Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

His ratty face wore a horrible expression of lust. “You made me spend the night in jail, ole lady.” He grabbed her purse and emptied the contents on the sidewalk. “One buck!” He put the dollar into his pocket. “Know what I’m gonna do, ole lady? I’m gonna strip you and let you walk home naked.”

She was both angry and frightened. Somewhere back in her memory, there was a nephew, a marine who had shown her a few dirty tricks that could be used in self defense. One of the tricks emerged in her mind.

He put his hand inside her coat, grabbed her blouse and started to pull when she lifted her skirt slightly and brought her sharp knee up hard into his groin.

With a cry of anguish, he crumpled to the ground. She picked up her purse and whatever else she could find, and hurried home. After resting a moment, she called Grimes.

“Ma’am,” Grimes said, “we could pick him up but... well, you know the problem.”

“His father has you people in the palm of his hand. That’s the problem.” She slammed the receiver down and made herself a double martini.

Twenty minutes later, the telephone rang again arid Grimes’ voice hit her ear.

“Ma’am, I just talked to Mr. Matson and he says his son never left the house tonight.”

Somehow, she had expected that from the Matsons. “One really can’t fight City Hall, can one, Sergeant?” She slammed down the receiver.

Completely frustrated, angry, she made up a martini and sat down next to George’s tank. “What are we going to do, George?”

The telephone rang. She picked up the receiver. “Hello,” she said in a tired voice.

“Kill!” and then there was a click.

She hung up. She suddenly felt frightened.

Vivian stayed in her apartment all the next day and read. As darkness approached, she stood at the window and watched the shadows close in on the buildings along the street. An ocean fog was gently rolling in, swirling about the dull street lights and people were becoming indistinct figures.

Young Matson was out there somewhere waiting for her.

She had half of a tuna sandwich for supper, fed George a silver-fish, then slipped into a pair of slacks and a sweater. Her face tense, she slid a small briefcase out of a closet. She put on her polyester coat and floppy hat.

Then she opened the briefcase. “Let’s get him, George.”

She carefully deposited the quivering George inside the briefcase and stepped out into the night.