Tickets for Death

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Michael Shayne sat with his shoulders hunched over the bar at Joe’s Joint in downtown Miami, his gray eyes flickering over the crowd with morose disinterest while one big hand warmed a glass of cognac. When Timothy Rourke came toward him with a broad grin, Shayne nodded to Joe. “Set out the bottle and another glass.”

The proprietor set a bottle and a two-ounce glass on the bar. Shayne cuddled his larger glass defensively as Tim Rourke flung a long leg over the stool and sat beside him.

Rourke said, “Damned if you haven’t got a sweet graft, Mike. I’ve been trailing you from one bar to another for the last two hours.” He filled his glass and emptied it, poured himself a second.

Shayne rumpled his coarse red hair with long knobby fingers, then shoved the bottle beyond Rourke’s reach. He said, “I’m not working today,” sipping lazily from his wineglass. “What are you trailing me for?”

Rourke folded his arms and relaxed against the bar. “Just a messenger boy, believe it or not. Since you got married your dames come to me when they want to get serviced.”

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