“That so?” Joe asked without much interest.
Shayne had a bill in his hand. He folded it to show the $10.00 denomination. “Bill’s phone number is worth this to me.”
Joe moved back warily, eyeing the bill. “Must be a big deal.”
Shayne shrugged. “You’ll be doing us both a favor.”
The bartender propped both elbows on the damp bar, directly in front of Shayne, and said in a sneering tone, “If you’re such a good friend of Bill Nash’s, whyn’t you save yourself money by taking a look down at the end of the bar and talking to him yourself?”
Shayne looked at the bartender with surprise and suspicion, then narrowed his eyes at the group watching television. “What the hell you giving me?” he said angrily. “None of those men even halfway look like Bill.”
The folded bill was expertly plucked from his fingers, and Joe said pleasantly, “Just wanted to make sure you’re a pal of his.” He moved to the center of the bar and consulted a book stashed under the counter. He returned and gave the redhead a number which he wrote down in his little black book. He shoved a half dollar across the bar and said, “I’ll tell Bill I saw you.” He went out without touching the drink he had paid for.
At the first public telephone down the street he dialed a number and said, “Mike Shayne. Give me an address that fits this telephone number.” He had the information in less than a minute, an address on North Miami Avenue in the Forties.
Some twenty minutes later he was standing before a door opening from the street onto a stairway leading up to an apartment above a cigar store. He went up and tried the door at the top. It opened readily into a shabby sitting-room with shades drawn against the sunlight. He crossed to an open door on the right and looked into a small bedroom.
Bill Nash lay on his back. His mouth was laxly open, and with every breath he emitted a snorting snore. Shayne stood on the threshold regarding the man with distaste. “Little man has had a busy night,” he muttered under his breath.