I Come to Kill You

7

Shayne was followed back to Miami by Siracusa and two button men in a black Chrysler sedan. Siracusa had wanted to ride with Shayne, so he could watch him. That was the first argument Shayne had won, on the grounds that arriving at the News Building with a known amico would tie De Blasio into the action.

As soon as Shayne was out on the causeway, he opened the car phone and signaled his mobile operator. He had recently put in a floating microphone so he could make calls and still have the use of both hands.

“Mike, it’s you,” she said. “You’ve got quite a few backed-up calls.”

“Put this one in for me first,” he told her. “Dial the News and ask for Rourke. I don’t want to talk to him, just find out if he’s there.”

She kept the connection open. He heard the News switchboard girl say good morning. Rourke picked up his extension a moment later, and Shayne’s operator clicked off and broke back to Shayne.

“He’s in, Mike. Do you want your calls now?”

“In order of importance.”

“Now, how would I know which are important? Everybody’s anxious to reach you. Somebody named Larry Zito has been pretty persistent. I think he was trying to sound like a movie heavy. A couple of females left numbers; are you interested?”

“Not right now.”

“A detective agency called from New Orleans—” Shayne said quickly, “Save that one. Who else?”

“Tim Rourke twice. Chief Gentry. A collection agency. Another collection agency. The renting agent of your building, and he wants me to tell you he’s giving you forty-eight hours before he starts proceedings. That was — let me see — approximately forty-seven hours ago. And finally, Mike, the phone company. You know our policy. When a customer not only fails to pay his bill, but fails to get in touch with the business office to plead for an extension, service is suspended. And I personally wouldn’t like that, because I take a vicarious interest in your operation.”

“What kind of interest?”

“Vicarious. That means I sit here and enjoy myself without being shot at.”

“Baby, if it isn’t obvious from that list of calls, I’m having money trouble. Send them twenty bucks to keep them quiet for a few days.”

There was an instant’s silence. “That would be highly irregular, Mike, and against my personal code and I’ll have to think it over.”

“I need the phone. I’m working.”

“Please?”

“Please.”

“All right, maybe I will,” she said reluctantly. “But it’s a first.”

Reaching the mainland, he turned onto Biscayne Boulevard and left his Buick in an outside parking lot a short walk from the Daily News Building. His companions decided to stay in their car, but only a moment after they pulled into a no-standing zone, a patrolman on traffic duty herded them on, something that never happened when things were running smoothly.

Shayne put a cigarette in his mouth, entered the News Building, and went up to the city room. Rourke had been offered his own office, but he preferred to work in the open city room where he always had, under pressure and surrounded by the clatter of other typewriters and the ringing of phones. Sucking at a pencil stub in lieu of his usual cigarette, he was leafing through a manila folder. The file drawer of his desk was open.

He looked up, and his face broke into a wide welcoming grin.

“The man himself, back on his home turf. How did the night end, win or lose?”

“I lost. That’s neither here nor there. I want to talk to you.”

Rourke’s expression sharpened. “I knew that whole farce was for somebody’s benefit. Two chicks at a time, for Christ’s sake. But I couldn’t figure out why. Can it wait till I finish this piece? They’re pushing me for copy.”

“I only need a minute.”

Rourke stood up. “Then let’s go down to Jack’s and hoist one.”

“The cafeteria’s good enough. I don’t want to take you away from the fight against crime.”

“This isn’t going to be more about the foxes and rabbits, I hope?”

“What foxes and rabbits?”

“A theory some drunk was pushing at me last night. Too many rabbits, the foxes starve, or was it the other way around?”

In the cafeteria, they drew coffee from the big twenty-four-hour urn.

“As a matter of fact,” Rourke said casually, sitting down, “there are a couple of points in the story I’m writing I’d like to check with you. The man’s in no position to sue, but still—”

“You mean this isn’t your usual rehash? What’s up?”

“Mike, I wish I knew. Something peculiar, and my Geiger counter is clicking away like crazy. I’ve had hopes you could enlighten me. If I didn’t know it wasn’t allowed, I’d think somebody from out of town is trying to move in.”

“On the De Blasios?”

“They’ve had it easy the last few years. But nobody wants to tell me about it. My usual people aren’t calling me back, and that leads me to think they don’t want to go on record, even off the record. Damn it, if you don’t want to smoke that cigarette, will you throw it away?”

