It was an exciting place to visit, but Mike Shayne didn’t want to die there!

I

Somewhere in the Australian pines a mocking bird issued its cry of territorial imperative. The scarecrow-thin figure in the brush below wished he’d heard the advice earlier and stayed away. But it was too late for that now.

The half-moon’s rays shot obliquely through the trees, making it easier for him to see where he was going in this alien territory. Unfortunately, it helped the enemy too, not that they needed help. They were professionals. He was an amateur — a meddling amateur who had stuck his nose out too far this time.

Ahead of him the bay water gently lapped the shore. Water would throw off those big black dogs. What did you call them? The name he couldn’t remember. But one thing stuck in his mind — those dogs were bred to kill. Frogs practiced their night songs as the palm and pine thinned out. In front of him he spotted some mangroves, and he knew he was on the beach.

He stumbled down the beach, his bare feet managing to find every protruding sandspur. Then he pitched forward, crumbling into the moist sand. A ghost crab stared at him as it scuttled by on all fours. Why couldn’t he be so dextrous? he thought wryly.

He paused, considering the alternatives. His only chance would be to swim across the bay. In his youth that would have been no trouble; he could have swum around the world. Now he had trouble making it across the pool at the “Y” — the short way. A log, a piece of driftwood would help keep him afloat — if he could find one. He estimated the distance across the bay between three-fourth to one-half mile. No waves. Damn! He’d be a sitting duck if they saw him.

He moved down the beach, through the vines and occasional palmetto. Any other day he’d have been tripping over enough driftwood to start a tourist trap. Ahead the moon broke through some fallen pines, making what looked like the shadow of the cross on the beach. Salvation. He tried to break the trunks loose. Nothing budged. He continued on.

Behind him infrequent shouts blended in with the creature serenade. He didn’t bother looking back. They had to be gaining. Why had he been so clumsy back there? He’d been standing on that orange crate peering through a side window when the boards snapped. He had hurried away, hoping they wouldn’t notice. But their flashlights must have found his footprints. Then the dogs were let loose.

A gas can gleamed like silver in the moonlight. Maybe some fisherman had knocked it overboard in the bay and it had drifted in. Picking it up, he headed for the water. Entering in quickly, he submerged the can. No bubbles. No sense of it getting heavy. He had a buoy.

In low tide, he might have been able to walk to the mainland. But the luck of the Irish wasn’t with him now. Apparently, he’d used his quota just finding this place. He pushed off and began to float. Not as graceful as those surfing kids, but he was moving. Hugging the can like his last bottle of liquor, he began to kick. He imagined a voice telling him to keep his knees straight.

Then he heard real voices, calling out in a mixture of English and Spanish. They had found where he had entered the bay. Flashlights gleamed on the glassy surface of the water, but he was out of their range. Dogs began to whine, disgusted the prey had eluded them. He kicked softly, but steadily. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was going to make it. The old man was going to defeat those kids.

Overhead a small plane without lights coughed its way through the skies. Smugglers, he imagined. Hell, half the people in the state were smuggling dope or refugees in, and the other half were taking plants and tans out. He was starting to feel a little smug when he heard the first rapid report. Off to his left bullets caromed off the water like errant stones. Then the water to his right erupted. He heard little thunks as though the waves were swallowing.

Directly behind him the water exploded. They were smart, firing in a pattern, not just random bursts. Standard military procedure. The gun they were using sounded familiar, too. What was that Israeli weapon that had become so popular on the black market? Uzi, that was it.

The next round was closer. At least they weren’t using tracers. Any second they were going to zero in on him, and early the next night some fisherman was going to find something larger than shrimp in his nets.

An idea struck him before a bullet. Letting go of the can, treading water, he removed his jacket. With less than a quarter of a mile to go, surely he could make it alone. Gradually he worked his coat off. On the shore a vehicle plowed into the sand. Then a bright light began to sweep the bay. A change in tactics, but it might buy him the time he needed.

When the jacket came off, he tied it around the can, then paddled away. As he headed toward the shore, the can began to drift to the right, bobbing up and down in the water like a giant fishing float.

When less than a hundred yards separated him from the can, it was caught in a light. Seconds later a shot rang out and then another. He heard a ping as the can jerked. He half expected the can to go up in flames, but it only did that in James Bond movies.

Suddenly the light was extinguished and he heard nothing but nature. The water struck him as warm, and the waves seemed to play across his face like a baby’s friendly hand. It didn’t take him long till he could stand up. Then he found himself trying to run through the waist-deep water.

He guessed it was about three o’clock when he pulled himself up on the beach. The air felt hot and moist. He took off his trousers, wrung them out, and put them back on. How long would his ruse work? Just before he had crossed the bridge to the island, he had seen a sawdust restaurant and a payphone on the wall just beside the NEHI sign.

He walked north, too tired to jog. Maybe he should go south, get as far away as possible. No, he had to make the call, to divulge what he saw on the island. After all, there had been some prominent people involved, and he had followed them all the way there. He tried to remember the name of the town, but nothing came to him. He cursed softly. How could he recall the stupid NEHI sign and not the town’s name? Jerkwater, Florida. That would do.

He was feeling a craving for a cigarette when he heard the vehicle. A jeep. A jerkwaterite? No, most of them were retirees or fishermen, both of whom would be in bed early and not up until dawn.

Then he saw the headlights and a light that was playing across the silent bay. He moved inland, through a clump of scrub pine. Working his way slowly, he passed the jeep, careful not to step on anything that didn’t look dead. Then he was back on the road, his bare feet thwacking on the cool tar and his chest pounding. (Was that some kind of revenge for his wanting a cigarette? Beneath the light of a single bulb, he spotted the combination oyster bar, gas station. Nobody around. He could see his reflection in the plate-glass window — long neck, bony shoulders, sunken eyes. He looked like a sick crane.

Change. He fumbled in his pocket. Nothing. His wallet was gone too, not that anyone would change a bill now. On the side of the building he found a soft-drink machine. He punched the buttons — the machine had everything but Nehi.

