Too Friendly, Too Dead

10

It took Michael Shayne slightly less than an hour to locate Timmy the Twist and Ox Yokum. He went about the job methodically, starting on South Beach as Elston had suggested, working his way up and down the street, buying a drink here and there and asking questions in the right places.

He had no difficulty immediately getting a line on the pair. They appeared to be fairly well-known by others of their ilk, and were regarded with a sort of amused tolerance by others slightly higher up on the criminal scale than they. Timmy was the brains of the pair, Shayne soon learned (although no great shakes at that) while Ox supplied the muscle for their small-time operation which consisted mostly of rolling drunks for any sum from five bucks up, a spot of pimping on the side, and an occasional go at peddling marijuana.

They had been seen around that morning, and it was generally agreed that they must have made some sort of hit the preceding night, though no one professed any knowledge of how it had come about.

Shayne finally came up with them in a crap game in the back room of Renaldo’s. Joe Renaldo himself gave him the office when Shayne dropped into the dingy bar and ordered a drink of California brandy, the best the place could offer. Joe served him, and leaned over the bar to say out of the side of his mouth, “Word’s got around that you’re looking for a confab with Timmy the Twist and his partner.” Shayne nodded and sipped the brandy.

“Back there. Craps.” Renaldo jerked his head toward a closed door at the rear of the bar. “Keep it quiet, huh? You could of got the info a dozen other places.”

Shayne said heartily, “Sure. That’s why I dropped in.” He slid a ten-spot on the bar which Joe’s hand covered quickly, and pushed back the rest of his brandy. For the benefit of three patrons a few bar stools removed, he said loudly, “That’s lousy brandy, Joe. I was told there was a little game in back where a real hot dice shooter might pick up some easy dough.”

“You feelin’ hot today, Mike?” Renaldo picked up his cue faultlessly.

“That, I am.” Shayne strolled back past the trio who had overheard the exchange, opened the door and walked into a small room murky with smoke. There were half a dozen dice players squatting and kneeling in a circle around a blanket spread out on the floor. There were crumpled bills and silver in front of each man, and a half a dozen dollar bills were in the middle of the blanket while the shooter tried to make his point.

From descriptions he’d gotten, Shayne recognized the shooter was Timmy. The lunkhead on his left must be Ox, he thought. He vaguely recognized the faces of a couple of the other players, though he could not have put names with them.

None of them looked up at Shayne as he entered quietly and closed the door behind him. Timmy’s point was evidently a nine and he exhorted the dice fervently each time they left his hand.

He sevened out while Shayne stood there with his back to the door watching. One of the men across the blanket took the money, and Ox swept the pair of dice up into his hamlike hand.

Shayne said, “Fun’s over, boys.” And they all froze in curious attitudes, turning their heads to look at him. First one and then another of the players scooped up the money in front of him and got to his feet. Shayne opened the door and held it with his hand on the knob.

“The rest of you beat it. Timmy and Ox have got some talking to do.”

Ox Yokum was a broad-faced, stupid-looking gorilla. He lumbered to his feet with a displeased scowl on his face, looking around, in consternation, at the others who were quietly gathering up their money.

“Hey, youse guys. Who’s this smart guy comin’ in to bust up a friendly game? I’m twenny bucks behind, by Christ!”

One of the departing players said shortly, “That’s Mike Shayne, dim-wit.”

Timmy came to his feet swiftly when he heard the name. He had narrow, ratlike features with yellow teeth that showed behind tight, thin lips.

“Mike Shayne? Ox and me, we got no talk for you. C’mon, Ox. We’re going out with the others.” Three of them hurried past Shayne through the door with averted faces, and Ox made a guttural sound deep in his throat and came behind them with big fists belligerently swinging at the end of long arms. Timmy was close behind him, and the sixth player unhappily brought up the rear.

Shayne’s eyes narrowed and he shifted his weight to his left foot. He gauged the distance carefully, swung his right foot up and planted it with ramrod force in the big man’s belly. Ox grunted and doubled forward, and Shayne smashed a right to his jaw as he went down.

Timmy ducked his head and attempted to dart past the redhead to safety. Shayne blocked him halfway through the doorway, put both hands around his neck and lifted him bodily, flung him back into the room. He held the door open and said to the last man, “Beat it,” and he scampered through the door without looking back.

