Shayne paid him and put on the hat.
“Don’t fit too bad,” the old man observed. “Now if I was a gambling man, I’d ask for the number of that dog. But you can’t bet dogs on the Social Security, unless you’re a pretty sorry damn fool. I come out here to pay my fifty cents and watch the show. Good luck to you, son.”
Shayne returned to the betting room, headed for the glow of one of the stand-up bars, and ordered whiskey. Nobody lingered here. The drinkers ordered, drank up, and left. In a moment or two Shayne had worked himself into a spot at the end, from which he could watch the closed men’s room from beneath the brim of the big hat. If somebody was inside waiting to meet him during the sixth race, sooner or later he would have to come out.
“And heeeere comes Speedy.”
The lure came around, and the greyhounds broke from the box. The bartender, a fat man in the concessionaire’s white and orange uniform, yelled at the nearest TV screen, “One-four-seven. Come on, one-four-seven.” A trifecta bettor, one of those foolish people who think they can guess which three dogs will come in first, second and third, in that order. The crowd noises, very loud at first, died to a whisper, building up again to a roar as the dogs came into the stretch. The six dog won by a length. The bartender had placed two of his dogs in the top three, but Shayne’s casual pick had spoiled the bet for him.
The crowd drifted back to the betting arena to see the race replayed. It seemed just as tense the second time, and even a shade more real. Shayne ordered a fresh drink and turned to the next page in his program.
Presently another eight dogs circled the track, this time starting from the backstretch and running nine-sixteenths of a mile. At the end of that race, the seventh, a man came out of the men’s room. His skin was the color of light chocolate. A gold hoop, the size of a half dollar, swung from one ear. He was hatless, his black hair close to his scalp in overlapping ringlets. He was wearing Adidas running shoes, and he was very loose.
Shayne’s head was down, much of his face screened by the brim. The man with the ear hoop walked toward the monitors, stopping beside a heavily built man who was studying the morning line for the upcoming race. He wasn’t comparing numbers with his program. He was merely staring.
After a quick exchange, the smaller man returned to the men’s room. Shayne moved out into the crowd. When the man at the monitor turned, Shayne turned with him. After a close look at his clothes and the way they hung, Shayne stepped in close from behind and slipped one hand around his waist, encircling him brusquely and covering the gun in the clip-on belt holster against his right hipbone. With his other hand, Shayne kept him from twisting.
“Are you Arthur Jacobs?” Shayne asked softly.
“No, you got the wrong guy.”
“Let’s take a walk.”
The man tried to stomp on Shayne’s instep. Swinging him on one hip, Shayne lifted him clear of the floor.
“And let’s try not to disturb people. They’ve got their minds on the next race.”
Shayne walked him to a phone booth and put him in, coming part of the way in with him and holding him with his knees and one elbow while he pulled the gun, a. 32 automatic. Then he eased up and let him slip down on the half-seat. Shayne didn’t know him, but he knew others like him. He had red-veined eyes and a muddy complexion. People who lead ordinary lives would have been terrified or sputtering, but apparently this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to him.
“I tell you you’re making a mistake.”
“What’s the gun for?”
“In case I get lucky and win some of their money. I don’t want to get hijacked.”
“Just another ten-dollar bettor? What dog won the last race?”
“I was watching that one. Nothing looked good to me.”
“Everybody else has a program. Not you. Take everything out of your pockets and put it on the shelf.”
“Is that what this is, a stickup?”
“If you think so, yell for security. Somebody may hear you.”
“Yeah, and get myself shot in the ear with my own gun. I know the rules.”
He shifted to get to his pockets. When his wallet came out, Shayne thumbed it open.
“A Miami address. Angelo Paniatti. Funny I don’t know you. O.K., Angelo-a quick explanation.”
“Explanation of what? I paid admission. I don’t like people standing this close to me. We’re using the same air.”
Shayne slapped him with the wallet. When he tried to get up, Shayne held him in place and slapped him again. He was blocking the doorway, but the walls of the booth were glass, and some of the people streaming past must have seen what was happening. But as Shayne had remarked, they had more pressing things on their minds. The betting machines would be locked in another two minutes.
“The guy with the ring in his ear,” Shayne said. Angelo started another evasive answer, but Shayne’s expression stopped him.
“With the ring in his ear. All I know, his name’s Pedro. Pete, they call him.”
“What do you specialize in, Angelo?”
“This and that, whatever turns up.”
“You didn’t finish your pockets. There’s one more.”
Angelo put his hand on the outside of his jacket pocket. “Just some bills and junk. Mail.”
Shayne said patiently, “I know you’re not used to going one on one, without guns. Take it out, or I’ll slug you with something harder than a wallet.”
Angelo dug in the pocket and brought out a sheaf of glossy three-by-five prints, all of them of Shayne.
“About six hundred bucks in the wallet,” Shayne said. “I hope I’m wrong, for your sake, but this is beginning to look like a hit.”
“A hit?” he said, his voice rising. “What are you talking? I’m small scale. Burglary’s the most I ever-Ask anybody. You know the Miami cops, they’ll tell you.”
“This is between you and me, Angelo. We don’t need arbitration.” He threw the automatic’s slide, putting a round under the hammer, and jammed the muzzle against the man’s throat. “Why are you carrying my picture, in three sentences or less.”
Angelo squealed, a high note that cut through the echoing babble. Shayne didn’t think they could continue this much longer.
“All I know is,” Angelo said, “all he told me, he wanted to talk business where you wouldn’t be bothered. I was supposed to stand at the door and not let anybody in.”
“They’re paying six hundred for that?”
“I wondered, sure, but I didn’t think he’d do anything major here with this many people.”
“It’s the best place for it. Who’s he working for?”
“That’s all I know! A policy of mine, don’t ask too many questions.”
“Who else is in there with him?”
“Nobody.”
A voice behind Shayne said, “What’s going on here?”
It was one of the security guards, an off-duty Miami Beach detective, supplementing his city salary.
“Mike Shayne? Now what?”
“Nothing much,” Shayne said. “This is Angelo Paniatti, and he’s been ejected from every dog track in Massachusetts and Florida. He’s been buying up Double Q tickets. You take over. I don’t have time to process him.”
He walked away.
He crossed to the men’s room and went on to the exit, some forty feet further. Here, too, the open archway was blocked by an arrangement of baffles, two overlapping wooden panels. Inside the first, Shayne dropped to his knees on the filthy floor, got rid of the big hat and edged around the next panel.
The long gang lavatory was brightly lighted, and Shayne moved forward carefully. No feet showed in any of the stalls. He kept moving until he saw a pant leg and the striped Adidas shoe, at the sinks. He brought his legs up under him and went in at a bound, the. 32 in his fist.
Pedro, no longer expecting anybody, was combing his tight hair, bending forward to admire his reflection in the mirror. Shayne was on him before he could turn. His skin was extremely smooth, his eyes brown and soft. Shayne jabbed the automatic against him and he fell back with a groan. Shayne grabbed him around the neck, in the mugger’s position, and whirled him so they both faced the closed stalls.