A quarter dropped out, then a dime. It was better than winning in Vegas.

The quarter was just clanging through the phone when the jeep’s engine startled him.

The big redhead washed the last of Tuesday’s grit from his rough skin. He was tired, as tired as he’d been in a long time. The hot water massaged him making him able to feel in places he thought the day had killed off. How long, he wondered, could he stay in the shower? Forever? No, in another minute the hotel’s hot water tank was going to run out, and the water would be cold. He’d settle for a Martell straight, then off to bed for some much-needed sleep.

Faintly he heard a noise. His ears were ringing. No, it was the telephone. He sighed, pulled himself out of the shower, threw a towel over his body. He picked up the phone beside his bed.

“Mike, Mike,” panted the familiar voice of Tim Rourke. “I need your help.” Shayne heard a dog yelp and what sounded like a boat in the distance.

“Tim,” he said, “what is it? Where...”

“You’ve got to come... no... Nehi...”

A gagging sound and the phone went dead.

II

Shayne was instantly awake. Within seconds all the tiredness vanished. He put on a pot of coffee, and by the time it was ready, so was he. Lacing his cup with some Martell, the redhead sipped the brew and thoughtfully tugged at his earlobe.

One fact: Tim was in trouble. That certainly hadn’t been him hanging up. Second, no trace was possible. So where the hell was Tim? It had been a week since he’d seen his reporter friend at the Beef House. Last Tuesday they had chatted half-way through the night at the journalist’s booth in the rear, downing enough Hennessey’s to drive its stock up. What had they talked about? The Superbowl, skindiving, the new Betamax at Tim’s office. Everything and nothing. The investigator replayed the whole evening through his mind, certain that neither one had said a thing about what they were working on.

Shayne began to make calls. So what if he woke up a few people. The stakes were worth it.

The City Editor wasn’t too happy to hear the detective’s voice, but then Shayne thought, it was poetic justice — didn’t Dirksen call Tim at all hours of the night?

“Don’t give me that freedom of the press crap, Carl. I’m not prying and I’m not the law — I’m Tim’s friend and he’s in trouble.”

From that point on the newspaperman was cooperative. He narrowed down the stories Rourke might have been working on to three: he had been looking into rumors of a hit squad in Fort Lauderdale; doing a fluff piece on the nouveau riche of the Gold Coast; and following up a lead on how the organized mob was hiring recent refugees.

But which one had he been working on tonight? The redhead refilled his cup and returned to the phone.

“Hi, Angel.”

“Mike,” she answered lazily. “How were the Keys?”

“Great, but listen.” He explained the phone call to her. “Has Tim called the office or come by the last few days that I’ve been out of town?”

When she could remember nothing, Shayne told his beautiful secretary to go back to sleep. Then he dialed Tim’s best friend at the Miami Daily News. It rang seven times. Shayne hung up and dialed again. No answer.

“Damn,” he said to no one in particular. Now where?

Another thing bothered the detective. Scraping his thumbnail across the harsh, reddish stubble on his chinline, he wondered what Tim had meant by “Knee high.”

He could call the police, but there was no guarantee Tim was in trouble in the Miami area. Still...

The Miami Chief of Detectives wasn’t much happier than Dirksen to hear from him. Shayne waited while Will Gentry went to the living room phone so he wouldn’t disturb his slumbering wife. “Christ, Mike, if I sent out a team every time Tim got in water over his head, I wouldn’t have enough men left to keep up with the penny-ante stuff like murder, junk dealing, and bank robbery.”

“Dammit, Will, just make a couple of calls for me,” Shayne said, trying to restrain his anger.

Gentry sensed the urgency in his friend’s voice. “O.K., give me a few minutes.”

Half an hour later, Shayne picked up the phone in mid-ring. “Sorry, Mike. Nothing. I even called some of my friends at the Beach. At least, there are no reports of his body being found. A lot of people are on the lookout for him.”

Shayne hung up and poured the rest of the coffee down the stained sink. It tasted bitter now. Five o’clock. It would be light soon. He could go down and prowl the beach front, but that would be like trying to catch a minnow in a trawling net.

He picked up the Miami phone book. The classifieds had nothing listed under “knee high.” He’d half expected to find some listing for a children’s store or...

He dialed Joe Roberts again. Twelve rings this time and nothing. One last chance. But that fizzled. Pat, the bartender at the Beef House, hadn’t seen Tim since that night a week ago when the three of them had closed the place.

The detective barely had the receiver back in the cradle when exhaustion finally caught up with him.

Shayne felt the warm sun on his shoulders. He woke with a start, mad at himself that he could have dozed off with so much at stake. The case in the Keys must have taken more out of him than he had thought. At least he had been by the phone the rest of the night in case Will or Tim or anybody called.

He put the skillet on the stove, threw in some corn beef hash and eggs. Shaving hurriedly, he donned afresh shirt, then wolfed down his food — it might be the last he’d have for awhile. As he finished the last of the hash, it struck him that he’d overlooked the obvious.

Shayne pulled the Buick up in front of the apartment building near Flamingo Park. He headed through the lobby and up the self-service elevator to the fourth floor. The lock was a piece of cake.

The Irishman’s apartment was more of a mess than usual. The place could have been tossed and no one would have noticed the difference. In the bedroom he found the closet door open and some hangers parted. A search of the medicine cabinet showed both the razor and shaving cream were missing. Tim was obviously on a trip, but where? There were no brochures, nothing written on the pads that sat beside both phones, and not a single piece of writing on the reporter’s desk.

Half an hour later Shayne was at Tim’s desk in the corner of the Daily News. He had found out why Roberts never answered his phone. The kid was vacationing with his parents in Disney-world. Dirksen had nothing new to contribute, so Shayne found himself going through the reporter’s desk. The bottom left drawer yielded a video cassette. Of course, for the Betamax Tim had been so excited about last Tuesday. Anita, a frail brunette whose eyes crossed behind her coke-bottle glasses, took him to the file room and plopped the cassette in the new machine.

