“‘Mr. Geary was holding my wrist that hard. He’d taken a drop or two, certainly, but I wouldn’t say he was rambling or anything like that. He didn’t dare speak to the police about it because they’re all of them as crooked as a hairpin, those are his words. That the beating was done to him by Michael Shayne, and he spelled it for me, with the y, to fix it in my recollection. That Michael Shayne had spoken to him in a threatening manner. I don’t condone all this violence, this giving and taking of bribes. I know the old saying that it takes two to tango, but my own feeling is that Mr. Geary was forced by threats to pay out those amounts of money. I attend the dog races myself, and I believe Mr. Geary always did his best to provide the public with an honest race for their money.’ That was Miss Norma Culhane, speaking on the steps of Jackson Memorial. Now back to Brad Walker at WCBN. Brad?”
Shayne snapped it off, so hard that the knob came loose in his fingers. He threw it across the room, and listened to it bounce. A shower, a shave, clean clothes and a drink helped hardly at all.
After taking his Buick out of the garage, he double-parked and picked up a News on Twelfth Avenue. He read Rourke’s story before moving off. Rourke had warned him it would be damning, and it was. There was a boxed front-page editorial on declining moral standards in the city, the inescapability of corruption in an atmosphere where everybody, presumably with the exception of newspaper publishers, was out for the fast buck. The only remedy suggested was continued vigilance and reform in the system of allotting racing dates. Perhaps four dog tracks in one metropolitan area were too many. The sports page carried a statement by the ex-sports editor, Wanamaker, admitting that he had been guilty of bad judgment in accepting gifts and hospitality from Mr. Geary, but denying that this had affected in any way the paper’s coverage of the sport. Another story described in detail the Surfside security system, the twenty trained security guards, the closed-circuit TV, the tattoos, the two-hour quarantine and the postrace testing by trained veterinarians. Whatever money had passed between the late Max Geary and those on his secret payroll, the public could rest assured that when the dogs sprang out of the starting box, all eight of them sincerely wanted to overtake and devour that synthetic rabbit.
Shayne tore out the list of Geary’s payees and studied it again at dinner. He ate without hurrying, but also without being aware of what he was eating.
The “full” signs were up in Surfside’s own parking lots, and Shayne had to park well to the south of the track, near Harding Park, and walk back. Geary would have been pleased by the turnout. As Shayne paid his way in, the greyhounds were being called onto the track for the third race. The floor was already littered with a drift of uncashed tickets. A covered stage had been erected across from the grandstand, a little off-center so it wouldn’t block the view of the board, which was draped with black bunting. Above the morning-line odds for the next race, lights said: “Surfside Kennel Club Honors the Memory of a Great Sportsman.”
Shayne bought a program and opened it to the page listing the Surfside officials, from Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Geary, Owners, through the racing secretary and safety director and director of mutuels, the judges and chief clerks, down to the announcer and lure operator and kennelmaster. There was another list of state racing officials, under the Board of Wagering and the Board of Business Regulation. Shayne compared the names with those he had torn out of the News, and found little overlap.
When Surfside was expanded and modernized some years before, to meet the competition of the new tracks across the bay, a huge inside auditorium, the Hall of the Greyhound, had been added, with a theater-sized screen and twenty smaller TV screens along both walls. Here, in chilly weather, bettors could eat and drink at one of the many bars and snack bars, place their bets and watch the races without ever seeing a living dog. Even tonight, with the temperature in the high sixties, there were more customers in the auditorium than in the grandstand or clubhouse. On the innumerable monitors, the speakers scheduled to eulogize Max Geary were about to take their places. Several of the promised dignitaries, including the Senator, had discovered engagements that kept them elsewhere. Here in the murky auditorium, few people were paying attention. The betting windows were closed for the time being, but with eight races left on the program, there was much work to be done.
