A taxi took Shayne to the airport, where he picked up his car. He snapped on the dashboard radio, and left it on while he drove back into the city, using the East-West Expressway as far as Twelfth Avenue. He was tuned to a station that repeated ten minutes of news at the turn of each hour, and broke into the music for bulletins whenever anything big came in. The music faded abruptly and the broadcaster’s voice gave Shayne another version of the news he had just heard from Painter.
His car phone buzzed as he turned into his basement garage. It was Tim Rourke, one of Shayne’s oldest friends, a crime-and-corruption reporter on the News. Shayne told him he was putting his car away, and to call him upstairs.
The phone was ringing when he walked in. He dropped his flight bag on a chair, brought out the Martell’s and poured. He gave the brandy a quick swirl and drank, while the phone continued to insist on an answer. He made himself a sandwich and took that and his glass to the phone.
“Yeah, Tim?”
“I’ve got a story to write,” Rourke said briskly. “Did you hear about Painter’s press conference?”
“I caught the radio flash. I had a pretty useless conversation with him before he went on-he showed me the book.”
“We’re using a picture of that pickup at the airport. Jesus, Mike, you look like a Mafia hit man.”
“That was the idea.”
“Mike, quickly-what about this eighty G’s?”
“How did Painter report it?”
“He gave it the full treatment, naturally. Played it for melodrama. He hasn’t been getting much ink lately, and he’s hungry and thirsty. He used big easel cards to make it simple for the TV audience. You had a card of your own. Of course everybody knows about the great Shayne-Painter feud, but he didn’t gloat, certainly not. Sad, a little disappointed, maybe. That nurse’s statement hurt.”
He paused for a comment, in case Shayne wanted to make one. Shayne said nothing.
“Mike, the minutes are ticking. The man at the front of the room is screaming for copy. Give me an angle, will you? Painter said he deliberately held up the announcement until you got back from the Coast, to give you a fair shake. And you didn’t yell frame-up. You yelled for a lawyer.”
“What else could I do?”
“Yeah, but Mike. Think of the way it looks. Payoffs to politicians, inspectors, cops, a couple of union guys. And then Mike Shayne, three thousand bucks. Mike Shayne again. Three thousand bucks. Shayne, Shayne. Mike, throw me a piece of meat. What was that, some kind of retainer? Geary thought somebody was doping his dogs, or something? If that’s what it was, say so, for Christ’s sake, and I’ll do my best to sell it.”
“The price is a bit high for that, eighty thousand over three years.”
“What was it, then? I know there’s an explanation, I think I know you that well. But I need some indication of which way to go.”
Shayne kneaded the bridge of his nose. “Tim, I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve been up three nights in a row. He sprang this on me without any preparation. I couldn’t think of any marvelous way to handle it then, and I still can’t.”
“Let me ask you this. Are you covering somebody?”
“That might be a good thing to suggest. No, better not, Tim. It’ll only lead to more trouble in the long run. I can ride this out. If they subpoena me, I’ll stand on the privilege against self-incrimination.”
“Mike! Dummy! As far as the public’s concerned, that’s the same as an admission of guilt.”
“I realize that,” Shayne said gloomily. “But who would have supposed Max was writing it all down? I still don’t think it makes sense.”
Rourke said nothing for a long moment. “I was hoping for more than that.”
“Go ahead and write the goddamn story. What else can you do? It’s news. I’ve had a run of good luck. I’m not going to start whining when it suddenly turns sour.”
Rourke called to somebody, “In a minute, in a minute.” He came back: “The first denials are coming in. The politicians are using the standard out-campaign contributions. Wolf, the tax guy, says flatly that he never took a dirty penny.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Hell, no,” Rourke said angrily. “This is Geary’s under-the-table book. Why would Wolf’s name be down there if he wasn’t being paid off? He says he and Geary had differences when he was working the track. Bad fights. Geary put on pressure and got him transferred. And then, for purely vindictive personal reasons-this is Wolf talking-he put his name down on the grease list. If he had a heart attack and dropped dead, that would be his bequest from the cemetery-labeling Wolf as a thief.”
“Not bad for the spur of the moment. It might save his job. They need people up there who can think fast on the phone.”
“My point is, Mike, if you want to go that route, you have to get in with it fast, and stick to it. Any weaseling and you’re finished.”
“That may be good public relations advice, Tim, but I’m not going to take it. I’ve decided to see how it goes. How about your sports man, Wanamaker?”
“We’re admitting he took the money. Most of it was petty stuff through the PR department-a couple of junkets, they picked up the tab for two weeks in the Bahamas. But that adds to your problem. A News man is involved. Mike Shayne is involved, and that’s the same Mike Shayne who’s fed considerable hot information to his friend Rourke across the years. We can’t quibble on this. We’ve got to hit hard, to clear our own skirts. I’m signing the story, and unless I have something from you I have to write it Painter’s way, as much as it pains me. What did he offer you in that conversation? You can give me that, at least.”
“To leave me out of it altogether if I told him everything I know about Surfside. I can’t trust Painter to keep that kind of bargain. He’d leak it, and blame it on somebody else in his office.”
“One direct question. Did you beat up Geary in that parking lot?”
“Tim, until I get some legal advice, I can’t answer any direct questions, even from you, even off the record. I’m more than a little foggy right now, but I think I understand the situation. Painter thinks this is going to destroy my business. He may be right. But it won’t kill me. I’m sick of all the people in this town who’ve been waiting around hoping to see me fall on my face. I may have to get out of Miami. Seriously, is that such a tragedy? Your editorial page has to maintain that this is God’s earthly paradise, and anybody who thinks otherwise is a Communist sympathizer. I was really impressed with San Francisco-it’s a great town. Maybe I’m due for a change.”
Again, in spite of the usual afternoon pressures in the News office, Rourke let a few seconds tick past.
Shayne broke the silence. “Just write it straight. If you try to qualify it you’ll make it sound worse. Now I’ve got to get some sleep.”
He broke the connection. After finishing his makeshift meal, he set the alarm radio for seven and fell asleep at once. He was awakened by the seven o’clock news.
It was still bad. The Teamsters local had voted to stand behind its president, who was down in Geary’s book for a total take of $24,000. The state legislature had been so indignant about the disclosures that they had transacted little business that afternoon. A memorial service for Max Geary, arranged before the story broke, was to take place at Surfside that night, between the fourth and fifth races. The Miami Beach mayor, a United States Senator, a rabbi, a monsignor and several show business personalities were scheduled to pay tribute to the dead sportsman. And Norma Culhane, the Jackson Memorial nurse who had given Painter his affidavit tying Shayne to Geary’s beating, had been located and questioned. Her replies had been taped.
“‘Mr. Geary was holding my wrist that hard. He’d taken a drop or two, certainly, but I wouldn’t say he was rambling or anything like that. He didn’t dare speak to the police about it because they’re all of them as crooked as a hairpin, those are his words. That the beating was done to him by Michael Shayne, and he spelled it for me, with the y, to fix it in my recollection. That Michael Shayne had spoken to him in a threatening manner. I don’t condone all this violence, this giving and taking of bribes. I know the old saying that it takes two to tango, but my own feeling is that Mr. Geary was forced by threats to pay out those amounts of money. I attend the dog races myself, and I believe Mr. Geary always did his best to provide the public with an honest race for their money.’ That was Miss Norma Culhane, speaking on the steps of Jackson Memorial. Now back to Brad Walker at WCBN. Brad?”
Shayne snapped it off, so hard that the knob came loose in his fingers. He threw it across the room, and listened to it bounce. A shower, a shave, clean clothes and a drink helped hardly at all.