The tape was of Channel 4’s news report about a group of wealthy aristocrats near Boca Raton whose lives were a constant whirl of cocktail parties, weekend junkets to the Bahamas, and weekly matches at the Sea Grape Polo and Country Club. One player, an ex-lawyer named Edward McCord, confessed his ambition was to have his own team and win the $100,000 world cup title the following April.

Tim had packed, Pat hadn’t seen him for a week, and only one of the three stories he was working on would have taken him out of Miami. The polo capital of the free world wasn’t much to go on, but it was all Shayne had.

III

By mid-morning Wednesday Shayne guided the Buick up A-1-A. The interstate had been quick, but the downtown area Boca Raton had been clogged with Rolls, Ferraris, and Mercedes. Shayne thought of Palm Beach’s Worth Ave. The people here were younger and flashier. The very rich were strange birds, Shayne thought, their migratory habits driven solely by an unnatural desire to be part of the “In crowd.” A few years ago it had been the South of France, then Southern California, and now the south of Florida.

The phone book listed only one McCord, Edward on the east side of the Intercoastal Waterway. As Shayne turned into Ponce de Leon Trail, he grinned at what the super-rich passed off as the fountain of youth. Lavish, columned houses amidst immaculate landscaping had sprung up overnight. Everything ready for a nouveau riche jetting in from East Orange or Bluefield — all he needed was a toothbrush and, of course, two million dollars.

McCord’s home, the largest, perched on the end of the cul-de-sac. Set behind an army of recently planted royal palms, the pink stucco palace made a definite statement about the ex-lawyer’s bank account and his taste.

Shayne reached out and rang the bell in front of a huge wrought-iron gate. An Hispanic voice came through the speaker. “Name?”

“Michael Shayne.”

“Business?”

“Personal.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Look, pal, I’m a P.I. out of Miami, and I need to see McCord urgently.”

“Mr. McCord is not in at the present. You will have to return later.”

His Irish temper starting to simmer, Shayne was surprised by a horn from behind him. Looking in the mirror, he spotted a virgin-white Mercedes and a blonde with a look in her blue eyes that made a liar out of the car’s color.

“Move the antique, fellow,” she ordered in a husky voice. “I’m in a hurry.”

Shayne got out of the Buick and walked back to her convertible. He noticed she was in her early twenties. “Maybe you can help me, miss.”

Without looking up, the well-tanned blonde in a low-cut tennis dress that would have caused even Borg to default, said simply, “Not interested.”

“I have a friend,” Shayne persisted, “who could be in trouble, and...”

She reached into her purse. “If I write you a check for that piece of junk, will you move it?”

Shayne grabbed the car door with both of his huge hands. For the first time the woman looked into the detective’s ruggedly handsome features. “On second thought,” she purred, flashing a smile that must have instantly turned small boys into men, “perhaps we could negotiate a deal. Mr...?”

“Shayne. Mike Shayne.”

A familiar Hispanic voice from the gate area interrupted them. “This creep bothering you, Miss McCord?”

The big detective turned to see two burly men who with their muscles bulging against their t-shirts looked like they lifted weights between skull-cracking sessions.

“Are you bothering me, Mr. Shayne?” she asked in a sultry tone.

He grinned. “That’s up to you.”

“He’s bothering me, Fernando.”

The larger of the two reached out for the redhead’s shoulder. “Man, you’d better move. See, it’s about time for me and Carlos here to put out the trash.” He smiled. “Come to think of it, me and my kid brother ain’t had no morning workout yet.”

Shayne started their session ahead of schedule. Spinning quickly, he locked both hands and caught the huge Cuban in the solar plexus. As Fernando doubled over in pain, Shayne simultaneously brought his right knee up into his opponent’s chin and his knotted hands down on the man’s back. Fernando screamed like a whipped dog and began cursing in Spanish.

“Pig,” yelled Carlos, rushing Shayne from behind. His charge caught the detective by surprise as did his speed for a big man. Shayne was only half-turned as the raging bull caught him and drove him across the Mercedes’ waxed hood. Before he could recover, Carlos’ sledgehammer right knocked him to the hot tar. Then the redhead felt a steel-toed shoe dig into his ribs.

Shayne rolled with the kick, but the Cuban kept coming.

“Nice move,” the blonde called. Shayne caught a quick glance of her entranced face. “Kick him again.”

When Carlos’ foot came, Shayne was ready. He grabbed it and twisted till he heard something pop.

“My knee,” whelped his adversary.

As Carlos toppled to the pavement, Shayne got to his knees. He drew back his fist, but a slightly recovered Fernando leaped on his back, wrapping his steely arms around the redhead’s throat. Shayne stood up, gasping for breath as the Cuban tightened his death grip like a boa constrictor.

“Crush him,” the girl squealed. Turned on, she was out for blood.

Shayne started to spin, then stumbled backwards toward the Buick. With all his strength, he drove the husky Cuban into the Buick’s nose.

Fernando’s grip loosened and he screamed like his brother. With everything Shayne had left, he drove his right fist into Fernando’s face. He heard the Cuban’s nose crack, and the fight was over.

Hoisting the limp body over his shoulder, he pitched it into the Mercedes’ empty seat. The other bodyguard staggered toward the car, and Shayne just shoved him across the luggage area.

“You’d better take your watchdogs to the vet,” he said to the blonde.

“To the victor belongs the spoiled,” she said, her breasts heaving with excitement.

The redhead looked her in the eye. “I’ll settle for a little information. I was told your father’s out of town, Miss McCord. Where can I get hold of him?”

“Daddy and a few of his friends have taken a week off from the grueling rigors of polo to go over to the West Coast for some business.”

“Where exactly?”

“Manasota — no, Mangrove Key, an island off some little town — Portocall I think Daddy called it. A little south of Sarasota. That’s all I know.”