Shayne went through to the escalators, passing a sign saying, “No Public Admittance Beyond This Point.” The executive offices and racing control were on a long suspended deck, hung from the grandstand roof. The front wall was almost all window, a long double-pane strip starting a foot above floor level and ending at the ceiling. No one was using Geary’s office. Leaving the door slightly ajar, Shayne turned down the volume on the public address outlet so he could hear anyone approaching, and went past the desk. The closed-circuit monitor was set on automatic, clicking from one location to another every twenty seconds. There was a two-drawer file, locked. On the other side of the track, a rabbi was in the midst of the opening prayer. Finding nothing of interest, Shayne moved on.
In the main control room, the lure operator was leaning forward, arms folded, over the long arm of the notched rheostat. The track announcer glanced around as Shayne looked in. Recognizing Shayne, he brought the front legs of his chair down with a thump. The TV technician and the chart writer, young men with nearly identical drooping mustaches, were laughing about something. The laughs faded instantly.
All twelve closed-circuit screens on the big console were working. Nothing was moving in the lockup kennel. A few late arrivals were still clicking through the turnstiles. Lines of impatient bettors had already formed at the sellers’ windows.
Shayne nodded and passed on.
He caused a similar stir in the judges’ box. There were six men here. He recognized none of them. If they hadn’t watched Painter’s press conference, in which Shayne’s name had figured prominently, they had seen clips of it later. Quick looks were exchanged. What was Shayne, the recipient of $80,000, doing here?
Shayne moved on to the VIP lounge. This was a big room, comfortably furnished, with its own bar and serving pantry. Tonight, of course, it had been used by the dignitaries now on the infield platform. The TV monitor showed the same scene that could be watched by looking out of the windows, but the sound was choked down to a whisper. The rabbi’s prayer was finished at last, and his place at the mike was taken by an official of the Dog Racing Association. Shayne found that the bar stocked his brand of cognac, and he poured himself a shot. He looked at the dog pictures on the wall, and was at the big window, drinking, when the door opened behind him and one of the men from the judges’ group came in. He was breathing rapidly, as though he had come a much longer distance.
“I need a drink. I can’t listen to that crap.”
He had a manila envelope under one arm. He put it on the bar while he poured whiskey, and when he sat down, laid it on the couch beside him. Behind dark-rimmed glasses, he blinked continually.
“I don’t know if this was such a hell of a good idea, Shayne, showing up tonight, but if you want to know something, I was thinking about calling you.”
“I don’t place you,” Shayne said.
“I’m Lou Liebler. And I don’t mind telling you, I’m getting a little edgy.”
“We all are,” Shayne said. “Max surprised a few people. There are some things that shouldn’t be put in writing. What was he trying to prove?”
“I can’t figure that one out.”
He drank, put the glass down, touched the envelope, scratched under his jaw, and reached for the glass again. If he had been any more nervous, he would have been flying.
“Liebler, sure,” Shayne said, remembering the name from the program. “You’re here looking after the interests of the State of Florida.”
“Correct. And when the state’s interests clash with my interests, I try to work out a compromise. Do you want to give me a general statement of where things stand at this point?”
Shayne studied his cognac. When he was satisfied with
it, he drank.
“The difference is,” he said carefully, “people are going to be watching now. Changes have to be made. New shares all around.”
“Ouch. Well, I won’t say we didn’t expect it.” Liebler gestured at the monitor, on which a fat TV comedian, very much in earnest, was extolling Max Geary’s selflessness by citing the charity drives he had headed, as well as many small, unpublicized acts of kindness and generosity. “Not all that generous, I didn’t think. But without that big piece off the top, Max’s piece, there’s going to be more for everybody.”
“We don’t want to get involved in a war.”
“I’ll go along on that,” Liebler said, his eyes jumping from Shayne to the monitor, and then back to Shayne. “I’m a confirmed pacifist. At the same time, I know what I’m entitled to.”
