Free Murder Spins the Wheel by Brett Halliday Page A

I can take off in a hurry? No more than ten minutes.”
    The doorman saw no reason why not. Shayne moved farther along the approach drive and left the Buick beside a No Parking sign. He put his hand in his pocket when he came back, but the doorman waved him away.
    “Hell, Mike. Do I ever tip you?”
    Inside, Shayne checked with the bell captain and tried several bars and supper rooms before locating the Al Naples party in the Mozambique Room on the roof. The decorations, of course, were tropical, and there was a Latin band and a circular bar where the bartenders were kept busy putting together elaborate rum drinks. Al Naples was pointed out to Shayne, a stocky man in a dinner jacket, with grizzled hair which he wore in a crew cut. He was enjoying himself. He was at a round table for twelve, only partially occupied; some of his guests were dancing.
    Shayne knew one of the men at the table, a well known ex-major leaguer who was now selling insurance. The women were all younger than the men, or looked younger at this distance. Naples was standing between two chairs. He concluded a joke with a bray of laughter that carried easily to Shayne, on the far side of the crowded room, then dropped his cigar in an ashtray and weaved out onto the dance floor, where he cut in on a handsome black-haired woman in a low-cut dress.
    Shayne ordered a drink and waited for Naples to return to his table. Naples was an awkward but vigorous dancer. When the music stopped he ran into friends on the way back to his table. There he rearranged his guests according to his ideas of where they ought to be sitting, ordered more drinks and took over the conversation. Shayne could see he was going to be a hard man to interrupt.
    Finishing his drink, he called the maitre d’ and produced a bill. A phone was plugged in beside Shayne and a waiter, instructed to say that Doc Waters was calling, carried a second phone to Naples’ table. Naples gave his braying laugh and picked up the phone.
    “About time, Doc. Where’s my dough?”
    “This isn’t Doc,” Shayne said. “I’m calling for him. I have a message.”
    Naples laughed. “He’s having trouble scraping it up? Well, well. Who is this?”
    “The name’s Shayne,” the redhead said. “We thought you ought to know. There’s an argument. Some people think he ought to hold payment until a few things are cleared up.”
    The good humor faded out of Naples’ voice. “Until a few things are what?”
    “You don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”
    “I don’t want to talk about it period! I want Doc to get over here with that bundle, or I want him to tell me exactly where and when. Where are you?”
    “At the bar.”
    “Where?”
    He looked across the room. Shayne held up the phone to identify himself.
    “I’ll be goddamned,” Naples said. Then abruptly: “Come on over and I’ll buy you a drink.”
    Shayne left the phone on the bar. Naples had started a fresh cigar by the time Shayne reached his table. He gave Shayne’s hand a quick shake without getting up.
    “Move it over, honey,” he told the dark-haired woman beside him, the one he had danced with. “Mrs. Naples, Mr.—what did you say your name was?”
    “Shayne.”
    “Mr. Shayne. This is my baby’s birthday,” he explained. “That’s what the party’s about. You don’t want to be introduced to everybody, all that horse sh—” He caught himself with a look at his wife. “I’m trying to cut out the profanity, but it’s a habit, you know?” He waved at the waiter. “What are you drinking?”
    Mrs. Naples had moved down to make room for Shayne between herself and her husband. Shayne told the waiter to bring him another straight cognac, with water on the side. “Oh, you’re Mike Shayne,” Mrs. Naples said with interest. “You recovered some stolen jewelry once for a friend of mine, and she said you could put away gallons of cognac and never turn a hair.”
    “If that’s a compliment,” Shayne said,