“Thanks for showing me how the other half lives,” Shayne said as he started for the Buick.

“Couldn’t I tempt you with a few pina coladas, a little swim, and... whatever?”

“If I’m ever into tennis or masochism, I’ll look you up.”

As Shayne got into his car, the blonde sulked, “What am I going to do if that guy comes back snooping around? Daddy got rid of the dogs and gave the help the rest of the week off. He cut off my allowance, so I can’t even go anywhere.”

Shayne’s ears perked up. “What did the snooper look like?”

“Skinny guy in a suit that doubles as a sleeping bag. Drove a car that was more beat up than that thing you’re in.”

Shayne headed the Buick west. He tugged at his earlobe. The cold trail was getting warmer.

IV

Even though the temperature and the humidity were in the eighties, Shayne normally would have enjoyed the drive cross state. But before he had reached West Palm and wound past Lake Okeechobee, he realized the longer it took him to find Tim, the greater the chances something bad had happened to his friend. So his accelerator was close to the floor as he passed Fort Myers and turned up 41.

Portocall was a tiny fishing village just below Venice, the kind of place that was usually gobbled up by tourists and retirees tired of the fast lane. Shayne pulled into the town and onto its only paved road. At the end of the street he spotted the sole sign of life. RUDY’S seemed to be everything the town needed — gas station, restaurant, general store.

As Shayne dragged himself out of the car, a black kid who had been sweeping the rotting stoop said, “Watch your car, mister?”

The detective looked around, then laughed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this isn’t exactly downtown Miami.”

The kid smiled and gestured at the Buick’s Dade County plates. “Just tryin’ to make a big city dude like you feel at home.”

“Where can I find the law around here?” Shayne had decided on the ride over to get all the help he could.

“You mean. Mr. Rudy. Sometimes he be the cook, sometimes the mayor, sometimes the hardware clerk. C’mon! I’ll introduce you to Chief of Police Rudy.”

The kid led him through a dark maze of tools and groceries till they came to a restaurant. Sprawled in the only booth was a spaghetti-thin man of about forty-five going on sixty. As they approached him, the man never looked up, but continued grinding his jaws on what the stains around his mouth suggested was the darkest chewing tobacco Shayne had ever seen.

“Mr. Rudy,” the lanky youth said, “this here fella be lookin’ for you.”

“James Edward, now you get back to work,” said the uncoiling figure as he finally looked up. “What can I do you for? Got oysters on special — course they’re always on special.”

“I understand you’re the law around here.”

“Duly elected.” He straightened up in his seat.

“I’m looking for a friend, Edward McCord.”

Rudy’s eyes widened. “McCord. You work with Mr. McCord?”

“Not exactly, but I need to speak with him. If you could—”

“Mr. McCord, he likes his privacy.”

Shayne watched the man rattle a coffee can with his spit, sensing his defensiveness.

“Now, you got business with Mr. McCord, you drive down to the bridge that goes over to his development.”

“Mangrove Key?”

“Yeah, but if you’re here to bother Mr. McCord, like some others, forget it. Portocall don’t need no trouble.”

The detective leaned his heavy frame over the table. “Are you his personal bodyguard or the Chief of Police?”

“Don’t hardly matter. What hurts Mr. McCord hurts our town. His development is gonna put people to work. Did you look around when you drove in? We need every job we can get. So don’t you go messin’ up things. Folks round here wouldn’t take kindly to that, if you know what I mean.”

“Just one more thing, Chief,” Shayne said as he lit up a cigarette. “Have you seen a thin guy driving an old Ford around here?”

“Ain’t no guy in no Ford. Now I’m busy.” Rudy punctuated his remark by spitting a dark stream of juice into his can.

Shayne ground out his cigarette on the sawdust floor and headed for the Buick. The late afternoon sun hung over the pines. He looked around — nobody. Then he heard a muffled “Over here.”

Walking around the side of the building, Shayne confronted the black kid standing beside a soft-drink cooler.

“Mighty hot, mister. Hard for a kid to talk about what he seen with a dry throat.”

Shayne bought two colas. The kid took them both.

“There be a fella in a Ford like I overheard you mention. He was askin’ questions coupla days ago. Shoot, he be even skinnier than old Rudy.”

“Know where he is now?”

The kid belched loudly. “Naw, but Portocall ain’t so big that I couldn’t find out somethin’, if, of course, I had reason to.”

Shayne sprung for another soft drink.

“You jivin’ me, dude? You got to pay out if you want the layout.”

The redhead peeled off a five. The kid shook his head. Shayne handed him a twenty and glared. “James Edward, when a man takes my money, I expect something in return.”

“You got it. Catch you back here in one hour.”

“How do I get to the bridge over to Mangrove Key?”

The barefoot kid pointed. “Keep goin’ down the road ‘bout half a mile.”

For a moment Shayne felt a real glimmer of hope. Behind where the kid had been standing was a pay phone and a rusty sign advertising NEHI.

V

The bridge to Mangrove Key, a half-mile span of newly poured concrete, offered a stark contrast to the decay that was Portocall. Looming in front of Shayne was a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire and a locked gate. Behind it and to the right sat a solitary guardhouse bearing the sign McCord Properties — NO TRESPASSING. Shayne called out, but all he heard was his echo against the sound of distant boats. If McCord and his associates were on Mangrove Key, they were doing their best to keep it private.

The sun had almost vanished when Shayne returned to Rudy’s, which was now dark and silent. Under the naked light beside the building sat James Edward, a streak of grease across his yellowed tank top.

“Hey, dude, I got what you want, but it’s gonna cost you a little more.”

Shayne got out and walked over to him. He stood directly in front of the would-be shakedown artist and shook his head.

James Edward swallowed hard. “Well, you can’t blame a guy for tryin’.” He skirted the big detective and jumped into the front seat of the Buick. “Let’s go.”