The most interesting thing about this conversation so far was that Liebler’s name hadn’t been one of the ones in Geary’s book. Painter had identified only one name from the Wagering Board.
“What about Wolf?” Shayne said. “Is he going to be reasonable?”
“I wouldn’t like to be the one to put it to him, but he must be shaking and shivering today. Frankly, I was surprised at the size of his number.”
“Didn’t he have this job before you?”
Liebler gave him a quick look, which might have been slightly tinged with suspicion. “Al Wolf. Yeah. And when his transfer came through, he recommended me to replace him. For which I couldn’t thank him enough.”
“Can he hack the publicity?”
“I don’t see why not, if he keeps his mouth shut.”
Again Shayne thought about what he was going to say before he said it. “That’s what I wanted to check up on. If Painter had anything else to go with that little black book, he wouldn’t be handling it this way. He’d be after indictments. He’s hoping to get the hysteria going, so somebody’ll panic and they can turn him around.”
“Ah-ha,” Liebler said, relieved. “That explains why you didn’t want to postpone this conversation. If you’re worried about me, don’t be. Painter? He doesn’t impress me. Definitely bush.”
“Can we count on—you know who I mean, I always forget his name—”
“Fitz?” That would be Fitzhugh, the racing secretary. “He’s all right. He did say something about grabbing the next plane for Costa Rica”—Liebler laughed—“but I talked him out of it.”
Shayne finished his cognac, and went for more. As he passed the couch, he picked up Liebler’s envelope. The tax man stabbed after it, but Shayne moved it out of reach.
“What’s so important it had to come with you?”
“Hell, Mike. You know—it’s understandable.”
Shayne opened the envelope at the bar. It contained a diagram of the wiring in the auditorium and the control deck, and three minute-to-minute timetables, each starting at 7:30, when the betting machines opened. “Seven-thirty, restaurant. Seven-fifty, john. Seven-fifty-three, PR. Eight-o-six, phone, main level. Eight-ten, bar. Eight-sixteen, TV lounge, moving about. Eight-thirty-six, control room, outgoing phone call, monitor switches. Eight-forty-one, own office. Eight-forty-three, Fitz’s.”
“Do you blame me?” Liebler said. “Every day that goes by, we’re losing money. Max probably thought he was justified to keep it to himself, but damn it, there are times when you need a little mutual trust. I’m not trying to move in and take over. Don’t get that idea. It just occurred to me there was one weakness in the setup. A beautiful thing otherwise, but if anything happened to Max, the cash flow would dry up overnight. And he was drunk most of the time at the end. Drunks get careless.”
Shayne returned the papers to the envelope and tossed it back to Liebler. “What happened to the Tuesday money?”
“He had it in his dispatch case, six thousand, thereabouts. Burned up, more than likely.”
Shayne brought the cognac back. “Now I’m going to ask you to be patient a little longer, Lou. Let the dust settle.”
“I’m in agreement, but… Fitz is worried about the widow. If she sells, that’s it, and what’s to keep her from selling?”
“Selling what, the track?”
“Haven’t you heard that Harry Zell wants to put a hotel here?”
“That deal’s been hanging fire for years.”
“Because Max kept turning it down, and he can’t turn it down when he’s dead. All right, it wouldn’t be finalized until the end of the meeting. Twenty-one racing days left. We ought to be taking advantage. I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking in terms of my old age. Twenty-one days. Put that in utility bonds, and it’d be a nice thing to tack onto the pension.”
“I want to enjoy my old age as much as you do, Lou. I don’t want to be in jail or dead.”
Liebler started. “In jail—well, that’s a chance you take, but where does dead come into it?”
“Lou, you’re naive.”
“Keeping just to me, personally, I’m essential. It can’t be worked without me.”
Shayne laughed. “All over the state they’re reading that story, and everybody’s going to get the same idea. If the Surfside pad is that big, I want to get on it. You can’t really think there’s nobody else in the civil service who would like this assignment. I’m not trying to lean on you. Maybe you really are as trustworthy as you say you are.”