Shayne closed it behind him, found a key conveniently in the lock and turned it. He dropped the key into his pocket and turned around to see Timmy on his hands and knees staring at him fearfully. Ox lay on his side groaning, trying fitfully to raise up to a sitting position.

Shayne disregarded him and told Timmy, “I guess you know who I am, and why I want to talk with you. You two killed a man last night.”

“God, no.” Timmy was trembling frantically. He sank back to sit on the floor with his hands on both sides supporting him, shaking his head from side to side. “You got it all wrong, Shamus. Me and Ox, we never hurt nobody. Not in our whole lives. I swear it on a stack of Bibles. Maybe we rolled a drunk, huh, but we never put a hand to him. I swear we didn’t.”

“What did you slip into his drink at the Sporting Club before you followed him out?”

“Nothing. I swear it, Mister. The guy was tight. What the hell? He was ready to fall flat on his face. We never touched a finger to him. I swear we didn’t.”

“You read in the paper about him being found dead this morning?”

“Sure, we read about it, and naturally we felt bad. We figure somebody else come along and slugged him. There was somebody in a car,” Timmy went on eagerly. “He come along slow, kind of creeping along like he was looking out for him. That was right after he staggered off the road and fell down.”

“After you and Ox snatched his money and that ring off his hand?”

“All right. I ain’t gonna kid you. That damn Barney,” breathed Timmy indignantly. “He musta put you wise. After him taking half all the time…” Ox was now grunting loudly and had worked himself up to a sitting posture. Shayne studied him coldly with bleak eyes, then stepped forward and kicked him with precisely calculated force on the side of the head. Ox toppled sideways and lay still.

“Okay,” said Shayne conversationally to Timmy. “Let’s get this straight. Were you and Ox in the Club last night when Fitzgilpin showed up about eleven o’clock?”

“I don’t know whether we was or not. We got there maybe eleven. About then. Barney give us the high-sign. That there was a sucker down to the end of the bar maybe we could take. We didn’t push right in,” Timmy said virtuously. “We had us a drink and waited. Oh, maybe half an hour or so. There was this three or four people back there together. Talking and kiddin’, you know. One or two dames and a couple guys. You couldn’t tell who was with who, but it didn’t matter to us. Then this little guy comes stumbling out an’ Barney he gives us the office. Nobody’s with him, so we just went on out behind and there he is in the moonlight staggering down the street. We trailed along figurin’ he’d pass out any minute. Ox, he wanted to tap him a little, easy-like, but I said what the hell? Give him a little minute an’ we wouldn’t even hafta.

“So, I’m right. He makes it about a block, going from one side of the road to another, an’ then falls flat on his face. So we lifted his wallet and he never knew it. And Ox took a fancy to a ring he had on, and snatched that. But we never touched a finger to him, I swear it. We figured if we didn’t get it, somebody else would.

“Then he kind of comes to for a minute and gets up an’ staggers on. And there’s a car comin’ real slow, and Ox and me we slips off to the side and hides behind a oleander bush. And we watch while this car comes along slow with him in the headlights, and then he goes off the pavement into the ditch and the car pulls up just beyond him and stops and the lights go off. So we figure it’s a friend of his from back at the Club and they’ll find out he’s been rolled, so we beat it back fast and get in our jalopy and take off. And that’s all to Christ and hell I know about the whole deal, and when Ox comes back to his senses he’ll tell you the same damn thing. We never touched a finger to him, and I swear we didn’t.”

Ox was groaning and trying to sit up again. Shayne stared down at the pair with unconcealed disgust, and told Timmy, “You’ll have a chance to convince the cops that you’re clean on the killing. Before you do that… think hard and straight and tell me one thing: Did you ever know a gambler named George Nourse?”

“Sure.” A crafty look came into Timmy’s eyes. “He was a big-shot here… two-three years ago. He really did have a pair of educated dice. Gawd! I seen him one night take three grand in a game with seven straight rolls.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Nourse? Not for the last year or two. I heard tell he was out on the West Coast… and doing all right, too.”

“You’re positive you didn’t see him at the Sporting Club last night?”

“George Nourse?” Timmy looked honestly surprised. “Is he back in town? I hadn’t heard it around.”

“All right,” Shayne said disgustedly. “Get your muscle-bound friend in shape to take a ride. I’m calling for the meat-wagon.”

He turned to the door and unlocked it, opened it and called out to the proprietor. “Call the cops and tell them I’ve got a couple punks that want free taxi service to police headquarters.”