“That’d be swell,” he said thickly.
Christine’s dilated eyes followed Shayne as he stepped back toward the end of the wall. She was still in her chair. Meade hunched his shoulders and followed the detective.
When they were out of sight, Shayne stopped and said, “All I want to know is what—”
Joe Meade swung on him without warning. He had the stance and swiftness of a trained boxer. Shayne was going away with the blow, but the fist glanced off his bony jaw with enough force to swing him sideways.
He laughed and caught Joe’s wrist with both hands, levering it down hard. Meade dropped to his knees, cursing with pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Shayne caught a glimpse of Christine coming around the wall with a bottle of club soda swinging from her right hand.
Patrick Casey’s moonlike face showed behind her. He caught her arms from behind and pinioned them close to her body.
Shayne nodded his thanks and released Meade’s wrist The young man floundered to his feet and rushed him, his boxing science forgotten in his rage.
Shayne coolly sidestepped and tripped him as he went by. Meade went down heavily, but bounced up again. His eyes were crazed.
Held tightly by Casey, Christine Forbes pleaded, “Joe — don’t. Please don’t”
Joe disregarded her, came forward again, but more cautiously. The rangy redhead waited for him with doubled fists, breathing lightly.