Following the kid’s directions, Shayne drove down a narrow dirt street past lines of dilapidated board shacks. The few men and women sitting listlessly on the front porches looked straight out of the dust bowl. His headlights suddenly glanced off a chain-link fence.

“Pull off,” said the kid.

Shayne reached into the tool box welded beneath the car seat and pulled out a flashlight. They got out of the Buick.

“Right there,” said his informer.

Shayne trained the light on a gate with the familiar McCORD PROPERTIES sign. James Edward led him past the locked gate to a spot in the fence where he pulled back the links.

They slipped in. The two passed a solitary bulldozer as they approached a utility shed. Shayne patted his jacket, feeling the gun in the small of his back. They pushed back a large door.

Caught in his flashlight was Tim’s Ford.

Shayne rummaged through the car. Under a seat belt which Tim never wore was a brochure advertising “Mangrove Key — Your West Coast Eden.” Shayne glanced at an artist’s sketch of a clubhouse and condos, then stuck the brochure in his back pocket.

Two bullets smashed through the utility shed before Shayne heard the report. The big detective pulled out his gun, and in the same motion threw James Edward to the ground. Shayne spun the flashlight out the door. Nothing. Like a snake the detective inched his way outdoors, stopping behind the only cover, the bulldozer.

He heard a screech as a car suddenly took off.

“Heavy,” came James Edward’s voice. “This is even more fun than spray painting the teacher’s lounge. How many kids get shot at?”

Shayne’s anger hit the boiling point immediately — at the kid for joking about a dangerous situation and at himself for getting the kid involved in the situation. Whatever was going on around here had just become too risky, and so his first order of business was to get the kid home.

James Edward insisted on being dropped at Rudy’s, but wouldn’t get out of the Buick.

“Listen, Big City, I want to go with you.”

Shayne pulled out his gun. Somehow it had never looked bigger to him. “See this,” he said. “It’s not a can of spray paint. If you get hit with a bullet from this, you can’t rub it off or paint over it. Whoever shot at me is liable to do it again, and I don’t want you around. You understand?”

The kid dropped his head and got out of the car. Shayne pulled away feeling lousy. He didn’t like chewing out the kid that way. Normally he would have taken more time to talk with him, but there was something more important he had to do immediately — on Mangrove Key.

Shayne wheeled the Buick down a dirt road that paralleled the bay. After a mile or so, he discovered what seemed to be a small public beach and pulled off. Mangrove key squatted on the water like a sleeping duck a good half-mile away. On its southern tip no lights were visible nor could he see any movement.

The detective stripped down to his shorts. He threw his clothes, shoes, and gun into a plastic bag he took out of the Buick’s trunk. Cutting a length of rope, he tied it to either end of the sealed bag, making a crude backpack.

The bay water was warm and smooth. The half moon provided just enough light to see by and not to be seen. A powerful swimmer, Shayne moved through the water effortlessly and gracefully. In other circumstances he would have enjoyed the brisk workout, but his mind wouldn’t relax its grasp on the question of what had happened to Tim.

Noiselessly the redhead pulled himself out of the water and slipped back into his clothes. He checked his gun — absolutely dry. Overhead a bird cried out and in the brush some night creature answered. Nature seemed calm, but Shayne told himself all wasn’t natural on the island. Somewhere on this isolated body were men who had gotten Tim into trouble and him shot at.

Sticking to the shore, he moved silently northward. The island provided him lots of natural cover, but it didn’t seem to matter. He saw absolutely no one or heard any human sounds.

Reaching a cove, he glimpsed his first unnatural sign. A light from behind some tall pines. As he headed toward it, he suddenly tripped. Lying on the ground he looked around. Driven into the sand were a series of pine stakes. The new Eden described in the brochure he had found must have been in its first day of creation. The only building he could see was one of those pre-fab metal structures you found at construction sites. Parked side by side in front were the unlikely duo of a brown jeep and a Rolls royce limo.

Like an alligator Shayne crawled toward the building. Still no sign of anyone. He crept closer to the light, which he could now tell was coming from a small window. Stepping on a broken orange crate, he peered in cautiously.

Sitting around a makeshift table were four men in silk shirts and golf slacks playing cards. One of them he recognized from the videotape as Edward McCord. What the hell was going on? This quartet hadn’t travelled across the state to sit in a metal shack and play poker.

Shayne felt the cold steel against his neck before he heard anything.

“Turn around slowly, senor. Very slowly,” commanded an unseen voice.

Shayne pivoted as ordered. The fact he had been sneaked up on successfully told him he was dealing with pros.

A light caught his face. He blinked a couple of times. When he could see clearly, he knew he was in trouble.

Staring at him were three Uzis held by a trio in green army fatigues.

VI

One of the captors shoved his Uzi into the redhead’s ribs. Another reached out and took the .38 automatic from Shayne’s belt. The third opened the door to their right. Like a steer in the stock-yards, Shayne was driven into the metal building.

For the first time Shayne noticed a fifth figure inside. Dressed in fatigues, wearing a full beard, and chewing on a big cigar, he looked like a young Fidel Castro. The figure was momentarily caught off-guard. He shot a glance at the four card players who had turned to see the source of the commotion. Then he inhaled on his cigar and his steel eyes shifted to Shayne.

“This island is very private, senor.”

“I was just out for a midnight swim, saw your light, and thought I’d drop in,” answered the detective.

The butt of a gun drove into his kidneys. He flinched but didn’t make a sound at the pain lancing his body.

“You have a smart mouth, my friend. It is too bad your brain is not its equal,” said the bearded man who Shayne concluded was the uniformed group’s leader. “Now tell me why a man would sneak onto this island at night with a gun?”

“A little snipe hunting, maybe,” came Shayne’s reply.

This time the gun butt struck the redhead in the back of the neck, sprawling him in front of the card players. Shayne had been in tight spots like this before. Instinctively he knew that anonymity was his best chance at self-preservation. What he needed most now was time — even if the best way to buy it was with pain.

