Blood on Biscayne Bay Read Free Page B

trenches in his face when he hung up. He mopped his face, poured another short drink, tossed it down and picked up his hat. He left his partially packed suitcase on the table and went out. He walked up to Flagler Street and found an empty taxi half a block from Biscayne Boulevard. He got in and said, “The Play-Mor Club on the Beach.”
    The Play-Mor Club was an imposing structure, formerly a private estate north of 79th Street on the ocean front, and the grounds consisted of 20 acres surrounded by a high wall of native rock and cement. A wide arched gateway led in from Ocean Drive, and a red and green neon sign invited passers-by to Come In and Play-Mor.
    Inside the high walls was a beautifully landscaped area with lush green lawns and tropical shrubbery softly lighted by colorful floodlights high among the fronds of palm trees. A driveway curved through the grounds, and rows of private cabanas lined the beach.
    A smartly uniformed doorman opened the door of Shayne’s cab when it pulled up at the canopied entrance. Shayne gave the driver a generous tip, then went up a low flight of stone steps and into a foyer where he checked his hat. Turning left, he went a few steps down a corridor and into a long, dimly lighted cocktail lounge.
    Shayne ordered cognac and was surprised to have a pony and a bottle of Hennessy slid in front of him. He was further surprised when the bartender poured cognac well above the one-shot mark on the glass. His gray eyes narrowed suspiciously when he received a cordial “Thank you, sir,” and sixty cents in change from the dollar bill he laid on the counter.
    His suspicion of Arnold Barbizon, manager of the club, grew as he sipped his forty-cent drink. Most clubs such as this would charge at least a dollar for a drink of domestic brandy. It was quite evident that the Play-Mor Club made no profit on the bar. The idea, he felt certain, was to get a sucker in an expansive mood and take him at the tables.
    His eyes widened speculatively as they came to rest on a man sitting alone at a table against the wall near the entrance. He was a small man wearing a baggy gray suit and a limp felt hat pulled well down on his forehead. His nose and chin were sharp and prominent, and as Shayne watched, he saw that the man scarcely wet his thin lips each time he lifted the tall glass from which he drank. His eyes were small and deep-set, and he never moved them from the bar entrance.
    Shayne’s face hardened a trifle. Presently he swung back to the bar, emptied his glass and shoved the pony toward the idle bartender. He laid a half dollar on the counter and watched appreciatively while another generous portion of cognac was poured into his glass.
    With the glass in his hand, he circled between the tables until he reached the one occupied by the lone and watchful little man. He toed a chair out and sat down, saying heartily, “Working, Angus?”
    Angus Browne ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. He said, “It’s Mike Shayne,” as though he were surprised and not too pleased.
    “Don’t tell me you missed me when I came in,” said Shayne. “I haven’t seen you for years, Angus. Still partners with Brockson?”
    The man shook his head, turning slightly toward Shayne, but keeping his eyes on the entrance. “Brockson got blasted in a shakedown two years ago,” he said in a husky voice with a faint burr in it. “I’ve been on my own since then.”
    “Good pickings?”
    Browne shook his head and sighed. “Not so good these last few years. Damned war slowed things up.” He made a circular movement in the air with his right forefinger. “Some cheap divorce stuff and not much else.” He hesitated, then added, “If you’re back in town things must be looking up.”
    “Not for me. I’m leaving for New Orleans tomorrow.”
    Browne’s thin face showed a hint of relief. He muttered, “You always had a way of stirring things up.” He wet his lips with the whisky and soda.
    Shayne said, “You need a