“And he’s the man who always claimed he worked best with a couple of pints in him.”
Rourke’s keen eyes bored into Shayne’s slumped body. “Funny thing is,” he said slowly, “he always has.” A note of speculation sounded in the newshound’s voice. “If he was going on a bat I’d have thought he’d wait until the election returns were in. He’s got a heavy stake in Marsh’s winning.”
“As far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a damn,” Gentry put in sourly. He started toward the kitchen with a heavy tread. “I’ll take a look around before I go.”
Shayne’s head came up with a violent jerk. “Hey! Whatcha want in there? I’ll fix a drink if thass what you want.” He came to his feet waveringly, steadying himself with one hand on the table.
“Save the drinks for yourself,” Gentry growled, continuing into the kitchen. “I just want to make sure you haven’t slapped Phyllis down. When a guy like you gets drunk there’s no telling what he’ll do.”
A cunning leer spread over Shayne’s rugged, unhandsome features. He mumbled, “Wheresh your shearch warrant? You can’t shearch a man’s housh ’thout shearch warrant. ’Shnot legal. Man’s housh hish cashtle.”
Gentry deigned no reply as he emerged from the kitchen. He glanced into the bathroom on his way to the bedroom door.
Shayne staggered forward and got in his way before he reached the door. He put a bony hand on Gentry’s chest with his weight behind it. “’Shnot legal,” he reiterated. “Man’s private affairs hish own bishness.”
“Get out of my way,” Gentry roared. Thoroughly angered, the chief knocked Shayne’s restraining hand aside. He opened the door of the bedroom and looked in, then drew back with a black scowl on his heavy face. He turned a look of loathing on the redhead and muttered, “So, that’s what the score is.”
Shayne grinned and waggled his head from side to side. “Tol’ you not to — not to look in.”