“I need a couple of drinks first. You’re way ahead of me. I only just met you! Afterwards, if all goes well-” Reaching up with both hands, she pulled his head down, gave him a quick businesslike kiss and whispered, “But not now, darling.”
Having disposed of that problem, she said briskly, “Get in this side. I’ll drive.”
Shayne said dangerously, reeling away, “Are you trying to tell me I’m in no condition to drive? I’m the best driver you’ll ever see, drunk or sober.”
Reeling back, he opened the front door for her and put her in. On his way to the driver’s side, he misjudged the curb and fell down. He was up again at once, grinning. “They build some tricky sidewalks up here, don’t they?” He slid behind the wheel and toppled over on her. “You and me are going to have a wonderful time.” Seizing her, he kissed her hard. He hadn’t liked the businesslike kiss she had doled out to him, and he made this a real one, keeping his eyes open for any signs of life from the back seat. After a moment he felt her respond. She gasped when he let her go.
“Mike-Jesus-”
“What did I tell you?” Shayne said. “I knew you were a swinger.”
He swayed back to his own side of the seat, snapped on the ignition and started the motor, his head still turned toward her. Her eyes wavered.
The man behind them didn’t think he had to be careful. Cheryl seized Shayne’s arm and cried, pointing out through the windshield, “Mike, what’s that?”
He delayed a fraction of a second until his assailant had committed himself to his swing, then thrust the girl away and came up fast, catching the man’s forearm. He jerked it forward and brought it down hard on the steering wheel. He had the wrist in one hand, the elbow in the other, and gave it an extra twist at the moment of impact. He heard the bone break.
The blackjack fell limply between Shayne and the girl. She screamed, sounding more surprised than frightened. Shayne rammed the automatic transmission into drive and stamped on the gas.
The second man across the street had left the doorway of the apartment house where he had been waiting. Shayne swung the wheel and headed straight at him, his headlights on full. As Shayne had expected, it was the plump man with the long hair, who had come into the Bijou with Cheryl. The headlights blinded him. He halted, crouching, then darted to one side. Grinning wolfishly, his foot all the way down, Shayne went up on the sidewalk after him. The man whirled. His face had gone dead white. He shouted something, both hands up to ward off the Ford, and leaped into the doorway.
Shayne hit the brakes. The Ford skidded to a stop with its front bumper sealing the doorway. The man scrabbled frantically at the locked door of the apartment lobby. Shayne threw the transmission into neutral, snatched the blackjack off the floor and was out of the car in one swift fluid motion. He vaulted onto the hood, the blackjack ready. The man’s body contracted as he looked over his shoulder at the powerfully-built redhead above him.
Cheryl was trying to move the injured thug so she could reach the wheel. Shayne said with quiet authority, “Better not, Cheryl. You only had one chance. Nothing you can do about it now.”
The man with the broken arm had begun to feel sorry for himself as the pain reached him. Cheryl went on pulling at him. “Damn you, Morrie, get out of the way.”
Shayne said more sharply, “Don’t you know when something’s gone sour? Cut it out or we’ll have a few broken skulls.” He motioned to the frightened man in the doorway. “Climb over. Don’t hurry. We have lots of time.”
The man made an effort to recover his composure. Ordinarily his plump cheeks probably gave him a self-satisfied look. He smoothed his hair, gave it a final pat on each side, and stepped up on the bumper.
“You seem to be under the impression-”
Shayne slapped the blackjack smartly against his palm. “I’m not the one who made the mistake.”
“Curt,” the girl called urgently.
But the plump man hadn’t recovered from the effects of being pinned against the door by Shayne’s Ford. His head was trembling up and down, as though he consented in advance to anything Shayne wanted of him. He slithered across the hood. Shayne patted him under the arms and on the pockets. This was the executive; he wasn’t carrying a weapon.
There was movement in the front seat. The man the girl had called Morrie was trying to get his gun out with his left hand. The shoulder holster was one of those with a safety clasp, strapped on at an angle so the gun would resist a pull from anyone but its rightful owner. Shayne reached through the window and slapped him on the temple with the blackjack. He sagged forward against the wheel.
“Where’s the Buick?”
Curt glanced along the street. “Let’s talk about this,” he said in a strained voice.
“Why should I talk to you when I can talk to your boss?”
“I can make you a good offer. Violence won’t get us anywhere.”
“What made you change your mind?” Shayne signaled to the girl. “Get out, Cheryl. And don’t try to run. I think I could catch you, but I’d have to blackjack your friend here first.”
“He’s no friend of mine,” she said coldly. She opened the door and came around the car. “I’ll say somebody made a mistake. That was a pretty good drunk act. The only thing wrong was that kiss.”
“I didn’t have my mind on it, Cheryl,” Shayne said, opening the Ford’s front door.
“Well, sometime when you’re able to give it your undivided attention-”
Shayne worked the unconscious gunman into position so he could pull his fangs. The gun was a short-barreled.38. Shayne dropped it into his side pocket.
“I wish I could trust somebody to get the Buick,” he said, “but for some reason I don’t think I can. You two are going to have to carry him. Be careful of his arm. You don’t want to compound that fracture.”
Curt looked in at the limp figure. “He must weigh about one-ninety. I don’t think we can.”
“Try,” Shayne suggested.
Curt pulled the injured man to the edge of the seat. He returned to consciousness suddenly with a long moan.
“Does it hurt?” Curt said without sympathy. “It wouldn’t have happened if you’d been quicker with the sap, would it? We’re going for a short walk, Shayne tells us. Cooperate.”
Morrie protested, making a cradle of his left arm to support his broken right. Curt wrestled him out of the door and then Shayne moved the Ford back to the street and parked parallel to the curb. Curt and the girl walked Morrie toward the Buick, all three huddled together with the gunman whimpering between them. Reaching the bigger car, Curt opened the back door and Morrie fell in on the floor.
“Don’t pass out yet,” the redhead said. “I want to see what else you’ve got in your pockets.”
Morrie rolled on one hip, and Shayne took a thick wallet from his buttoned back pocket. There was nothing of interest in the other pockets except a half-dozen loose rounds for the.38. Shayne took those, while Morrie groaned and pleaded for a doctor.
“Nobody ever died of a broken arm,” Shayne said. “You’re next, Curt.”
“Seriously,” Curt said. “He wasn’t supposed to chill you, just tap you so you’d sit quiet and listen.”
“But he got carried away,” Shayne said.
“The man’s a moron, but he’s the best I could do on short notice. I want to persuade you to go back to Miami, Shayne. Tell me how much they’re paying you and I’ll double it.”
A car went by without slackening speed.
“You don’t want cops,” Shayne said, “and neither do I, so let’s see how fast we can mop this up. Dump everything out on the hood.”
“Shayne-”
“Will you shut up? I’m tired.”
He stuck the blackjack in his belt and began looking through their wallets. Curt, he found, was carrying over two thousand dollars in large bills. His last name was Rebman, and his address in the identification window was a hotel in Houston, Texas. In case of an accident, such as the one he was now having, notification was to be made to the Manners Aerosystems Co. Morrie, on the other hand, wanted his mother notified; she too lived in Houston.