Million Dollar Handle

by Brett Halliday

  “Who else is in it?”

  “One pro from up North, who happened to be here on vacation, and one local. I know what he looks like, but that’s all. I guess he’s good. He came recommended.”

  “I’m changing our arrangements, Soupy. I’ll give you that thousand at midnight tonight. Of course to do that I have to be in a condition to count money. Come up to Surfside an hour before post time. Buy a grandstand admission, and wait near the ten-dollar windows in the main hall.”

  The next time Rourke checked in, Shayne told him to keep his head down until after the six o’clock news, then to come to Surfside, pick up Soupy Simpson at the betting windows, and bring him upstairs to the VIP lounge.

  “Simpson, Mike? I hope you don’t think you can trust him?”

  “I’ve got him sewed up, I think, unless they hear about it and outbid me. Be careful with him. People are going to be watching for me to show up, and I don’t want them to know I’m already here.”

  “Anything more on Frieda?”

  “I bought some time. Hell, he runs a casino. He won’t do anything on impulse. He’ll make the percentage move.”

  “I sincerely hope so.”

  With difficulty, Shayne restrained himself from slamming the phone down. “It’s going to be a tough couple of hours. You can help by keeping your ideas to yourself.”

  When six o’clock arrived, Shayne watched the local news with the sound down to a whisper. His press conference announcement was the night’s top story. Without waiting for the remainder of the news, he called Painter. The little chief of detectives was sputtering.

  “Press conference! I’m the one who should be calling the press conferences.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Shayne said. “We can do it together. You keep telling me I ought to cooperate more. It’s finally beginning to dawn on me that maybe you’ve got something.”

  “Over your depth this time, are you?” Painter said with satisfaction. “I knew the day would come. But cooperation is a two-way street. Give me a little preview.”

  “You deserve that, Petey. I have a tape for you. It’s a conversation between Mrs. Charlotte Geary and a Cuban who works in the Surfside kennel. They discuss the fixing of dog races, and the death of Max Geary. Apparently the second car in the accident belonged to the Cuban. He and Mrs. Geary have been having a clandestine affair.”

  “Now you’re giving me news I like to hear.”

  “But I want to remind you that no defense lawyer would let this tape be played to a jury. A deposition is mentioned. The person who made it is dead, and the deposition has disappeared. But don’t be discouraged. I’m trying to get some corroboration. I think I can do it if you keep to a timetable I’m going to give you.”

  “Cracking the whip, as usual. How you love it.”

  “I have to use the whip on you, Petey. It’s the only way I can get you to move. The timing on this is important. You recognize my car. It’ll be parked in Max Geary’s slot in the executive parking strip outside the Surfside clubhouse entrance at eight-fifteen. Don’t look for it before then because it won’t be there. I’ll have somebody in the front seat to play the tape for you. There’s enough there to justify an arrest, but let them run the International Classic first. That will be over at eight-forty. Don’t wait longer than that, or our guy may run. He’ll be working in the lockup kennel. He may have somebody with him, or maybe not, but the thing to do is bust everybody you find in the kennel. Then tell the security man not to admit anybody else, including the racing secretary, the owner or any of the state officials. He’s probably an off-duty detective—most of them are—but if there’s any doubt about it, leave your own man there. I want to emphasize this. I don’t want anybody in that kennel to interfere with the dogs or destroy evidence. This is important.”

  “Give me credit for some sense,” Painter said irritably. “This is going to interrupt the racing. The customers won’t like that.”

  “I’ll try to think of a way to keep them entertained. I’m hoping the first arrest will start things unraveling. We have to play it by ear.”

  “You want me to commit myself publicly, in front of ten thousand people, most of them voters, and after that you’ll play it by ear? Not good enough, Shayne. You want me to go in there blindfolded, while you control the spotlight. The rationale of a press conference is that you make an opening statement and open yourself up to questions. What is this statement going to contain? After you tell me that—right now—I may have some questions for you myself.”

