Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 5, April 1974

I looked in the Manhattan directory, found that Eads lived at the Amador Hotel, and called him there. The desk clerk told me he was out, but that he had left a phone number where he could be reached. I called the number, listened to the click of the receiver being taken off the hook, and then to twenty seconds of the mixture of voices and clinking glassware that can come only from a bar.

“Sully’s Taproom,” a husky Irish voice said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I was supposed to meet a friend there, but I’ve forgotten the address.”

“Thirty-sixth and Third,” the voice said. “Hurry over.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, and hung up.

“Hey, Selby,” Doris Hagen yelled again. “Your minute was up half an hour ago.”

“I’ll check with you in an hour or so, Stan,” I said.

“Do that, Pete. It gets lonely around here at times.”

“You’ve got Miss Hagen, don’t forget.”

He winced. “Don’t remind me,” he said.

I went downstairs, got into the unmarked police Plymouth we had left at the curb, and headed for Sully’s Taproom and a talk with Warren Eads.

Sully’s Taproom was just another Third Avenue bar. The bartender was working hard and sweating hard. He came up to where I stood at the street end of the bar, knuckled some of the sweat out of his eyes, and stood looking at me with one eyebrow raised questioningly.

“Warren Eads been in?” I asked.

He jerked a thumb toward the rear of the room. “Last booth on the left.”

I thanked him and walked back. A middle-aged man with a moon face, very pink skin and pale red hair was sitting with a small, lush-bodied brunette. The man had one arm around the girl and seemed to be grazing on her ear. The girl had long, ragged bangs and tilted brown eyes, and judging from the pleased little sounds she was making, she liked the grazing just fine.

I slid onto the seat across from them. The moon-faced man looked over, then back at the girl.

“You know this guy, June?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Beat it, bud,” the man said, going back to his nuzzling. “This booth’s taken.”

I got out my billfold and showed him my shield. “My name’s Selby,” I said. “Are you Mr. Eads?”

He looked at the potsy, sat up a little straighter looked at it again, and reached for his drink. “Yes, I’m Eads,” he said. “What about it?”

I glanced at the brunette. “Mind leaving us alone for a few minutes, miss?” I asked her.

“Stay where you are, June,” Eads said. “This is Miss June Courtney, Selby. She’s my fiancée. Anything you’ve got to say to me, she can hear too.”

I reached for a cigar, bit the end off it, and sat rolling it around in my fingers without lighting it.

“Never mind the big dramatic pause.” Eads said, his pink face getting a shade pinker. “What’s the story?”

“You know a man named Larry Yeager?” I asked.

“Sure I know him. Why?”

“What were you and Yeager having trouble about?”

“Who said we were?”

“I’m only doing a job, Mr. Eads,” I said. “If you want to talk to me here, fine. If you’d rather talk to me at the station house, say so.”

Eads’ face was no longer pink, it was out-and-out red. He took a quick swallow of his drink and set his glass back down so hard I wondered it didn’t break.

“Larry wants more sides,” he said.

“He what?”

“Sides,” Eads said. “Speeches. He’s going to be in a show we’re doing. He wants us to build up his part.”

“Which we absolutely will not do,” the brunette put in.

“He’s the original no-talent kid,” Eads said bitterly. “A zero.”

“That’s the only trouble you’ve having with him?” I asked.

“That’s, all. But believe me, brother, it’s enough.”

“I thought the director was the one who decided who said what,” I said.

“June, here, is the director, Selby. She’s also the producer.”

“Courtesy of my father,” June said. “He’s an old moneybags.”

“If Yeager is such a zero,” I said, “why’d you hire him in the first place?”

Eads and June glanced at each other. Then June shrugged and Eads said, “Call it temporary insanity.”

“The trouble is, we can’t fire him,” June said. “He has a run-of-the-show contract.” She grimaced. “He’s such a miserable thing. He really is.”

“June’s a lady,” Eads said. “Naturally she uses very polite language. What she means is, Yeager’s a no-good son of a bitch.”

“Among other things,” June said.

“He’s a real natural-born trouble-maker,” Eads said. “Any time he can irritate you, he does it. Any time he can embarrass you, he does. Any time he can change two friends into a couple of enemies, he does that. Ever since we put him into Grade A, he’s done nothing but—”

“That’s the name of your show?” I asked. “Grade A?”

“Yes,” June said. “It’s about the people on a big dairy farm in Minnesota. It takes place at the time of the county fair, and—”

“Never mind, June,” Eads said. “The sooner Mr. Selby finishes his little third degree, the sooner he’ll go away.”

“Aside from being an all-around nice guy,” I said, “did Yeager have any real enemies?”

“Just how real?” Eads asked with a grunt.

“Real enough to want him dead.”