Free Murder Spins the Wheel by Brett Halliday

practically, to get back in the business of booking bets.”
    Shayne drank thoughtfully. “Do you think Naples has any ideas about getting active again?”
    “I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s used to running things. Back in Chicago, when he said jump, they jumped. Maybe he misses that. He’s got a stable of horses, a hot-looking wife, a boat. But is it enough? All I know is, if Harry and Al ever really tangle, I want to be somewhere else.”
    “What happens if Harry doesn’t come back with the money?”
    “He better,” Waters said blackly. “Now don’t quote me—” He interrupted himself and drank, then felt for the container of tranquillizers. “Well, I know you’ll probably quote me, but Harry knows as well as I do that if he can’t lay that cash on the line there’s going to be a little revolution right here in Miami. He’s getting so slow! Six months ago he would have dropped the points on Florida Christian, he would have spotted the play on Ladybug and laid it off. You can’t do that without communication, and communications around here have been getting terrible. When that babe went to work for him, that’s when I date it from. Four and a half percent from a savings and loan, he thinks now, is better than twenty percent in something illegal. All of a sudden some things go and some things don’t go. I’m tired of it, and I’m not the only one.”
    Leaning forward, Shayne put his empty glass on the table. “I think it’s about time for me to talk to Naples. Before I forget it, have you run into a kid named Vince Donahue?”
    Waters had been about to feed himself a tranquillizer. Slowly and deliberately, he put the cap back on the container, put it away and reached for the rifle. Shayne was on top of him before the barrel was all the way around. He pivoted, lifting, and twisted the weapon out of the bookie’s hands.
    “Everybody’s jumpy tonight,” Shayne observed. “What were you going to do, blow a hole in me because I asked a simple question? If you don’t ask questions you don’t get any answers. Something’s happened to your sense of proportion.”
    Waters sneered at him. “It’s my experience that certain people only listen when a gun’s pointing at them. All I was going to suggest, don’t mention Donahue’s name to Naples. The kid’s in the sack with the wife a couple of afternoons a week, according to my information.”
    “What does he do mornings?”
    “That’s all for now, Shayne,” Waters said wearily. “Talk about slow—those pills really slow you down. I’m going to put the phone back on the hook. Harry’ll be calling pretty soon. Why not wait for the call?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You know you’ll just stir things up? Al’s sure to be plastered and he’s a fast man at flying off the handle. The last thing Harry wants is Al Naples on his neck. He likes this quiet life.”
    Shayne unloaded the rifle. Swinging it by the barrel, he brought it down hard on the balustrade, breaking off the hammer.
    “What do you think,” Waters said in his mournful tone, “that I’d shoot you in the back, and let Harry explain what you’re doing on his lawn? I was about to make you an offer. Don’t you even want to hear it?”
    “Keep it brief.”
    “Twenty-five G’s,” Waters said, “to go out and get drunk.”
    Shayne tossed down the useless rifle. “I thought you said you were broke.”
    “I am broke! I’ll write you an IOU. I’m good for it.”
    Shayne laughed. “Take another pill, Doc.”
    “That’s the trouble with people,” Waters commented, without sounding surprised. “If you don’t have cash in your pocket, nobody trusts you.”

8.
     
    MICHAEL SHAYNE PULLED UP at the St. Albans, a huge wedding cake of a hotel, standing between Collins Avenue and the ocean. The doorman stepped forward smartly with a half salute.
    “Oh, it’s you, Mike,” he said, dropping his hand. “How you doing? Park it for you?”
    “Can I leave it here in front so