A Redhead for Mike Shayne

6

It was after eleven o’clock before Michael Shayne finished dictating the long and detailed report required by Painter, waited for it to be typed in triplicate and signed all three copies.

It was hot as he emerged from Police Headquarters, the cool breeze of early morning having died away during the time he had wasted inside, and he got in his car and pulled away hastily, crossed to the mainland by the Venetian Causeway which was comparatively cool with open blue water on both sides of the roadway.

At the end of the Causeway he continued on directly to Miami Avenue and turned southward, cruising down the crowded street slowly while he considered various possible courses of action, discarding each one as impractical until his eye was suddenly caught by the faded sign on a dingy bar on the right hand side of the street which was called starkly and simply, “PAPA’S PLACE.”

He eased into a parking spot a short distance ahead, pleased that he had been reminded of Papa Gonzalez at this juncture. He walked back briskly and entered the ill-lighted barroom which stank of stale beer and human sweat.

But it was cool inside, and crowded for that hour of the morning. At least a dozen men were hunched over mugs of beer at the long bar, all of them Cubans and chattering explosively in their own language. Half the tables along the wall were occupied, with two checker games and one game of dominoes in full swing, and these tables were surrounded by onlookers who watched and commented on each move made by the players.

Shayne stopped at the unoccupied end of the bar, blinking his eyes at the dimness and trying to remember how long it had been since he had last entered Papa’s Place. More than a year, he guessed. Probably two or three. Soon after the initial Castro triumph in Cuba, he thought, and prior to the disillusionment of so many Cubans and the influx of refugees into Miami.

The bartender came toward him languidly, a tall, mustached, one-eyed Cuban, with a questioning scowl on his swarthy face at the sight of the red-headed gringo. Silence had fallen over the men seated at the other end of the bar, and their heads had turned to regard him furtively.

Shayne looked dubiously at the row of dusty bottles behind the bar and decided to play it safe by ordering Bacardi. “A straight shot with a little water on the side,” he told the bartender, getting out his wallet and extracting a five-dollar bill.

When the drink was set before him he sipped it blandly, facing straight forward and paying no attention to the watching and waiting men on his right.

The bartender went to the till and returned, placing four dollar bills and four dimes in front of him. Shayne put his forefinger on one of the bills and pushed it forward, saying courteously, “For this, would one of the hombres at the end of the bar be persuaded to go upstairs and tell Papa Gonzalez that Michael Shayne is here and desires a word with him?”

The bartender paused, cocking his head and rubbing the side of his nose, “You are a friend of Papa’s, Señor?”

“Michael Shayne,” the redhead repeated gently. “Por favor.”

The bartender scooped up the bill and went to the end of the bar where he spoke in a low voice to one of the men. Shayne continued to sip his good Island rum, looking straight ahead and disregarding the others.

He drained his glass and set it down when he was aware of movement behind him and felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and a very thin young man of about twenty with glossy black hair and smouldering black eyes said, “You will come with me, Señor?”

Shayne followed him to the rear, behind the backs of the men seated silently at the bar, to an uncarpeted stairway that led up to the second floor where the young man stood aside and silently gesticulated upward.

Shayne climbed the stairs, hearing the resumption of animated conversation in the room below as he reached the top. A door stood open directly across an unlighted hallway, and Papa Gonzalez got up from behind a bare desk in the center of the room as Shayne stepped inside.

He was a tall, spare, distinguished-looking Spaniard, with silvery hair and aquiline features which remained unsmiling yet held a pleased, welcoming look as he leaned across the desk to offer Shayne a sinewy hand, and said pleasantly, “When the man said your name I did not know whether he erred or not. It has been a long time since you honored my poor place with a visit.”

Shayne shook hands warmly and said, “You can relax, Papa. I’m here to ask a favor of you.”

“There is no one in the entire city of Miami,” said the old man courteously, “to whom I would rather grant a favor.”

Shayne turned and closed the door behind him, then sat down in a wooden chair in front of the desk and crossed his long legs. Gonzalez reseated himself behind the desk, leaned forward with both elbows on the bare surface and rested the tips of his fingers on both sides of his forehead, shadowing and half-hiding his bronzed features.

“You are still… detecting?” he probed delicately. “I read… things in the papers.”

Shayne nodded, getting out a cigarette. “From the looks of things downstairs, you’re keeping busy, too.”

“So many of my countrymen are here with much leisure and little money,” said Gonzalez sadly. “For the price of one beer they are welcome in my place for as many hours as they wish.”

“That should make many of them available for a job that would put money in their pockets,” suggested Shayne.

“Yes. You have such a job, my friend?”

“I want your boys to find a gun like this one for me.” Shayne withdrew the folded newspaper from his pocket and pushed it across the desk. Gonzalez looked down at the picture and shook his whitehaired head, making a deprecatory clucking noise.

“I know nothing of guns. My boys, as you are pleased to call them, know nothing of guns. It is a rule…” He paused, regarding Shayne thoughtfully.

“This is a very special kind of gun. Look at it carefully, Papa. It is manufactured in Russia and two of them have appeared in Miami this past week. I must consider the possibility that they are part of a shipment of arms furnished Fidel Castro by the Russians and are being brought to Miami by refugees. This would disturb our government, Papa. It would be well if it could be proved otherwise.”

The Spaniard shook his head and sighed audibly. He repeated, “Those who come to my place know nothing of guns. It is a rule.”

“Those who do not know your rule would not refuse to sell your boys a gun like this,” Shayne told him. “If there is some place in the city where such a gun is for sale, it is worth a great deal of money to me to have the name of such a place. Pawn-shops and second-hand stores. Those who buy and sell merchandise without inquiring as to sources too closely. Perhaps you could have inquiries made at such places. It is an urgent matter, Papa. Perhaps twenty or thirty men asking questions in the right places both here and on the Beach.”

He got out his wallet as he spoke and opened it to extract a sheaf of bills. “Perhaps some small pocket money for each man to encourage him in the search?” He laid down three hundred dollar bills and looked across at Gonzalez inquiringly. The strong old face looked placidly interested.

“With a bonus,” Shayne went on, “for the lucky one who finds what I want?” He added another hundred and two fifties to the other three bills. “It is important to me. And it could be important to Cuba,” he added softly, “if what I suspect turns out to be true.”

“You do not ask them to buy a gun? It is a rule…”

“They don’t have to buy one. Just find out where one is for sale, and pass the word on to me. You have my telephone number?” Shayne got a business card and hesitated, then wrote his home number on it also and laid it on top of the five hundred dollars. “Any moment of the day or night. If no one hits the jackpot by tomorrow night, you can divide up the entire sum among those who tried.”

Shayne smiled and got up from the chair. “It will buy a lot of beers, Papa. Most of it spent across your counter.”

Papa Gonzalez stood up politely and inclined his head. “I will do what can be done. If you have no report by tomorrow night you will know we have failed.”