Lady, Be Bad

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Michael Shayne joined the line of passengers disembarking from the 707. Tall, red-haired, powerfully built, he was a conspicuous figure among the downstate lawyers and businessmen who were gathering in Tallahassee in the hope of influencing the state legislature in the final days of its biennial session. Like most of the others, Shayne carried a cowhide dispatch case, but his contained two flat pints of Martell’s cognac, a.38-caliber automatic and a dozen rounds of loose ammunition.

A pretty dark-haired girl waved from the open door of a helicopter. Her name was Jackie Wales. She wore black-rimmed glasses and looked trim and competent. Shayne had been a good friend of her husband, a heavy-drinking Miami public-relations man, who had finally decided that drinking was the only thing he really liked to do, and had started doing it around-the-clock. The result was bad debts, an occasional fight in a bar, other girls, a divorce. Jackie took over the dying agency and tried to bring it back. The second year she broke even. Now she was edging into the black, and beginning to repay some of the money Shayne had loaned her.

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