Free Blood on the Stars by Brett Halliday

lit side street, got out and hurried to the garish boardwalk, the Coney Island of southern Florida.
    There, among hotdog stands and shooting-galleries, he hastily entered a hole-in-the-wall barroom and moved swiftly back behind the row of occupied stools, catching the proprietor’s eye as he passed the cash register and jerking his head significantly toward the rear.
    The proprietor was a thin, tubercular looking man with pallid cheeks and small eyes sunk far back beneath bulging brows. He nodded his head slightly in response to Shayne’s signal, rang up a sale and made change, then slid off the stool behind the register. He said something to the nearest bartender, and strolled to the rear where Shayne awaited him.
    “Haven’t seen you around much,” he began casually. Shayne seized the man’s thin arm and said, “I’m in a jam, Bert. A hell of a jam.” He paused to lick his lips and went on hoarsely, “Ran into a guy up the street a few minutes ago. I wasn’t going too fast, but it knocked him ten or fifteen feet.”
    “Hurt bad ?” Bert Haynes pursed his thin lips and looked concerned.
    “Hell, I don’t know. Afraid so.” Shayne shrugged and went on rapidly, “I didn’t stop to find out. You know the way I stand with Painter here on the Beach.”
    Bert nodded. “I know he’d like to hang something on you, all right.”
    “My crate’s parked up the street. Busted fender and headlight. If they pick me up my garage will tell ’ em it was all right when I took it out tonight.”
    “Tough,” Bert murmured with commiseration.
    Shayne’s big hand tightened on his arm. “I’ve been out of circulation a long time, Bert. There must be some place where I can get a fast job done on that fender without any questions.”
    Bert Haynes blinked both eyes and tightened his bloodless lips against his teeth. “Try Mickey’s Garage. Down near the end of the beach and over a block.” He gave Shayne explicit directions. “I hear around that they know how to keep a buttoned lip on the sort of work they do.”
    “Hot stuff?”
    “I wouldn’t know. Wait a minute.” He caught Shayne’s sleeve as the redhead started away. “You’re not working?” he asked anxiously. “You wouldn’t work me for a tip with a phoney come-on?”
    Shayne laughed shortly. “Have I ever pulled a fast one like that?”
    “No. You ain’t for a fact,” he agreed.
    “But I am working again,” Shayne said quietly. “You can pass that along to anyone who might be interested.” He hurried out of the small barroom and back to his damaged car, got in and drove around to a neon sign that read: Mickey’s Garage. Gen’l Repairs, Body Work a Specialty.
    The wide wooden door leading into the garage was closed. Shayne turned off the street and stopped with his front wheels on the sidewalk. He got out and found a button on one side of the door with a metal plate above it that read: Night Bell.
    He put his finger on the button and held it down until the door slid open enough to let a man come through. He wore grimy coveralls and a greasy mechanic’s cap. He scowled inquiringly at the man who had disturbed him, blinked in the glare of the single headlight of Shayne’s car and said, “ Yeh ? Whadya want?”
    “Had an accident.” Shayne gestured toward his car. “I need a fast job before the cops pick me up.”
    “I dunno .” The mechanic came through the aperture and went to study the damage to the fender and head light. He shook his head and said, “Rush jobs come high.”
    “I don’t give a damn about the cost.” Shayne had his wallet out and began pulling out twenty-dollar bills. “How much to fix me up with a new fender and headlight?”
    “Trouble is , we’re busy.” He furtively considered the bills fanned out in Shayne’s hand. “Anybody hurt bad ?”
    “I’m not paying for a lot of questions,” Shayne countered. He added another twenty to the four in his hand, then, more slowly, another. He closed the wallet and