Killers from the Keys by Brett Halliday

bleakly, and his voice was harshly uncompromising:
    “Miami is my town, McTige, and I don’t like it cluttered up with Syndicate killers or big-mouthed crooks flashing private badges. Get out of my office and get out of town.”
    “I’ll get out of your stinking office, all right,” McTige shouted wildly. “But I’ll stick around Miami as long as I damn well please… and without asking your permission either.” He swung his burly body toward the door, but Shayne stopped him by saying coldly, “Pick up your cigar-butt from my rug before you leave.”
    “Wha-at?” He turned his head, panting like a maddened bull.
    “Your cigar-butt.” Shayne pointed to it on the floor. “I don’t live in a pig-sty, even if you do.”
    “I’ll be double god-damned…” McTige snarled through clenched teeth, hunched his shoulders and started for the door.
    Shayne was in front of him before he took two steps. McTige plowed to a stop and doubled his right fist and cocked it back behind his hip.
    Shayne’s fists remained unclenched, but his eyes were bleak and his lips drew away from his teeth slightly. He said, “Pick it up, McTige.”
    Baron McTige wilted slowly. He blinked his eyes and mumbled something indistinguishable, and turned to pick up the crushed cigar. He dropped it into an ashtray on Shayne’s desk, and then lumbered past the rigid redhead with face averted and eyes downcast.
    Shayne watched the door slam shut behind him, and then went back to his desk and sat down. He was pouring more cognac in the two nested cups when the door swung open violently and Lucy whirled inside. She exclaimed, “Why didn’t you hit him, Michael? He was the most awful lout…”
    Shayne grinned and waggled his forefinger at her. “A man of great perception, I thought.”
    “Michael Shayne!” She stamped her foot angrily. “If I ever told you some of the things he said…”
    “He knows a beautiful secretary when he sees one. Come on and admit you were secretly flattered.”
    “By that… oaf?”
    “All right,” said Shayne pleasantly. “Come out and have dinner with me, and I’ll flatter you.”
    “And then deposit me safely at home and slip off to the Bright Spot without me.”
    “Why, no,” said Shayne, studying her approvingly. “You’re a big girl now. You’re invited, angel, and don’t blame me if you don’t like what you see.”

6
     
    THE PINK FLAMINGO MOTEL was situated a little distance off The Tamiami Trail on the western outskirts of the sprawling city. It had been constructed in the late Forties when land prices were soaring and building supplies were again available after the long period of war shortages, and the city seemed to be inevitably spreading westward.
    Somehow, though, the westward expansion had stopped short of the tract of land on which the motel was built, and there was an expanse of uninhabited, unattractive, palmetto-covered land between it and the garish lights of newer and more attractive motels and roadside spots that clustered along the Trail closer in that marked the real western gateway to the city.
    Thus, inevitably, standing isolated and sadly alone, the Pink Flamingo was passed up by the majority of tourists arriving from the West Coast, and its meager clientele consisted of those who turned off at the sagging roadside sign in the hope of finding cheaper accommodations than would be available farther on, and a nightly smattering of local residents attracted by its isolation and absence of bright lights, seeking a discreet rendezvous with illicit love where no questions would be asked and the likelihood of embarrassing encounters with acquaintances would be reduced to a minimum. These latter, of course, invariably arrived to take possession of their cabins after darkness had fallen, so that during daylight hours the grounds were likely to be almost completely deserted.
    The man who sat alone in cabin number 3 liked it this way. He had changed his address five times since arriving