The Private Practice of Michael Shayne Read Free Page B

man out.”
    Marco’s hand reluctantly withdrew from the button. He said, complaining:
    “What’s eating on you, Shayne?”
    “Nothing.”
    Shayne frowned at the cigarette in his hand. He turned to look at the girl.
    “You must be Marsha Marco. Since your father won’t introduce us, I’m Michael Shayne.”
    Her green eyes widened, quirked up at the corners. “I’ve read about you. Have you come to pinch dad’s gambling joint?”
    Shayne smiled gravely. “No. He keeps his protection money paid up.”
    Merriment glinted in the eyes which had lost much of their strange red glow when her father said harshly, “Quit horsing around, Shayne. What do you want?”
    Shayne swung around to face the casino proprietor.
    “Just this. How long has Grange been capping for you?”
    “What business is it of yours?”
    “Don’t talk to me like that.”
    Shayne’s eyes were bleak. He started to get up.
    Marco paled a trifle. He held up a dimpled hand in protest.
    “What’s eating on you?” he asked again.
    Before Shayne could reply, Marsha asked breathlessly, “Who did you say, Mr. Shayne?”
    “Grange.” The detective didn’t look at her. “He’s got a girl downstairs right now, sucking her at the roulette table for more than she can afford to lose. A very young girl,” he added with emphasis.
    “Harry Grange?” There was dismay, almost disbelief, in the girl’s voice.
    Marco rumbled, “Yes, Harry Grange,” at his daughter.
    “This is as good a time as any to find out for yourself that he’s just a cheap front man.”
    “I don’t believe it.” Her chin was set, stubborn, her voice shrill. She came to her feet and took a long-limbed stride forward. “This whole thing is just a put-up job.” Her eyes flashed from John Marco to Shayne, low-lidded and suspicious. “It sounded rehearsed from the beginning,” she ended angrily.
    Marco said, “Shut up.”
    “I won’t shut up.” She moved past Shayne, her face working convulsively.
    Shayne lit a cigarette, watching her through squinted eyes all the while. The girl stopped in front of the desk, bending forward with slender fingers clawed close to her father’s face.
    “You’ve been running Harry down because you want me to hook Elliot Thomas. You don’t care the snap of your finger about me—about my feelings. All you care about is—”
    Without moving from his chair, John Marco slapped his daughter’s face. She shrank back, her face white, her mouth a tight rouged slit, her eyes all a dangerous red again. Her hand went up slowly to touch her cheek.
    John Marco said, “I told you to shut up.”
    A plump finger pressed the button now. A side door came open and a tall white-haired man entered. He had a pleasant benign face and crafty eyes. His glance slid over Shayne and past him to Marsha who was standing with both palms flat down on the desk as if to support her thin body.
    The man asked, “What is it, Chief?”
    “Take Miss Marco home.”
    He nodded, darting another glance at Shayne, then took the girl’s arm and said soothingly, “Come along, Miss Marsha.”
    She jerked her arm free from his grasp. Her left cheek was a mottled, angry red now. She glared at her father, hatred blazing. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. A vein throbbed fiercely in her thin neck. She turned and walked through the side door and the white-haired man followed her out.
    Marco expelled a long breath that came out a thin whistle, as if he had been holding it for some time. His small blue eyes were hard, like glass marbles.
    “What gets into girls?” he hurled at Shayne, distressed, as though he really sought an answer. “I give her every damn thing she wants and she hates my guts.”
    Shayne lifted his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I was talking about Harry Grange.”
    “Well, what about him?” Marco pinched a dewlap beneath his chin with pudgy fingers.
    “That girl he’s dragged in is too young to know any better than to waste C-notes on your crooked