  “The press conference is a bluff, Petey. I didn’t expect you to be smart enough to spot it so soon. I don’t have anything yet except that taped conversation. But the guy I’m after doesn’t know that. I’m hoping to force him to make a move.”

  “The guy you’re after. Are you going to break down and give me his name?”

  “Didn’t I already tell you? Tony Castle. He shouldn’t be here in Miami, but he is. Bring as many men as you like. We can use them.”

  Painter still wanted to be told more. Shayne explained, patiently, that there was little else he could tell him now. If at any time Painter thought he was being double-shuffled, he could call his men together and leave, and see it replayed on TV the following morning. With the inevitable misunderstandings and repetitions, all this took twenty minutes, but Shayne didn’t rush it, knowing that after he hung up there would be nothing to do but wait.

  Chapter 17

  He heard Rourke’s voice at the door saying cautiously, “Mike?”

  Moving the painter’s ladder, Shayne let them in. Simpson was as loose as a puppet, in the relaxed phase of his twice-daily cycle.

  “Still alive, I’m glad to see,” he said approvingly. “And do stay that way, Mike.”

  “If I live through the next couple of hours I should make it,” Shayne said.

  “I had a quick call from Ha-Ha. He only had time for one word—Surfside. So I want you to stay right in this room, Mike, and keep away from the window.”

  “I may have to do some moving around. I want you to spot them for me.”

  “Mike, I’d rather not do that, if you don’t mind. I like it better behind the scenes.”

  “We’re going to be using closed circuit,” Shayne said. “Dave, time to go to work.”

  Dave, the electronics technician, was on the couch, leafing through Playboy. He stood up, yawning and scratching.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mike. What do we do when the Surfside people don’t want to let me take over their console?”

  “We reason with them,” Shayne said. He took the .38 out of his belt holster, checked the cylinder, and shifted it to his sling.

  “Oh, God,” Soupy moaned. “I didn’t know I was getting involved in anything like this.”

  “Think of money, Soupy.”

  He led the way to the master control room, passing the judges’ box. Lou Liebler was lighting a cigarette when he looked around and saw Shayne. He nearly set fire to his eyebrows.

  “Say—Mike. Got a minute?”

  Shayne made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. “Everything under control, Lou. Talk to you later.”

  The console engineer had just arrived, and was arranging his working aids: cigarettes, crackers, cheese, a bottle of Gatoraid and a paperback mystery. He looked around.

  “And who is this bearded gnome? Dave? Welcome aboard. Now you can find out how a professional works.”

  “We seem to be hijacking your dog track,” Dave said apologetically, “so move over.”

  “Hijacking,” Shayne said from behind him. “That’s too strong a word. We’re just going to add a few touches. Still, you heard him. Move over.”

  The technician started to get up as Tim Rourke and Soupy pushed in. “Who are you people? Who authorized this?”

  “I didn’t know who to ask,” Shayne said. “Do you know what I mean by a citizen’s arrest? A citizen sees a crime being committed, and instead of ducking he steps up and arrests the guy, and if he’s lucky he
doesn’t get his head shot off. We have reason to believe that crimes of a serious nature are being committed here. Watch the kennel monitor for a minute.”

  The technician looked from face to face, then at the bank of closed-circuit screens. All of them were alight, and most of them busy. He swung around at once. “Somebody switched locations!”

  “Dave and I did that,” Shayne said, “but the kennel people don’t know we’re getting a new angle.”

  The screen showing the interior of the kennel was crosshatched with lines. This was the ventilator grill, concealing the second camera. Amateur handicappers were already gathering behind the glass on the clubhouse side. That entire wall was glass, to convince the bettors that Surfside had nothing to hide. The wide-angle lens distorted dimensions, and when Sanchez walked in front of the hidden camera he seemed to be lopsided and moving with a slight list.

  “Keep watching,” Shayne said. “Soupy, slide in here.”

  Two of the pictures showed the main turnstiles, a third the corridor to the clubhouse escalators. Early arrivals were beginning to dribble through.

  “Concentrate,” Shayne said. “For every one you spot there’s an additional hundred bucks.”

