“Mike Shayne,” the redhead said, shaking hands. “Which Packers?”

Colfax laughed heartily. “Which Packers! That puts me in my place, all right. After all these years I ought to know an ex-pro when I see one. Can I use my influence and get you a beer? That’s what the kiddies are drinking, not that I don’t have a couple of pints of rotgut in the car. Which will it be, Mike?”

“Neither right now, thanks. I’m looking for somebody.”

Colfax laughed again. “Isn’t everybody?”

A dark girl with bangs almost down to her eyelashes came up through the haze.

“Excuse me,” she said to Shayne. “Are you the one who was asking for Mr. Black?”

Shayne told her he was, and that his name was Michael Shayne.

“Would you mind telling me what you wanted to see him about? If you’re a sportswriter he’s not giving any interviews.”

Shayne grinned down at her. “How about autographs? Tell him we have some mutual friends, and I’ll only take fifteen minutes.”

The girl looked doubtful, but brushed her hair back from her eyes and went away.

Bus Colfax had audited this exchange closely. “For three or four weeks at this time of year,” he said with sympathy, “they’re kings. You have to study their moods, play on their weaknesses and back out when you leave the room. But the minute they sign, they’re property like everybody else. That’s the way I console myself.”

He looked around quickly, shed his bantering manner and became all business. He tapped Shayne lightly on the forearm with the rim of his beer can.

“Shayne, I won’t make a guess at what club you represent. That would give away who I consider our chief competition. I’m down from the Warriors. I don’t have to tell you that I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t want the boy. I’m ready to spend money to get him. Frankly, I can’t give him the sky.