well.”
Shayne filled his shot-glass with cognac, and after downing it, laid his dispatch case on his knees to put away the bottle.
“We can talk about it at lunch. But it takes luck to prove a cash bribe. These people aren’t likely to be careless. They’re all pros.”
Suddenly, about to touch down on the grass behind the capitol, the helicopter took off, as though the pilot had realized all at once that he was about to land in enemy-held territory.
Rourke exclaimed, “What the hell’s going on?”
Shayne leaned forward to look out. They were skimming past the dome, climbing. The big post office building fell away beneath them. Then they turned sharply to the south and began to come down.
Rourke was out of his seat. “Gene, what are you blowing up there? We’re due at a hearing.”
The craft tipped and he grabbed the back of his seat to keep his balance. A voice called, “We’re o.k. now. I thought we lost a wheel.”
They were over a large shopping-center, settling rapidly. They bumped down hard in a half-empty parking lot. Rourke recovered his footing as the door to the front cabin was flung open. A mop-haired youth, wearing wraparound dark glasses and holding a.45-caliber Colt automatic, stepped through.
Rourke’s jaw dropped. “Where’s Gene?”
The boy chortled, showing a mouthful of bad teeth. “Tied up in the men’s room at the terminal. How’d you like that landing? Shake you up a bit?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing, kid,” Rourke warned.
The boy’s smile vanished and he made a short, deadly gesture with the.45. “After you, ladies and gentlemen. Abandon the goddamned aircraft. Mike Shayne, huh?” he sneered, looking at Shayne. “You make a nice target. Don’t give me an argument, because these service Colts have terrific stopping power, they tell me. I doubt if I’d miss.”
Shayne still had his dispatch case open on his lap. He lined up the shot carefully, knowing that the.45 and the boy’s nervous system were both off safe. He waited for another gesture. When it came it was wider and more urgent, and Shayne fired through the lid of the dispatch case.
The boy made a sound like a popped balloon. The Colt went spinning away.
Shayne had aimed at the muscle of his arm, but the boy had begun to worry about the open dispatch case and anxiety had pulled him around. Shayne’s slug went into his chest, hurling him back against the wall.
Shayne left his seat in a swift, fluid motion. One long stride took him to the door.
A battered Volkswagen bus had pulled up alongside, its driver peering out warily from under the long bill of a baseball cap. He, too, was partly concealed behind a disfiguring pair of shades. A second man jumped out. He was dark and jowly, unshaven, with unkempt hair falling across his eyebrows. One hand was inside his flowered shirt.
“We’ve got the jump on them, Mike,” Rourke said in an urgent whisper. “We can take them.”
He had the boy’s Colt. Shayne gauged the situation and shook his head.
“Give me the gun.”
“Mike, come on. These are just bat boys. Let’s find out who-”
“Don’t be dumb, Tim. You’re a newspaperman, not a hero.”
After an instant’s hesitation Rourke put the Colt in Shayne’s outstretched hand. Shayne signaled and Rourke swung the door open.
Beneath them, the man in the flowered shirt went into a fighter’s crouch. He checked his hand before twitching it out of his shirt. Even without the two guns, Shayne was an arresting figure in the doorway.
“They won’t let us take them in,” Shayne remarked conversationally, still talking to Rourke, “but they know this is no place for a fire fight. So run along, boys, and try to be law-abiding from now on. It pays better.”
The man in the open wet his lips and swallowed, his hand still inside his shirt. “If you hurt him-” he stammered, his voice surprisingly high, almost girlish.
The other man snapped, “Ramon, stupid, get in. What do you want to be, dead?”
Moving reluctantly, Ramon backed into the Volkswagen and it roared away across the parking lot toward the nearest exit. Shayne watched it go, the skin around his eyes crinkled in concentration.
“I know that guy, the one in the loud shirt. The Cuban.”
“From Miami?” Rourke said.
“Tampa, I think,” Shayne said slowly. “Tampa or St. Pete. Are any of the Tampa people mixed up in this?”
“You mean Boots Gregory and that crowd? Jesus, I hope not. Sam Rapp isn’t too bad, but if Gregory’s in town this thing could get hairy very fast.”
CHAPTER 2
Michael Shayne, leaning forward, stubbed out his cigarette. Every seat in the big air-conditioned chamber was taken and there were lines of standees. The aisles were blocked with TV equipment. Too many reporters were jammed in around the press table.
The senators, behind a long curving desk above Shayne, were trying to seem unaware of the bright lights and the cameras. Judge Kendrick, the chairman, was so still he almost seemed to be asleep. He was a fine-looking man, with a small head and a crop of white hair. His face was seamed and tired. A small hearing-aid button gleamed in his ear. Occasionally he shot his lizard’s head forward to ask a barbed, well-phrased question. Now he wanted Shayne’s opinion about the kidnap attempt that had delayed his appearance at the hearing. How could Shayne be sure it had no connection with his recent assignment in Las Vegas?
“Anything’s possible,” Shayne said easily. “But they didn’t seem too worried about me when I was out there. Up to a point, they cooperated. I didn’t find out anything that would get them into federal trouble, and that’s the