“Geary investigated me thoroughly. Did he ever have any complaints?”
“He considered you a replaceable part. When I said we were going to make reallocations, I didn’t mean you’d be cut. But don’t get any ideas about taking more than your share.”
“I’m satisfied,” Liebler assured him. “But the point I’m making, who can be satisfied with zero? I just want to get functioning again.”
“I’m hesitating,” Shayne said, “and I’ll tell you why. Painter didn’t announce the full list. Tony Castle is on it.”
“Who?”
“Castle. That shows you’re new in Miami. He used to consider this his town, and people who disagreed with him sometimes ended up with their heads and their bodies in different canals. If Castle is in on this, it’s smart to go slow.”
“I don’t see what you mean. What role would he play?”
“That’s what I’m hoping to find out. He has a casino in Nassau, and he gets along so well with the authorities there that he likes to stay put. He wouldn’t be part of a Miami deal unless the money was very good.”
“Nassau?” Liebler said thoughtfully. “I heard that’s where the money came from for the renovations.”
“The theater?”
“The whole thing. They stripped everything out and started with the shell.” He looked more closely at the TV monitor. “That guy up there now, waving his arms. He’s one of the ones wouldn’t loan Max a dime. A mortgage? Don’t be stupid. Surfside’s not making any money, so how would you pay it back?”
“I don’t like surprises,” Shayne said. “I didn’t know Castle was getting these payments, and I don’t know how he’s likely to react now that they’ve stopped. He doesn’t know his name was in the book. He may think it’s safe to come back with a few friends. With guns. You want to get back to normal. So do I. The sooner I get a clear picture, the sooner it’s going to happen. So work on it, Lou. Don’t stick your neck out, but ask around. I want everything you can get on his financing. Will Wolf talk to you?”
“He may be too scared.”
“Try him. One other thing. The beating that put Geary in the hospital. I can’t ignore that. The nurse sounded a little too goddamn believable. Check the dates. Anything you can give me about what was going on at the time, so I can have at least a half-assed alternative.”
Liebler was nodding. “I’ll get on it. I wouldn’t be feeling this pressure if I didn’t have a horrible hunch that the track’s going to be sold out from under us any minute. Mike—the daughter, Linda. She’s the one who’s been pushing the sale. Charlotte, the widow, I get the impression she’ll go with the strongest wind. Here’s what I wa
s thinking. Strictly from the point of view of a return on invested capital, keeping the track open doesn’t make sense. But if you went to Linda and said, ‘Look, there’s more money here than shows on the books, and it’s the best kind, the kind you don’t pay taxes on.’ I couldn’t do it, but maybe you could, you don’t have that much to lose. And if you want to get started right away, you’ll find her in the clubhouse bar, unless I’m mistaken. She wouldn’t take part in the ceremony, but she wouldn’t stay home and miss it. She’s a character. Doesn’t have many dates, if you know what I mean.”
Shayne looked at him, and he said hurriedly, “Don’t get sore. Just trying to contribute. All I’m saying, she might listen to you. I didn’t say you had to go to bed with her. When she starts talking about money, which she’s sure to, tell her there are other kinds of money besides Harry Zell’s. Those big sums in her Daddy’s book—where did they come from? Not out of general admissions, that’s for damn sure.”
On the TV monitor, the speakers were changing. Liebler kept touching his empty glass, then quickly withdrawing his hand, as though it had burned him. He had apparently decided not to allow himself any more whiskey.
Chapter 6
It cost more to get into the clubhouse than the grandstand, but compared to competing forms of entertainment, the price was still low. Drinks were a dime more, and the seats were more comfortable. There was a window selling $100 wheels and boxes.
When the bartender brought Shayne the drink he had ordered, Shayne said, “Linda Geary. Can you point her out to me?”
Million Dollar Handle Page 5