  The track’s safety director, a squat Italian named Lou D’Alessio, came blasting in.

  “What, may I ask—”

  The engineer watching the monitors said suddenly, “Lou, take a look at this.”

  In the kennel picture, Sanchez was facing the hidden camera, looking down at something in his hand. The hand was screened from the watchers outside, and also from the regular closed-circuit pickup, which had been cut off and was no longer transmitting. As he changed position, they could see he had a small hypodermic syringe.

  “Tape it,” Shayne said.

  D’Alessio pushed closer. “What’s the bastard think he’s doing?”

  Sanchez reached into one of the cages, as if to check the dog’s identifying tattoo. Injecting the medication took only an instant. The syringe was hidden in his fist when he closed the cage and moved on.

  Dave reversed the tape and replayed it. “We didn’t get the needle.”

  “Be ready for it the next time,” Shayne said.

  The safety director turned. “This is very, very serious. You don’t know how serious this is. That dog is in the Classic.”

  Shayne blocked him. “Leave him alone for now. Somebody has to handle the dogs.”

  “You don’t understand. He’s fixing the Classic. People are going to be betting on that race.”

  “And most of them, as always, are going to get screwed. Let’s stay calm and quiet and see what else happens.”

  “I’m responsible for security at this track.”

  “You’ve been doing a lousy job at it. Soupy’s looking for three gunmen. Let’s lower our voices. We don’t want to distract him.”

  D’Alessio growled. As he pushed forward, with an arm raised, Shayne went beneath the arm and caught him about the chest.

  “Soupy, he’s carrying a gun. Get it, will you?”

  “Me?”

  “You’re nearest. It won’t bite you.”

  Shayne could feel the excited ticking of D’Alessio’s heart. He let him go after Soupy reached in and pulled his gun.

  “You’ve been busy with pickpockets and breaking up fights,” Shayne said. “Your security here is a joke, except that I wasn’t laughing when one of your uniforms shot at me a couple of nights ago, in the middle of a crowd. I can’t be objective about that, but I’ll try to overlook it if you’ll keep out of our way. Under the counter would be a good place.”

  “You don’t mean it. I’ve got too much to do.”

  “I mean it. This is an outside audit. We don’t know who’s involved and who isn’t.”

  The announcer arrived next, a leathery-faced person who had been calling dog races since adolescence. He was surprised to see the crowd, and more surprised to see D’Alessio on the floor, knees under his chin.

  “Lou? What are you doing down there?”

  “Resting, what do you think I’m doing? Making myself promises.”

  “Well,” the announcer said, looking around, “I’m going to need some elbowroom. I’ve got to familiarize myself with the dogs.”

  They rearranged themselves, and he squeezed in. Shayne ended up at the windows, and Rourke passed him a pair of binoculars. They were at the end of the suspended deck, and through a window in the side wall he could look into the paddock and see the loading dock on the far side of the lockup kennel. Wagons from the contract kennels were parked in a separate enclosure. Beneath, he could see all of the clubhouse and three-fifths of the grandstand.

  “Soupy, any luck?”

  “Mike, I’m beginning to see spots, not people. Ha-Ha has his hair in a ponytail—he ought to be easy. But I haven’t seen him. Beach detectives, though, the whole bunch is here. And there’s my good friend Peter Asshole Painter.”

  Shayne checked the screen. The inward flow was increasing. He saw the chief of detectives talking to one of his plainclothesmen near the turnstiles. He moved away, and Shayne followed him onto the next screen. Dave’s changes had disturbed the sequence, so when Painter left that picture in the top row, he appeared next in one along the bottom. He went to the kennel and joined the group looking in.

  Dave, behind Shayne, grunted. “Yes, yes, stick it in him.”

  After a moment he moved to the viewing window and reran the tape he had just made. “Got the needle this time, Mike. Nice and clear.”

  The grandstand was filling up. Soupy leaned forward on his hands, his eyes skittering from screen to screen. Thinking he saw one of the three men, he followed the figure off the screens into the clubhouse. Using Shayne’s binoculars, he picked him up as he came into the bar area.