One of the greyhairs around the table looked down at Shayne and said with alarm, “My god, man, don’t make things worse. We’re dealing with Alpha Red.”

The name didn’t ring a bell, but the heavy bootheel clanged against his skull just before he lost consciousness.

The dark tunnel seemed shorter now. In the midst of a distant, dim light four faces hovered.

“He’s starting to come around,” a voice said.

Shayne dragged himself to his knees, then felt hands helping him to his feet.

“You O.K., fella?”

The redhead forced the pain to go away. He was still in the pre-fab building with the card players. The soldiers of Alpha Red had vanished. Picking McCord’s face out of the group, he started to piece together what he had seen.

Suddenly one of the men started banging his fists on the table. “They’re gonna kill us! I know they are. They’re gonna kill us.”

“Calm down, Jerry,” said McCord.

“We’d better fill in out visitor on what’s been happening here,” said another.

Rubbing the back of his swollen neck, Shayne interrupted the frightened speaker. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s been going down. McCord here has this development project. He needs some investors to get if off the ground. He chooses some of his friends from the club and brings them over here to check out the project.”

“How did you know Ed?” said a startled figure whose face looked vaguely familiar to Shayne. “And how did you find out about Mangrove Key? This was supposed to be a secret.”

“Somehow the Alpha Red group discovered what was going on,” said Shayne, “and moved in. My guess is they’re holding you for ransom.”

McCord stepped forward. “And just who are you?”

“Someone looking for a friend,” Shayne returned. “Did any of you meet a reporter from the Miami Daily News named Rourke?”

Each man shook his head. A frown formed on the redhead’s craggy features. “Are you sure? Rourke’s scarecrow-thin and drives a beat-up Ford.”

Nobody showed any recognition. Shayne was getting nowhere. All the evidence pointed to Tim’s being on the island. Why, then, had none of them seen his friend? Shayne tried not to dwell on the obvious conclusion that Alpha Red had found him first. He wouldn’t let his mind believe that Tim was beyond help.

“The first thing we have to worry about,” Shayne said, “is getting out of here in one piece.”

“Why should we?” asked McCord. “Right now my assistant, Remaley, is busy making the arrangements that will get us out of here safely. He should be able to put together the money by dawn at the latest. All we need do is to sit tight and wait.”

The typical mentality of the rich, thought Shayne. Money can buy anything, get you out of any situation.

“They’re going to kill us,” blurted the short, round man whom McCord had called Jerry.

“You’d better listen to him,” Shayne spat out. He was beginning to let his disgust show. “Kidnappers like our friends outside don’t leave witnesses. Once they get their money, you’re dead meat.”

“They gave us their word,” said one of the men.

“Did it come with a gentleman’s handshake?” Shayne asked sarcastically.

Suddenly the door burst open and a body came hurtling in. Staggering to his feet, a small man in a plaid suit tried to catch his breath.

“Remaley,” said McCord. “What happened?”

“Raoul is angry at how long it’s taking to get the ransom together,” the assistant said.

The man whom Shayne thought he had seen before spoke up. “Why is it that everybody thinks that wealthy people carry around millions as though it were pocket change. Don’t they understand investments, treasury bills, liquidity?”

“Guys like Raoul understand one thing,” said the redhead. “You’ve got the money and they want it, whatever way it takes.” The detective tugged at his earlobe. “Remaley, you were just out there. How many men are there?”

“At least twenty, maybe a few more.”

The redhead glanced around. It was going to be difficult. The only possible exits were the single window and door, which would be heavily guarded.

“Since we’re all in this together,” said the familiar-looking man, “perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I’m John Harrow.”

Instantly Shayne knew why he thought he had seen the face before. He had. John Harrow had been the movies’ favorite leading man till he grew too old to ride the range or board pirate ships. Unlike a lot of his contemporaries, he had not only found gold in those Hollywood hills — he had banked it.

“This is Jerry Stokes of Stokelectronic. The Japanese car company that bought him out made him an even wealthier man.” Harrow pointed to a mute figure still seated at the table. “This is Chad Phelps of the Massachusetts Phelps. He went from captain of the Harvard eleven to a captain of industry with graduation and now owns more land than most countries.”

Shayne looked at the four older men, each retired and each in his 60’s. A lot of help they would be. All they had to offer was money. He needed more.

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. Two of Raoul’s men hurried in and grabbed the big detective while a third held a gun on the group.

“You come with us, big mouth,” said one of them. “We’ll see how smart you are. When we do nice things to you, you will tell us what we need to know.”

Shayne had just been thinking that at least he had until dawn the next day to figure out something. Suddenly his time had been drastically reduced.

VIII

The outside air was cooler than the building, and a night breeze rustled the bushes and trees. Shayne sized up the situation quickly as they pushed him over the sand. None of the remaining seventeen soldiers was visible. Maybe they were having a meeting.

“Wait here,” said the man in charge. “I get Raoul.”

Shayne backed up a step, deliberately putting both captors in front of him. The baggy-uniformed guards were about five feet apart and about two feet from him.

“Cigarette?” the detective asked, shifting his glance back and forth.

The man on the right shrugged his shoulders. Letting his gun momentarily hang from its strap, he reached with his right hand to his jacket pocket.

For a split second the guard on the left let his eyes wander to his friend’s actions.

Forgetting the occupied soldier, Shayne struck. His left hand slapped the Uzi outward while he pivoted on his left foot. With all his strength he rammed his right knee into the soldier’s groin. The captor dropped to his knees abruptly, wailing like a new-born child. Shayne spun around furiously. The other guard was dropping his cigarette lighter and reaching for his gun.

Shayne beat him to it. He grabbed the Uzi and tugged. The guard swung round and crashed into his fallen comrade. Shayne threw two quick punches. It was all he had to.

The big detective was about to roll over one of his captors and grab a gun, both of which were at the bottom of the pile, when he heard Raoul’s voice. “Juan, Esteban. Que pasa?”