“I’m just doing it to torture you. What do the cops say?”

“Nothing there, either, Mike. The pressure’s still on. The organization shylocks and bookies haven’t turned an illegal dollar for three weeks now, and it must be beginning to hurt. But I’m told there’s action starting up in some of the hotels, and it must be new people.”

“Joe Jerk from St. Louis can’t walk in and start making book. It has to be cleared.”

“I know, I know. All I’m saying, nobody’s willing to tell me anything, in spite of the fact that I’m the one man in Miami journalism who has never blown a source.”

Shayne said slowly, “Somebody’s taking bets on the Beach, and the De Blasio bookies are still being pushed?”

“Hard. One of them got bagged for defective headlights, and he stayed in the precinct twenty-four hours while the lawyers screamed.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Tim. I haven’t been doing much Mafia-watching lately. That brings us around to what I wanted to say. While we were talking last night, I think I brought up one of the facts of life. A lot of the big stories in your career have come from me, including the one that got you the Pulitzer. Maybe it’s time for you to do something for me in return.”

“That’s putting it bluntly,” Rourke said, “but hell, it’s true. Unless you want to figure the publicity got you more business — foxes and rabbits again. What do you want me to do?”

“Kill the series.”

Rourke stared at him. “You’re nuts.”

“You’ve written the same articles before, and what good did they ever do?”

“What good?” Rourke said excitedly. “They informed people. Told them what municipal politics are really like. A few of the worst abuses actually got corrected. All that extortion in the building trades — I blew that sky-high.”

“You’re saying there’s no graft or corruption in the building business anymore?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I sent a few people to jail. A couple of others got deported. Kill the series! Christ, man — who are you acting for?”

“Myself, as usual. You know already that I’m in a jam. If you don’t want to help me, the hell with you.”

“Mike, talk sense. It’s announced for ten installments. Today’s the third.”

“Stay home and call in sick. Then tell them you’ve lost interest.”

“Mike, if it’s that important… I don’t know, maybe I could work it—”

“And so they won’t give your notes to a rewrite man, I’ll take them with me.” He raised his voice to override Rourke as he started to speak. “I’ll keep them in a safe place. And I want your Mafia folders.”

Rourke’s hands shook. “Impossible.”

For a moment their eyes held. Then Shayne said wearily, “I knew you’d say that, but I thought I’d ask you.” He stood up. “I think I’ll use your facilities while I’m here.”

Rourke, in the habit of trusting Shayne, accompanied his friend to the men’s room.

“I know how you lean on that damn file,” Shayne said. “Have you ever considered it might do you good to get out in the world and start reporting things you see with your own eyes?”

“I’ve spent years building that file.”

“I know — people call you up from all over the country to get your opinion, and it’s great for the ego. But it’s all a fantasy. Guesses and hearsay, Tim. Somebody whispers something in a bar, and you pop it into the file. And those Mafia experts on the cops and the FBI. What you don’t seem to realize, they have a stake in the damn thing. They—”

And he slugged Rourke without warning.

His strange request had made the reporter wary. Trying to get out of the way of the blow, Rourke ducked into it. His nose collapsed in an explosion of blood. He grabbed at Shayne, his eyes hurt and uncomprehending. Shayne hit him again, spinning him back against the urinal. Rourke snatched the handle of the urinal as he came around, and it flushed. Shayne hit him once more as he began to slide, and that blow broke Rourke’s jaw.

Shayne caught him before he was all the way down, and worked him into an empty booth, where he wedged him into a corner, jackknifing his long legs so they couldn’t be seen from the outside. Then Shayne latched the door, stepped up on the toilet seat, and swung himself up and over.

Leaving the men’s room, he snapped his lighter and lit his cigarette.

People were used to seeing him in the city room. Nobody paid any attention when he sat down at Rourke’s desk and cranked the unfinished page out of the typewriter. He took the Mafia folders out of the file drawer. Then he slid a sheet of yellow copy paper into the typewriter and typed quickly: “IMPORTANT — call M.S. exactly at 8:00. Has information. Names. Careful, phone may be bugged. Must pay $250.”

He looked up Musso Siracusa’s phone number and added that to the note. He buried the sheet in one of the folders. Then he slid the folders into a large envelope and left the city room without hurrying.