“I am broke! I’ll write you an IOU. I’m good for it.”
Shayne laughed. “Take another pill, Doc.”
“That’s the trouble with people,” Waters commented, without sounding surprised. “If you don’t have cash in your pocket, nobody trusts you.”
8
Michael Shayne pulled up at the St. Albans, a huge wedding cake of a hotel, standing between Collins Avenue and the ocean. The doorman stepped forward smartly with a half salute.
“Oh, it’s you, Mike,” he said, dropping his hand. “How you doing? Park it for you?”
“Can I leave it here in front so I can take off in a hurry? No more than ten minutes.”
The doorman saw no reason why not. Shayne moved farther along the approach drive and left the Buick beside a No Parking sign. He put his hand in his pocket when he came back, but the doorman waved him away.
“Hell, Mike. Do I ever tip you?”
Inside, Shayne checked with the bell captain and tried several bars and supper rooms before locating the Al Naples party in the Mozambique Room on the roof. The decorations, of course, were tropical, and there was a Latin band and a circular bar where the bartenders were kept busy putting together elaborate rum drinks. Al Naples was pointed out to Shayne, a stocky man in a dinner jacket, with grizzled hair which he wore in a crew cut. He was enjoying himself. He was at a round table for twelve, only partially occupied; some of his guests were dancing.
Shayne knew one of the men at the table, a well known ex-major leaguer who was now selling insurance. The women were all younger than the men, or looked younger at this distance. Naples was standing between two chairs. He concluded a joke with a bray of laughter that carried easily to Shayne, on the far side of the crowded room, then dropped his cigar in an ashtray and weaved out onto the dance floor, where he cut in on a handsome black-haired woman in a low-cut dress.
Shayne ordered a drink and waited for Naples to return to his table. Naples was an awkward but vigorous dancer. When the music stopped he ran into friends on the way back to his table. There he rearranged his guests according to his ideas of where they ought to be sitting, ordered more drinks and took over the conversation. Shayne could see he was going to be a hard man to interrupt.
Finishing his drink, he called the maitre d’ and produced a bill. A phone was plugged in beside Shayne and a waiter, instructed to say that Doc Waters was calling, carried a second phone to Naples’ table. Naples gave his braying laugh and picked up the phone.
“About time, Doc. Where’s my dough?”
“This isn’t Doc,” Shayne said. “I’m calling for him. I have a message.”
Naples laughed. “He’s having trouble scraping it up? Well, well. Who is this?”
“The name’s Shayne,” the redhead said. “We thought you ought to know. There’s an argument. Some people think he ought to hold payment until a few things are cleared up.”
The good humor faded out of Naples’ voice. “Until a few things are what?”
“You don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”
“I don’t want to talk about it period! I want Doc to get over here with that bundle, or I want him to tell me exactly where and when. Where are you?”
“At the bar.”
“Where?”
He looked across the room. Shayne held up the phone to identify himself.
“I’ll be goddamned,” Naples said. Then abruptly: “Come on over and I’ll buy you a drink.”
Shayne left the phone on the bar. Naples had started a fresh cigar by the time Shayne reached his table. He gave Shayne’s hand a quick shake without getting up.
“Move it over, honey,” he told the dark-haired woman beside him, the one he had danced with. “Mrs. Naples, Mr.-what did you say your name was?”
“Shayne.”
“Mr. Shayne. This is my baby’s birthday,” he explained. “That’s what the party’s about. You don’t want to be introduced to everybody, all that horse sh-” He caught himself with a look at his wife. “I’m trying to cut out the profanity, but it’s a habit, you know?” He waved at the waiter. “What are you drinking?”
Mrs. Naples had moved down to make room for Shayne between herself and her husband. Shayne told the waiter to bring him another straight cognac, with water on the side. “Oh, you’re Mike Shayne,” Mrs. Naples said with interest. “You recovered some stolen jewelry once for a friend of mine, and she said you could put away gallons of cognac and never turn a hair.”
“If that’s a compliment,” Shayne said, “thanks.”
“Oh, that’s not all she said,” Mrs. Naples told him, sparkling.
In age, she fell almost exactly between Al Naples and Vince Donahue. Shayne could see a network of lines at the corners of her eyes, not quite concealed by careful makeup, but she was still a striking woman. The low-cut dress showed off both a first-class figure and a first-class diamond necklace.
“Baby,” Al Naples said, leaning forward to speak across Shayne. “Turn around and talk to Stupid. This is one of those things you better not listen to. They think we pulled a fast one on them with the horse, how do you like that?” He laughed with satisfaction. “What do you want me to do, Shayne, send Doc to night school? He’s supposed to be a pro. Where I come from, when somebody outsmarts you, you don’t whine about it. Let him sweat.”
The waiter slipped Shayne’s drink deftly onto the table. The redhead picked it up.
“He’s sweating,” he said. “This comes at a bad time for him. He had to call on Harry Bass, and Harry went into the sock for two hundred grand. Then somebody stuck him up and he lost it.”
Shayne was watching Naples closely. His surprise seemed real. He took the cigar out of his mouth and gave another of his sudden hoots of laughter.
“You people seem to have a lot of crime down here.”
“And there’s a theory around that the stickup was your idea.”
Naples’ manner became more careful. “What crap.”
“I agree, but you can see how they figure.” Shayne revolved the wineglass between his fingers. “You put a lot of thought into setting up your mare this afternoon. The same kind of planning went into this stickup. Naturally Harry and Doc are wondering if it was part of the same deal.” He was addressing himself to Naples, but from the tension in Mrs. Naples’ bare tanned shoulder, he knew she was listening. “When you were the big man in Chicago, did anybody ever rob you?”
“You mean personally? Hell, no. There was one nut once, he wanted to get his name in the papers. When they checked up on him, it turned out he was on parole from the booby hatch.”
“That’s what I mean,” Shayne said. “It’s the same with Harry. You don’t stick up Harry Bass in Miami unless it’s one of two things. Either you don’t give a damn or you want to make the Number One man look bad.”
The ball player, returning from the dance floor, put his hands on Shayne from behind. “Mike! You look great. The climate agrees with you.”
Naples spoke the ball player’s name coldly. “We’re talking.”
“Al, I didn’t realize!”
He patted Shayne’s shoulder and moved out of earshot.
Naples sighted at the redhead over his long cigar. “I’ve been hitting the booze ever since the third race, and I’m half-smashed. I want you to come right out with it so I’m sure I get it.”
“Sure,” Shayne said, still twirling the cognac glass. “What part of it didn’t you understand?”
“Will you drink that drink, for Christ’s sake, or put it down? Why would I want to make Harry look bad? He’s my type of guy.”
Shayne drank off half his cognac. “I don’t know how much you’ve seen of him lately. He’s got a new girl and a new car and he’s been investing his money. He bought into a bank, for one thing. Some of his people don’t like it.”
“Why not buy a bank?” Naples said, puzzled. “There’s good dough in banks. I’ve got thirty percent of a bank
