THE HOTEL GLORIA, TWO BLOCKS from the bay near the Miami Beach city limits, had been built in a hurry, during one of the brief booms, using semiprofessional labor and second-rate materials. It was in bad need of maintenance. The upholstery on the lobby furniture was worn and dirty, marked by the backs of many heads. There was a musty smell. Shayne asked the desk clerk, “Is a man named Vince Donahue registered here?” The clerk was tall and cadaverous, wearing rimless glasses and a small goatee. His prominent Adam’s apple rose and fell as he looked the detective over. “No, young Vincent hasn’t been in good standing here for months. You’re Mike Shayne, aren’t you?” “Yeah. Did he leave an address when he checked out?” The clerk laughed musically, showing a mouthful of decaying teeth that seemed to go with the hotel. “Anybody he wanted to see would know where to find him.”