Then a gun burped fire from behind the voice.

Shayne was already rushing into the palm cover when the slugs bit the sand where he had been moments before. Zigzagging through the thick undercover, Shayne realized quickly he could make the best time on the western beach. Reaching it, he began to move northward on the wet sand which seemed to be trying to suck him downward with each step.

He estimated he had put about half a mile between him and his captors’ headquarters when the disappearing moon illuminated a rundown beachhouse. Shayne crawled up to its base and peered through some cracks in the rotted sea fir. It was dark, but he could make out a lump huddled in the far corner. Shayne crept closer. The lump was a man. No movement.

The redhead’s heart skipped a beat involuntarily in fear of what he might find. Seeing no one else about, he stepped through an open window and flicked on his lighter.

The tied and gagged figure was Tim, his face covered with sand that had crusted with blood. If Tim were dead — Shayne’s anger mounted. Not after all these years. Not in some godforsaken shack in the middle of nowhere. Not Tim. The detective had watched too many of his friends go.

He felt for a pulse.

Tim was alive — but barely.

Carefully Shayne removed the gag and untied his limp friend. The reporter was slowly starting to come around. He looked weak, probably from hunger and loss of blood.

“Mike, you old sonofabitch,” exclaimed the Irishman as his eyes flicked open, “what took you so long?”

Shayne laughed in relief.

“You’re the ugliest St. Bernard I’ve ever seen, and I bet you forgot the brandy too,” Tim joked through the pain.

Yes, Tim was alive and so was his sense of humor. Gradually and gently Shayne massaged his friend’s limbs to get the circulation going.

“Come on, Tim,” urged the redhead, “we’ve got to get out of here. They’re after me.”

“The kooks in the army suits?” Tim uttered.

“How did you get yourself in such a mess?” the detective asked, his grey eyes scanning the brush.

“Journalist burnout. I’d done so many stories on violence and death that I thought I’d take a little R & R with a puff piece on the other half.” Shayne’s old friend chuckled to himself. “Some irony, isn’t it? I can spend the night in Little Havana and nothing happens to me, but a few days in McCord’s ‘West Coast Eden’ and I end up with this.”

Tim pulled back his bloody shirt. For the first time Shayne saw the bullethole in the journalist’s left side just above the heart. A trickle of blood still flowed.

Carefully Shayne picked up his friend and began to carry him. In the distance he heard a whine.

“Those damned hellhounds,” said Rourke.

Shayne worked his way back to the beach. It was harder carrying his friend through the shallow ocean water, but he hadn’t heard of the dog yet that could follow such a trail.

Tim was asleep again, and dawn was only a few hours away when the big detective reached the northern tip of the island. From this point the mainland shore looked even farther away then the portion he had swum earlier.

Several questions shot through Shayne’s mind. How critical was Tim? How was he going to get his friend off the island? Swimming him over was dangerous, if not impossible. Besides, if he concentrated all his efforts on just saving the loveable Irishman, he was as good as signing death warrants for the other five men who had only till dawn to live.

He made his decision quickly. His best chance would be to do the thing Raoul would least expect.

IX

A bird calling out overhead told Shayne dawn wasn’t too far away. From where he lay he could count four guards. The two on the bridge were given away by the orange glow of their cigarettes, while two others had just come out of the metal building with Remaley. The aide to McCord looked under a great deal of pressure.

Suddenly one of the men with Remaley turned and left. He walked down a path till he came to a tent and disappeared within. Shayne figured the rest of the army was somewhere around the northern point.

The big redhead, deciding to take them one at a time, chose the soldier talking to Remaley to be first. As he crawled closer, Shayne could see the guard’s hand was not on his gun. Of course it would have been difficult for a man of Remaley’s small size to overpower even a paperboy.

In his hand the detective grasped a pine knot. He had found it in the grove of trees on the camp’s outskirts where he had left Tim. With a few yards to go, Shayne got to his knees, then his feet. When the detective had come up behind the guard, Remaley spotted him and his eyes shifted to Shayne.

The guard must have sensed something too, for he spun around. Shayne swung the club with two hands like a baseball bat. He caught the soldier on the side of the skull, causing a cracking sound that reminded the detective of a home run.

“What the—” exclaimed Remaley.

Shayne handed McCord’s aide the guard’s gun. The alternative would have been to give the still-suited figure the pine knot, thus rendering him useless.

“Follow me,” commanded the detective. “We’re going for the two guys on the bridge.”

Remaley surprised the redhead the way he followed him from tree to tree, then on his stomach. He motioned for Remaley to take the right guard. Slowly Remaley moved in.

The left guard saw Remaley as Shayne knew he would. As the distracted soldier stepped toward McCord’s aide, Shayne raised the club and whacked it over the guard’s hands. The Uzi clattered to the sand. As Shayne reached for it, he heard a sharp command.

“One more movement, buddy, and you’re dead.”

It was Remaley.

Damn!

“Don’t say a word,” cautioned the aide. “Just march right back to the others. Rico,” he said to the conscious guard, “stay with me till we toss him inside.”

With two guns somewhere behind him, the detective did as he was told. The elderly quartet seemed surprised to see him.

“They told us they had executed you,” Harrow informed him.

The big redhead said, “It was a lie designed to help keep you in line.” He walked over to the table and looked at McCord. “I know how Alpha Red found out about your secret enterprise here — Remaley.”

“Peter?” said the industrialist. “But he came to me with the highest of credentials.”

“That mistake doesn’t matter now,” said the detective, rasping a thumbnail across his chin. His gray eyes scanned the four men. The plan he had been working on would have to begin right away — Tim’s life and theirs depended on it. “Now pay attention,” he ordered. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

The four men listened quietly with complete attention. It was the kind of concentration that had helped them to the top. Their interest improved their chances, but the odds were still heavily weighted against them.

McCord put up one final protest in the name of safety. Harrow probably spoke for the other two when he said, “Edward, if my time is up, I want to go out like a man — not a whimpering coward.”

