Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

Connie was in a bright, chatty mood that evening. As we gourmandized and steadily emptied our bottle of cab, she prattled on about Lady Cynthia Horowitz's activities and the latest Palm Beach scandals, real and alleged. It was during dessert that she asked, "Want to hear the latest rumor?"

"Of course," I said. "Gossip is mother's milk to me."

"Remember your asking me about Hector Johnson? Well, the talk is that he's taking a close interest in Silas Hawkin's widow. In fact, from what I hear, the two of them are what used to be called an item."

"No kidding?" I said, feigning a mild but not excessive interest. "He's pitching her, is he?"

"Apparently," Connie went on. "It started the day after Silas was killed. Now Johnson is at her house almost every day, and they've been seen together all over the place."

"Comforting the bereaved, no doubt."

"Oh sure," she scoffed. "Louise Hawkin also happens to be a well-put-together lady and probably stands to inherit a bundle. Johnson just moved faster than the other middle-aged bachelors in Palm Beach."

"I wonder what the daughter thinks of it."

"Marcia? Oh, she's a ding-a-ling; everyone knows that. About a year ago she was picked up at midnight wandering stark naked down Ocean Boulevard."

"I never heard that one," I said. "Drunk? Or stoned?"

"I don't think so," Connie said. "Just a crazy, mixed-up kid."

"Aren't we all?" I said lightly. "You know what I'd like at the bar?"

"A stomach pump?" she suggested.

"Slivovitz," I said. "To settle the old tumtum."

"Oh God," she said. "I hope you won't start howling at the moon again."

"I've never done that," I protested. "Have I?"

"Yes," Connie said.

She had recently purchased a new car, a white Ford Escort. Not enough pizzazz for my taste, but Connie loved it. She led the way back to her place and I followed in the Miata.

Connie lives in a high-rise condo on the east shore of Lake Worth. Her one-bedroom apartment is small but trig, and the view from her little balcony is tremendous. It's not really my home-away-from-home, but I had been there many, many times and knew where she kept the Absolut (in the freezer) and that you had to jiggle the handle of the toilet to stop it flushing.

We sprawled on her rattan couch, shoes off, and just relaxed awhile after that humongous meal. We were so comfortable with each other that we weren't bothered by long silences. Connie put on a Spanish tape and we listened to a great chantootsie sobbing. I think her songs were all about love betrayed but my Spanish isn't all that good.

The tape ended and Connie didn't flip it, for which I was thankful. She rose and held out her hand. I clasped it and trailed after her into the bedroom. It was a very feminine boudoir with lace ruffles on the bedspread and French dolls propped on the pillows. Over the bed was a framed poster of the movie Casablanca. Connie has a thing for Bogart.

We undressed as slowly and unconcernedly as an old married couple while we wondered if that passion fruit tart might not have been better with pistachio ice cream. Very domestic. Then we slid into bed, and those B-12s didn't let me down.

Connie was a languid lover that night, and it surprised me; she's usually quite kinetic. But I was grateful; I was more in the mood for violins than electric guitars. So it was sweet to hear murmurs rather than yelps and to embrace softly rather than jounce.

Then I think we both may have drowsed a bit because when I glanced at her illuminated bedside clock it was close to two a.m.

"I think I better hit the road," I said in a low voice.

Connie opened her eyes. "Yes," she said. "Super evening, Archy. Thank you."

"Thank you," I said. "And happy dreams."

She watched me dress. "Who is she, Archy?" she asked quietly.

I paused with one leg in my slacks and one leg out, an awkward posture as any guilty lad will tell you. "Who is whom?" I inquired, expecting the worst and getting it.

"That woman you had lunch with at Mizner Park yesterday."

I resumed getting into my trousers. "I suppose it would be fruitless to deny it," I said.

"Yes," she said steadily, "it would."

"What if I told you she was my cousin?" I said hopefully.

"Then by actual count she would be the seventeenth female cousin you've claimed."

I decided to be absolutely honest-a dreadful mistake. "The lady in question," I said, "is Theodosia Johnson, daughter of Hector. Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth hopes she will become his fiancee. McNally and Son have been requested by Chauncey's mother to investigate Theodosia's credentials and make certain she is worthy of becoming a member of the Smythe-Hersforth clan."

"And part of your investigation included taking her to lunch in Boca Raton?"

"There is no adequate substitute for a personal interview," I said piously.

Connie turned her head away from me and stared at the wall. "Son," she said, "it's coming out your ears."

I finished dressing and got my pale pink shirttail caught in the zipper of my slacks. I tried to free it to no avail. The tail hanging out looked like-well, you know what it looked like. Connie turned back to watch my struggle. She began to giggle.

"I hope you have to go home like that," she said. "Serves you right."

"Listen," I said furiously, "my luncheon with Miss Johnson was strictly in the line of business. We went to Mizner Park because she had heard of it and wanted to see it. It was a simple business luncheon, and that's all it was. I don't expect you to believe that, but I'd like to remind you that some time ago you and I vowed to have an open relationship. Both of us could see and consort with whomever we wished. Isn't that correct?"

Unexpectedly she amiably agreed. "You're right, Archy. My first reaction, after Mercedes Blair told me of seeing you at the Bistro L'Europe-she was having a pizza at Baci-was to hire a hit man and have you blown away. But that, I decided, was a childish reaction. Archy, I have made up my mind. From now on you are completely free to share lunch or dinner or anything else with whomever you please. And I promise not to be jealous or to attack you physically in retaliation."

"Well put," I said enthusiastically.

"And in return, I expect the same consideration from you."

"Granted," I said. "And gladly."

"Good," she said. "Because tomorrow night I'm having dinner at the Ocean Grand with Binky Watrous."

Outrage detonated. "Binky Watrous!" I cried. "But he's a close friend of mine!"

"I know," Connie said calmly. "And I do believe he hopes to become a close friend of mine."

"I should warn you," I said darkly, "his table manners are not of the most delicate. He's been known to suck his teeth while slurping a beef ragout."

"I think I can endure it," she said, "after seeing you manhandle a stuffed avocado. And on Saturday night I have a movie date with Ferdy Attenborough."

"Ferdy?" I almost shouted. "Another old buddy! Connie, how can you possibly be seen in public with that man? He has an Adam's apple that looks like he swallowed an elbow."

"I think he's charming," she said. "In any event, the choice is mine, is it not?"

"Yes, yes," I said irascibly, finally getting my shirttail freed from the zipper. "But I question your choice. I fear you are doomed to grievous disappointment."

"No problem," she said cheerfully. "There are plenty of others waiting in the wings. Surely you have no objections, do you?"

"Of course not," I said, stiff-upper-lipping it.

"As Shakespeare said, all's fair in love and war."

"It was Smedley," I said, "but you're quite right. I hope you have a merry time."

"I intend to," she said evenly.

I did not kiss her a fond good-night.

I drove home in a tumultuous mood. Binky Watrous! Ferdy Attenborough! And perhaps scores of unnamed others waiting in the wings. I was shocked, shocked. Naturally I wished Consuela Garcia all the happiness in the world, but the thought of her sharing her felicity with other johnnies was a tad discombobulating. More than a tad if you must know the truth.