The Violent World of Michael Shayne
“ THE SAVAGE GROOVES AROUND MICHAEL SHAYNE’S EYES AND mouth were deeply etched as he came out of Senator Hitchcock’s house on Q Street. If Senator Wall had turned up something that could damage Sam Toby or the Texas crowd in the next day’s hearing, they couldn’t be expected to stand still and wait for it to happen. Their Maggie Smith gambit had failed, for the time being. But no professional—and Sam Toby was clearly that—stays at the top of his league without developing an assortment of pitches. He had missed with his fast ball, and now he’d come in with his curve or his slider. More than ever, Shayne was aware of not knowing the rules of the game he was playing.
He hesitated before getting into his Ford. And in that half-second a flicker of movement a block away pulled at his eye.
A man stepped out of a parked car and started in his direction. Shayne’s years of living with danger had given him a kind of built-in warning system, and all the bells were clanging violently.
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