  He shook his head. “A ponytail, but not Ha-Ha.”

  Rourke and Shayne exchanged a look. “So many ifs in this thing,” Rourke said. “If that press conference announcement spooked Tony and he went back to Nassau—”

  “That wouldn’t be masculine. Then I could tell people I drove him out of Miami twice. No, they’ve got to be here. If we don’t locate them I’ll get up on the stage and let them take a crack at me. Painter’s men and Lou’s men can cover the exits.”

  D’Alessio heard that. “If you think I’m going to do anything helpful you’re crazy.”

  Time passed. Shayne kept track of Painter. When he stopped near one of the security phones, Shayne looked up the number on the Centrex card and dialed. Painter looked to see who else was nearby. When the phone beside him went on ringing he picked it up.

  “Shayne! Why do I always say yes to these things? This isn’t police work, it’s amateur night. I’ve got sixteen men here, and damn it to hell, I shouldn’t have done it. I feel like a damn fool. If this is a diversion, to collect the police in one place so you can pull something somewhere else—”

  “It’s not that,” Shayne said, “but I told you I can’t guarantee anything. I want to make a small change. We haven’t spotted our guys yet, and I’m beginning to wonder if they’re outside looking for my car. What did I tell you, eight-fifteen? Move it up half an hour. I’m parked down from the Deauville. You can be back in plenty of time for the Classic.”

  Painter’s face didn’t show in the monitor, but from the way he was standing, it was clear that he was examining the changed instructions for hidden explosives.

  “I’ve gone this far,” he said finally, “might as well go the one extra step. But if this doesn’t work out, you’d better take a long airplane trip and forget to come back.”

  The announcer was calling the daily double, the evening’s first opportunity for a big-number payoff. The dozens of small screens around the track, and the full-size one in the theater, showed the morning line odds. When the windows opened to receive actual bets, the numbers began to change. Jerome Kern tunes came from the loudspeakers. The big clock on the tote board continued to move forward.

  Soupy said, “Got to take a bre
ak. My eyeballs are falling out. I don’t suppose you guys have anything stronger than cigarettes?—No, I didn’t think so.”

  The leadout boys, having given their dogs a second weighing, were bringing them into the paddock. Sanchez walked to the rail, where he coughed into his fist. Shayne lowered the binoculars, thinking.

  When the race started, nobody in the control room except the caller looked at the dogs. Soupy was moving from screen to screen. Dave, with the Surfside engineer at his elbow, monitored the film patrol screens, sending the action out through the main feed and simultaneously into the video box for taping. Shayne, at the window, was combing the clubhouse, looking for people who, like himself, were looking at the crowd, not at the race.

  Painter gathered three men, and Shayne followed them off the screen. When they returned, three races later, Painter was walking with more purpose, swinging his arms. With an extra fanfare, the dogs for the big International race were about to be paraded. Sanchez appeared, an unlighted cigarette between his lips. This time, instead of watching Sanchez, Shayne was searching the grandstand, looking for a pair of binoculars trained on the paddock.

  “Got him,” he said. “Tim, come here. Four aisles from the end, up about twelve, thirteen rows. A black in a big white cap.”

  “I see him.”

  The first dog reached the marshal and was announced. The black put his binoculars away.

  Shayne emptied his wallet. “Get downstairs fast and pick him up when he comes in. Get in line with him and bet the same number.” He looked around. “Anybody else want to get in on this?”

  Soupy groaned. “Just my luck, you catch me with a couple of fives.”

  Dave threw in two hundred.

  “Lou?” Shayne asked the safety chief. D’Alessio snapped, “You not only want me to be party to a fix, you want to rope me in on it. Some ethical sense you’ve got there.”

  Rourke went out, counting bills. Shayne watched the white cap move to the crosswalk. On the betting room monitor, Rourke materialized beside him and slipped into the same $100 Win line. The black remained at the window longer than most, but Rourke was able to get his money down before the bell clanged. He was back in the control room, blowing, as the dogs hit the first turn.