The Violent World of Michael Shayne

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The big fish broke water less than ten yards from the boat. After battling Michael Shayne for half an hour, it had begun to weaken. Shaking its head in a vain attempt to dislodge the hook, it twisted in the air and went under. The redheaded private detective spun the reel, his shoulder muscles rippling under his T-shirt. Totally absorbed in what he was doing, forgetting the problems and frustrations of the past forty-eight hours, he worked the fish in close enough for Captain Prideaux to reach it with the gaff. Together they brought it on board.

“It’s a big one, Mike,” Prideaux said.

“Yeah,” Shayne said happily, stretching.

“Bait up again. There are plenty of nice sailfish left out there. And why not use a barb this time?”

“One’s enough, Jean. Let’s go home.”

He hung the rod carefully on its brackets, then picked up the cognac bottle and kicked a canvas chair around to face the rail. Maybe he could get some sleep on the way in.

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