Dolls Are Deadly Read Online Free

a barracuda, Mike?” Sylvester called. “I’ll put the mullet strips on for you.”
    “I’ll take the wheel, Sylvester,” Vince offered.
    Vince set down his drink and walked over. Shayne looked back. Through the screen which covered the wheelhouse window he could see Vince in his flamboyant shirt bent over the compass and some charts, his hand resting with easy familiarity on the wheel. For a motel mogul from landlocked Arizona, this man seemed inordinately good on a boat. He seemed inordinately sober too, despite all the high-voltage rum being passed around.
    In contrast to his steadiness, Sylvester lurched from the cabin, weaving unsteadily and grinning foolishly. He made his way precariously to the bait box aft, took out the prepared mullet strips, baited three hooks and gave them to Shayne. The redhead let them troll back in the boat’s wake.
    “Use the fishing chair if you want,” Ed drawled. “We’re too lazy to do any fishing that takes energy. Better strap yourself in against the big ones.”
    Shayne shook his head. “With light six-thread I’m not looking for anything big enough to pull me overboard.”
    “We aren’t looking for anything, period. After a while, if we anchor, we might put out some hand lines—and hope the fish won’t latch onto ’em.” He laughed. “Mostly we just like to get out here and drink on the water.”
    This was about as screwy a fishing party as Shayne had ever chummed up with.
    “Is like a club, Mike,” Sylvester explained. “All nice and happy. They get along with everybody.”
    As though to prove the statement, Slim raised himself on his elbow from the kapok cushions and waved genially at a police boat that was passing. The men on the boat waved back, the one at the wheel tooting twice in recognition of Sylvester’s boat. Sylvester had run a charter boat off Miami for many years and the happy little Cuban was a favorite of everybody’s.
    Shayne’s bait was trolling nicely, bouncing on the swell. The water was silver-blue and the breeze just cool enough to compensate for the hot sun. It was a good day. The redhead leaned back, listening to the cheerful banter between Sylvester and the three men. The rum was disappearing steadily; the humor and the laughter gaining weight and volume. A carefree holiday seemed to be the only thing on anybody’s mind.
    Shayne felt a tug on his line that communicated through his hands clear up into his shoulders. His star-drag reel whirred as a fish ran out the line, and he experienced the sharp, familiar feel of satisfaction the weight of a fighting fish always gave him. No one except Sylvester seemed much interested as he played the fish and reeled it in. It was an eight-pound barracuda, evil-looking, its long jaws lined with razor-sharp teeth.
    “I’ve caught ’em eight feet long,” Sylvester bragged. “Those big ones can eat a man’s leg off.” He moved drunkenly, taking the fish from the hook and packing it in ice, a necessary precaution, since the flesh of a barracuda spoils more rapidly than most other tropical fish.
    “Got a feeling you’re going to do all the fishing that’s done today, Mike,” Slim said. “We started drinking too early, I guess. Fishing just seems like too much work.” He started singing in a hoarse and off-key voice.
    Shayne put his troll bait out again. They were well out to sea with the smooth flow of the Gulf Stream around them, and Miami an unreal wonderland vanishing in the afternoon haze. The others were quieter now. Had the calm of the open ocean finally penetrated their overstimulated senses, or had the abandoned holiday mood been put on partly for Shayne’s benefit, to make him feel at ease because Sylvester had practically forced them into allowing him to join their party?
    The redhead played another barracuda and lost him, then landed a good-sized grouper. When Sylvester came over to take it off the hook he rose, saying casually, “I’ve had enough for a while.”
    He sauntered