In other circumstances, Shayne thought, it would have sounded like a line from one of Harrow’s movies, but right here and now he sensed its truth — for all of them. In coming back Shayne knew he had made the right decision.

“Juan, Esteban, Rico — you Spanish pigs,” called out the voice. “Get in here and get your leader out.”

The door to the metal building was thrown open, and two uniformed guards peered in looking for Raoul. Even watching Harrow, Shayne found it difficult to believe the ex-actor could imitate Raoul’s Spanish accent so perfectly.

“Raoul?” questioned one of the intruders. “Where are you?”

The lights in the building went out. Shayne didn’t know how Jerry had done it, but the former owner of Stokelectronics had struck exactly as he said he would — on cue.

Like pulling guards, Shayne and Phelps leveled the surprised soldiers with cross-body blocks.

“They went down easier than a couple of boola-boolas,” quipped the Harvard grad, his satisfaction overflowing.

McCord scooped up their guns. Shayne took them both, checked them, then pitched one to the industrialist. He put McCord on the right flank. He took the left and led them to the pine grove where Tim lay. Harrow and Phelps picked up the reporter and, holding him in a fireman’s carry, transported him to the Rolls Royce.

The detective then crept back to the bridge with Stokes and McCord. When he and the ex-electronics entrepreneur had positioned themselves, he signalled McCord to step into the first light.

Hesitantly McCord did as he was told. The two soldiers saw him simultaneously and turned. While they were momentarily off-guard, Shayne struck, swinging the Uzi into one’s face. The other guard pivoted toward Shayne. As he did, the formerly scared Jerry Stokes crowned him with a piece of driftwood. Hit for the second time in a short while, the guard dropped as though shot.

Shayne tied them up as he had the earlier two in the building. It had taken only a few minutes and it had been accomplished in silence. Harrow gave him the high sign. The keys had been left in the Silver Ghost, and the group was ready to roll. Harrow, Stokes, and Phelps lifted Tim into the rear seat and then crowded into the jump seat of the limo.

“Still want to wait?” Shayne asked McCord.

For a moment the industrialist looked a bit indecisive. Then he raised the Uzi and pointed it at Shayne.

“This has gone too far to stop,” glared McCord.

“Edward, what are you doing?” questioned the actor.

“Put down the gun, man,” said Phelps. “We’ve got to get out of here. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“He knows exactly what he’s doing,” the detective said. “You don’t think Remaley had the brains to figure this thing out?”

“Raoul, Remaley,” called out McCord. “Get out here quick before it all goes down the tubes.”

“It’s already down,” said Shayne calmly walking toward the gun pointed at his gut. “Go ahead and fire.”

Cornered, McCord pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

“I removed the clip when we took those guns from the guards.”

“How did you know?” asked McCord.

Remaley and Raoul came racing down the path. The cigar-smoker was carrying a gun while Remaley was unarmed.

“Drop it, Raoul,” Shayne commanded.

Raoul had only lifted the gun from his waist when Shayne opened up. One blast threw the charging soldier up against a tall pine, the dark, wet liquid staining his green fatigues. Remaley surrendered instantly.

“We’ve still got to hurry,” urged Phelps. “The other soldiers will hear the shots—”

“There aren’t any other soldiers,” said the detective.

“Remaley counted at least twenty,” reminded Harrow.

“Yeah,” countered the redhead, “but we only had his word for it. I was all over this island and never saw more than five.”

“But Alpha Red?” pressed Stokes.

“There’s no such thing as Alpha Red. McCord simply made the group up. Yesterday his daughter told me he gave his help some time off — in the middle of the week! So a bunch of gardeners and house-boys become weekday warriors, complete with guard dogs.”

“But why?” Harrow was as puzzled as the rest.

“McCord here didn’t plan for his retirement as well as the rest of you. His daughter suggested as much when she told me he cut off her allowance. Mangrove Key was going to be his goldmine, but he ran out of funds.”

“I was desperate,” admitted the industrialist. “I knew I couldn’t con all of you.”

“They’d have grown as suspicious as I did,” said the detective. “There’s only one building up, and who can build a resort community with only one bulldozer? That’s why I gave McCord the unloaded gun. I had my suspicions, but I had to be sure.”

“But, Edward,” said Harrow, “we ate at each other’s table, we shared our lives for the last year. If you were in trouble, why didn’t you ask for help?”

“You weren’t my friends,” spat out McCord. “You never really accepted me. I just wasn’t in your league financially. Then, the risky investments I made trying to keep up with you turned sour. I knew with the ransom money I could continue to travel in your circles, maybe get some respect.”

Stokes, who had been silent throughout the entire revelation, stepped toward McCord. “One thing, Edward. You wouldn’t really have... killed us after you got the money... would you?”

McCord’s silence confirmed what Shayne had told them earlier.

Though Tim had been in the Venice Hospital for only one day, the rumpled sheets and soiled gown suggested to Shayne that he had already made it his home.

“I don’t know if I can take a week in this place, Mike. Are you sure you can’t help me escape?” joked the Irishman.

“You need the rest,” said Shayne, “and besides you have three millionaires picking up the tab. You said you wanted a little rest and relaxation — enjoy it.”

“I’ve never seen people so grateful.”

The big detective waved it off. “It’s not what I did for them so much as what they found out they could still do for themselves. I had them underestimated. When the chips were down, those guys had a lot of guts.”

“There’s only one thing that would make this occasion perfect,” said Rourke.

Shayne turned to the door. “O.K.,” he called.

“Room service,” said a smiling James Edward as he came in carrying a tray on which were a bottle and three glasses.

The reclining reporter picked up the bottle. “Three-Star John Exshaw — just what the doctor ordered.”

Shayne poured the liquor into two glasses. James Edward held out the third one. From his coat pocket, the redhead pulled a bright can and popped the tab. He filled James Edward’s glass with Nehi soda and then offered a toast. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”