At least, though, the killing of Comfort gave the big redhead a point from which to start his own investigation. It gave him a place to begin.
Shayne stayed on the Metro Bus until it had passed North East 79th Street. Then he got off and walked over to an apartment building owned by a friend for whom he had done favors in the past. It was a row of efficiency apartments surrounding a court — and with the tourist season as poor as it had been of late, there were vacancies.
Shayne had no trouble renting one.
Doing this gave him the two things he needed most at that moment — privacy and a telephone. He called his Old friend Tim Rourke, ace feature writer for the Miami News and talked at length.
Then he called another old friend, B.J. (Betty Jane) Ramirez, a stunning redhead who had inherited and ran one of the area’s most active “Numbers” banks.
Four more calls to contacts around town followed.
At the end of an hour on the phone, Shayne had a pretty good briefing about the location, habits and personalities in the area’s numerous motorcycle gangs. He had names and addresses. He also knew that by this time word of the contract on him was common knowledge all over town. Everybody knew about it, but no one knew the identity of the individual who was willing to put up twenty thousand dollars to have him killed.
“It doesn’t make any sense at all, Mike,” Betty Jane told him. “Why those spooks on the bikes? If I wanted somebody killed, there are a dozen known hit men in town. They’re all pros, some of them really damned good. Any one of them would be a better buy than those gangs of crazy hopped-up kids.”
“Maybe somebody thinks I’m a pro too,” Shayne said. “I know the hit men. I know how they operate. I could handle them — but amateurs!”
“That’s not it, you big lug. If I thought that, I’d import a hit man from Chicago or the West Coast. Somebody whose face or M.O. you don’t know. I still wouldn’t stir up those kids with the bikes.”
“Well,” Shayne said, “the man isn’t you. He did stir up the riders. Maybe he thinks there’s so many of them they can be dangerous for that reason.”
“I don’t think that’s why he’s doing it,” she said. “I’m going to try and find out, though, so keep in touch.”
Tim Rourke had told his friend much the same thing. “Nobody knows why the cycle gangs are in this, Mike, but they sure are. Their favorite bars are packed and gangs of them are riding. The police can’t watch them all. It’s like they were mobilized for a war.”
“With me as the enemy,” Shayne said.
“Right,” Rourke told him. “If I were you, I’d keep an eye out for more than bike riders. Could be they’re supposed to divert your attention while an out-of-town hit man sneaks up on your blind side.”
“I don’t intend to have a blind side,” Shayne said.
IV
Shayne didn’t tell any of the people he talked to where he was or what his plans were.
As a matter of fact, he wasn’t yet too sure of what those plans really were. He only knew that he had to take positive action. It wasn’t in Shayne’s nature to sit passively by while danger came to him.
Far better to take the initiative...
As a first step, he sent the owner of the apartments out to rent him a car under his friend’s name.
Shayne usually drove a conservative dark sedan. The car he rented was a fire-engine-red foreign sports model that could outrun a cycle on the open road in case of need.
The biggest gang of riders in the area were known as the Blue Devils. It was characteristic of Shayne that it was to their headquarters he headed first...
The gang hung out at a roadhouse called The Blue Hades on a back road north and west of Miami near the little town of Dania. Shayne had no trouble locating the place.
He parked his car at a small shopping center a little way down the road and walked back to the bar. There were at least twenty cycles in the parking lot and he could see the jacketed riders and their girls drinking at the bar inside. He could sense their aura of excitement.
The obvious leader of this gang was seated at a table to the left of the door. He was older than the others, with a stubble of black beard and the cruel, hawk face of a ruffian used to command. He wore a crimson silk shirt under his leather jacket, and a couple of big diamond rings sparkled on his fingers. There was the bulge of a holstered gun under his left armpit. Two other men and three women sat with him. They were all about half drunk by the look of things. They were not expecting trouble.
Shayne came in the front door of The Blue Hades like any innocent stranger looking to buy a beer. He moved so smoothly and with such precision that none of the mob inside realized how fast and dangerous he really was — let alone recognized him for the man they were all supposed to be after.
Shayne got around behind the boss of the Blue Devils before any of them noticed him. He dropped his huge left hand on the man’s right shoulder in a grip that partially paralyzed the rider. At the same time Shayne’s own right hand dipped under the man’s jacket and came up with the fellow’s holstered gun. It was a heavy frame.357 Magnum with all the chambers loaded. A gun that could break a man in half at the sort ranges inside the crowded room.
Shayne’s thumb cocked the gun with a click of metal as he pressed the muzzle to the back of the hood’s neck. It was all done so fast and so smoothly that even the others sitting at the table didn’t realize until their leader was disarmed and helpless. They stared — open-mouthed.
The crowd at the bar didn’t realize anything had happened at all.
Shayne pulled a chair from an adjoining table and sat down on the gang leader’s left side. His right hand kept the gun nudging the man’s spine. He said, “I understand you boys are looking for me.”
The gang boss said, “What in the hell do you want?” His face had gone white under the stubble of black beard.
“I’m Mike Shayne,” the big redhead said. “You’ve heard of me.”
There was dry menace in his voice.
“You know me all right,” he went on. “I’m Shayne — and for twenty thousand dollars I won’t pull the trigger of this gun. For twenty thousand dollars, I won’t break your spine and blow your heart out the front of your chest.”
The rider boss said, “Hold on, hold on! Man’ you’re crazy.”
“I’m not crazy,” Mike Shayne said. “I’ve got the gun. I’m the one can pull the trigger and blast your guts out. I don’t think that makes me crazy.”
“That makes you crazy if you think I’ve got twenty thousand dollars,” the rider said. “No way, man, do I have that kind of bread. No way at all.”
“That’s funny,” Shayne said. Everyone at the table could hear him. “Some of you want to pay twenty grand to have me killed. I figure it’s only right I should charge you twenty big ones not to kill you. I mean, since there’s that sort of money floating around the riders, it seems only right I should get it. Since it’s me that has you under the gun. This way it seems only right.”
He spoke slowly and clearly, so the rest of them could hear. By now, the crowd at the bar had spotted him and were watching.
Nobody made any overt moves. The gun at their leader’s back made sure of that. The room was silent except for raucous music from the juke box. Someone reached over and pulled the plug out of the wall so that the music stopped.
The gang boss said again, “You got to be crazy, man! We ain’t got bread like that.”
“Then you’re dead,” Shayne said. “You’re dead unless you’ve got something to trade that’s worth twenty G’s to me.”