The Violent World of Michael Shayne by Brett Halliday

with a safety clasp, strapped on at an angle so the gun would resist a pull from anyone but its rightful owner. Shayne reached through the window and slapped him on the temple with the blackjack. He sagged forward against the wheel.
    “Where’s the Buick?”
    Curt glanced along the street. “Let’s talk about this,” he said in a strained voice.
    “Why should I talk to you when I can talk to your boss?”
    “I can make you a good offer. Violence won’t get us anywhere.”
    “What made you change your mind?” Shayne signaled to the girl. “Get out, Cheryl. And don’t try to run. I think I could catch you, but I’d have to blackjack your friend here first.”
    “He’s no friend of mine,” she said coldly. She opened the door and came around the car. “I’ll say somebody made a mistake. That was a pretty good drunk act. The only thing wrong was that kiss.”
    “I didn’t have my mind on it, Cheryl,” Shayne said, opening the Ford’s front door.
    “Well, sometime when you’re able to give it your undivided attention—”
    Shayne worked the unconscious gunman into position so he could pull his fangs. The gun was a short-barreled .38. Shayne dropped it into his side pocket.
    “I wish I could trust somebody to get the Buick,” he said, “but for some reason I don’t think I can. You two are going to have to carry him. Be careful of his arm. You don’t want to compound that fracture.”
    Curt looked in at the limp figure. “He must weigh about one-ninety. I don’t think we can.”
    “Try,” Shayne suggested.
    Curt pulled the injured man to the edge of the seat. He returned to consciousness suddenly with a long moan.
    “Does it hurt?” Curt said without sympathy. “It wouldn’t have happened if you’d been quicker with the sap, would it? We’re going for a short walk, Shayne tells us. Cooperate.”
    Morrie protested, making a cradle of his left arm to support his broken right. Curt wrestled him out of the door and then Shayne moved the Ford back to the street and parked parallel to the curb. Curt and the girl walked Morrie toward the Buick, all three huddled together with the gunman whimpering between them. Reaching the bigger car, Curt opened the back door and Morrie fell in on the floor.
    “Don’t pass out yet,” the redhead said. “I want to see what else you’ve got in your pockets.”
    Morrie rolled on one hip, and Shayne took a thick wallet from his buttoned back pocket. There was nothing of interest in the other pockets except a half-dozen loose rounds for the .38. Shayne took those, while Morrie groaned and pleaded for a doctor.
    “Nobody ever died of a broken arm,” Shayne said. “You’re next, Curt.”
    “Seriously,” Curt said. “He wasn’t supposed to chill you, just tap you so you’d sit quiet and listen.”
    “But he got carried away,” Shayne said.
    “The man’s a moron, but he’s the best I could do on short notice. I want to persuade you to go back to Miami, Shayne. Tell me how much they’re paying you and I’ll double it.”
    A car went by without slackening speed.
    “You don’t want cops,” Shayne said, “and neither do I, so let’s see how fast we can mop this up. Dump everything out on the hood.”
    “Shayne—”
    “Will you shut up? I’m tired.”
    He stuck the blackjack in his belt and began looking through their wallets. Curt, he found, was carrying over two thousand dollars in large bills. His last name was Rebman, and his address in the identification window was a hotel in Houston, Texas. In case of an accident, such as the one he was now having, notification was to be made to the Manners Aerosystems Co. Morrie, on the other hand, wanted his mother notified; she too lived in Houston.
    “You’ll need it in cash,” Curt said, refusing to believe that he couldn’t reach Shayne if he named a large enough figure. “Take what I’ve got there as a down payment. Another two or three thousand would be no problem at all. And all you have to do