Shayne took out his wallet and handed her a sheaf of bills. “Here, go pick out a blanket and wrap it around you. You’re all wet.”
“But — I want you to help me select one, Michael,” she urged.
“Not me,” he said emphatically. “I wouldn’t tackle that mob for forty Indian blankets.”
He grinned and watched her eel her way through, murmuring apologies, then turned to stare through the plate-glass window. Rain fell in wind-driven sheets. The steep street and gutters were a rushing torrent. People were still pushing through the doors, and on the boardwalk women laughed and squealed and shivered as male escorts urged them along.
While the last of them were pressing into the store, Shayne stood on feet planted wide apart, knobby hands thrust deep into trousers pockets, his coarse red brows drawn down in a straight line over slitted gray eyes. Something within him responded to the elemental fury of the mountain storm. He felt alive and vibrant. A week in the high country had dispelled the lethargy which had slowly crept over him at sea-level Florida.
A sardonic smile twitched his wide mouth. His big hands drew up into fists in his pockets. He felt a strong urge to get back into harness — to drive himself hard, as the wind drove the sheets of rain from a cloudburst.
Even as he watched, the wind appeared to swoop low and pick up the rain-sheet to pour it back into the clouds to be dropped somewhere else. Only a misty spray was left and bright sunlight filtered through. The torrent in street and gutters slowly subsided.
As he turned from the window, his gaze brushed the face of a man standing alone in the angle of the walls. He was watching eager buyers at the counters, and there was a caustic smile on his thin lips.
Something told Shayne he should recognize that smile. The man was of medium height, solidly built. A quiet gray business suit was tailored to emphasize his height. His eyes were very blue and still, with a hard opacity. He was not more than fifty, but his hair was a clean, glistening white, cut rather long and parted in the middle. His features were finely sculptured, almost ascetic.
Shayne worried the lobe of his left ear, his gray eyes brooding across the room for a long moment. Abruptly, he strode over to the man and said, “Hello, Two-Deck. You want to be careful of this clean air. Your lungs aren’t used to it.”