Rourke hesitated, then changed his mind about protesting and went out. Rourke had seen that ruthless look of driving intensity in Michael Shayne’s eyes before. It always preceded a feat of wizardry — and headlines.
Shayne was waiting by the curb when Rourke pulled up almost half an hour later. He jumped in beside the reporter. “Did you get it, Tim?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. Alonzo Hiatt and Jim Sprague are waiting for you in your apartment. They’ve drunk all your whisky and started on the gin.”
“That’s not gin.” Shayne grinned. “It’s pure grain alcohol. Maybe they’ll get in a festive mood and invite the whole force up.”
“Where to now?” Rourke inquired.
“To the Beach.”
“The Beach? Damn you, Mike, Painter’s got the causeways blocked.”
“He’s not stopping cars going to the Beach.”
“Maybe not.” Rourke shrugged and turned the car southward. “It’s your neck.”
“I’ll hunch down in the back until you’ve passed the barricade,” Shayne said as the reporter turned onto the causeway. He climbed over the seat and folded his long body uncomfortably on the floor as Rourke sped onward, regretting that the human body was possessed of only two possible folding points.