“I have a hunch how they’re going with Dolph Denton running the Quarter.” Shayne’s voice was hard. “Hell, he’s the guy I’ll do my talking to.” He lifted himself from the desk. “Thanks a lot, John.”
“Don’t mention it, Mike. If you can make it out to dinner tonight—”
“I’m working. Some other night. Give Mrs. McCracken my regards.”
“Sure. Come any time. And don’t throw too much weight at Denton,” the chief warned. “He can help you if you handle him right.”
Shayne said, “I don’t doubt he’s got a payoff list of every fink in the Quarter. Be seeing you.”
Half an hour later Shayne was ushered into Captain Dolph Denton’s private office by a hulking sergeant. The office was located in the rear of the precinct station, and Denton was talking on the telephone.
A fat cigar filled one corner of his mouth and he cursed into the mouthpiece on the other side. He ended with: “No! And that’s final.” He slammed the instrument down hard, growled, “All right, Parks. What is it now?” after wasting only a fleeting glance on the tall redhead.
“This man says he’s an old friend of yours, Captain. I told him you were busy, but he said he had to see you.” Denton chewed on the cigar and stared at Shayne from beneath bushy black brows. He stopped chewing on the cigar and said, “Okay, Parks.” He waved the sergeant from the room and barked at Shayne, “I thought we’d seen the last of you when Masketti ran you out of town.”
“I came back to congratulate you on your promotion, Captain.” Shayne rubbed his angular jaw, then pulled up a chair and sat in front of the desk. “I suppose you got your start by looking the other way on Rampart that evening. Masketti pulled a lot of weight in those days.”
“Masketti still pulls a lot of weight.” The flat words were a warning.