handed the dice to the player on his left, announcing, “The bank passes.” He paid no attention to the low murmurs of protest around the table, turned his back and waited while the houseman cashed in his chips for bills. There was slightly more than eleven hundred dollars in the roll he received.
He grinned down into Lana’s flushed face and said, “This isn’t going to make you very popular with your boss.”
She laughed with more animation than she had shown all evening. “I won’t worry about that. You’re wonderful, Red. First man I ever saw quit a winner.”
Shayne glanced around the room and muttered, “Wait for me in the cocktail lounge—and order a couple of drinks. We’ve got some celebrating to do.”
She squeezed his arm and said, “I’ll like that.”
“Which way—?”
“Right through that side door. Men to the left,” she anticipated him with an amused smile, and they separated.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHAYNE opened the door into a narrow hallway, closed it, and opened another door straight in front of it. The room was small with a bar at one end and a few square tables lighted by low-hanging bulbs. Most of the stools were filled by men who slouched against the bar drinking straight whisky. Two of the tables were occupied by sober-faced men squinting at poker hands through thick smoke.
A door to the right had Private painted white on the dark upper panel. A big man with a pockmarked face leaned against the door sill. Bulky muscles swelled a jersey sweater and he was built solid all the way to the floor. As Shayne came close, he asked in a surly tone, “Lost somethin’?”
Shayne said, “I want to see the boss. Is this his office?”
The big man nodded. “He’s busy. You’ll hafta wait.”
Shayne said, “I haven’t got time,” impatiently, and made a forward move to shoulder the man out of his way.
The man’s eyes glittered. He shoved Shayne back with his left hand and brought his other hand out of his pocket gripping a pair of brass knucks.
Shayne shifted quickly to the left and landed a blow on the bottom of the man’s chin. The man staggered backward, his eyes bewildered, and swung a ponderous right with the knucks.
Shayne stepped aside and hit him on the side of the jaw. His weight helped carry the man to the floor. Shayne turned the knob and swung the Private sign inward.
Four men looked at him as he closed the door. Two were seated at a desk and the other two were leaning forward with their hands on the desk as though they had been listening intently.
Dan Trueman sat facing the door. He took a cigar from his mouth and looked at the intruder with mild surprise. The man who sat across from him had to turn in his chair to see Shayne. He was a big man who had no eyebrows or lashes, and his mouth was very small. He looked smart and cruel. The other two men were young and slender and looked like cokies.
Trueman said, “I guess you’ve made a mistake. This is a private office.” He enunciated his words carefully as one speaks to a dimwit or a drunkard.
Shayne said, “If you’re the boss here I’d like to speak to you a minute.”
“If you’ve got a beef,” said Trueman, “it’ll have to wait. How did you talk Tige into letting you in?”
“I persuaded him.” Shayne blew on his bruised knuckles. “This’ll only take a minute, Trueman.”
Dan Trueman said, “He must be tough, boys. Take him out and keep him out till I’m through with Nolan.”
The two gunmen straightened up and turned toward him. Shayne didn’t look at them. He was watching Trueman as he said, “I’m Shayne.”
Trueman’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled faintly. “Mike Shayne?”
“That’s right.”
Trueman said, “Skip it, boys. Go out and see about Tige. Tell him to throw those knucks away or learn to use them.” He waited until the two young men had gone out. He blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling and gazed at it, saying softly, “I’ve heard of you, Shayne. What’s on
He grinned down into Lana’s flushed face and said, “This isn’t going to make you very popular with your boss.”
She laughed with more animation than she had shown all evening. “I won’t worry about that. You’re wonderful, Red. First man I ever saw quit a winner.”
Shayne glanced around the room and muttered, “Wait for me in the cocktail lounge—and order a couple of drinks. We’ve got some celebrating to do.”
She squeezed his arm and said, “I’ll like that.”
“Which way—?”
“Right through that side door. Men to the left,” she anticipated him with an amused smile, and they separated.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHAYNE opened the door into a narrow hallway, closed it, and opened another door straight in front of it. The room was small with a bar at one end and a few square tables lighted by low-hanging bulbs. Most of the stools were filled by men who slouched against the bar drinking straight whisky. Two of the tables were occupied by sober-faced men squinting at poker hands through thick smoke.
A door to the right had Private painted white on the dark upper panel. A big man with a pockmarked face leaned against the door sill. Bulky muscles swelled a jersey sweater and he was built solid all the way to the floor. As Shayne came close, he asked in a surly tone, “Lost somethin’?”
Shayne said, “I want to see the boss. Is this his office?”
The big man nodded. “He’s busy. You’ll hafta wait.”
Shayne said, “I haven’t got time,” impatiently, and made a forward move to shoulder the man out of his way.
The man’s eyes glittered. He shoved Shayne back with his left hand and brought his other hand out of his pocket gripping a pair of brass knucks.
Shayne shifted quickly to the left and landed a blow on the bottom of the man’s chin. The man staggered backward, his eyes bewildered, and swung a ponderous right with the knucks.
Shayne stepped aside and hit him on the side of the jaw. His weight helped carry the man to the floor. Shayne turned the knob and swung the Private sign inward.
Four men looked at him as he closed the door. Two were seated at a desk and the other two were leaning forward with their hands on the desk as though they had been listening intently.
Dan Trueman sat facing the door. He took a cigar from his mouth and looked at the intruder with mild surprise. The man who sat across from him had to turn in his chair to see Shayne. He was a big man who had no eyebrows or lashes, and his mouth was very small. He looked smart and cruel. The other two men were young and slender and looked like cokies.
Trueman said, “I guess you’ve made a mistake. This is a private office.” He enunciated his words carefully as one speaks to a dimwit or a drunkard.
Shayne said, “If you’re the boss here I’d like to speak to you a minute.”
“If you’ve got a beef,” said Trueman, “it’ll have to wait. How did you talk Tige into letting you in?”
“I persuaded him.” Shayne blew on his bruised knuckles. “This’ll only take a minute, Trueman.”
Dan Trueman said, “He must be tough, boys. Take him out and keep him out till I’m through with Nolan.”
The two gunmen straightened up and turned toward him. Shayne didn’t look at them. He was watching Trueman as he said, “I’m Shayne.”
Trueman’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled faintly. “Mike Shayne?”
“That’s right.”
Trueman said, “Skip it, boys. Go out and see about Tige. Tell him to throw those knucks away or learn to use them.” He waited until the two young men had gone out. He blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling and gazed at it, saying softly, “I’ve heard of you, Shayne. What’s on
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