Shoot to Kill

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Michael Shayne said, “No,” flatly and without emphasis, but with utter finality. He rumpled his red hair with the knobby fingers of his left hand and looked almost wonderingly across the scarred table at his oldest and closest friend in Miami. “For God’s sake, Tim,” he went on in a voice that patently strove to be reasonable, “I’m not a psychiatrist or marriage counsellor.”

“I know,” said Timothy Rourke bitterly. “You’re a detective and you get paid for solving murders, so why should you be interested in preventing one? But goddamn it, Mike, I wish you’d listen to me. After Ralph spilled his guts to me last night I’m going to feel responsible if I don’t do something.”

“You do the something,” said Shayne, keeping his voice indulgent and reasonable. “It certainly is none of my affair.” He leaned back in the booth at the rear of Joe’s Bar and lifted the sidecar in front of him and took an appreciative sip.

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