Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"Yeah," the waitress said, "the fatso redhead on the stage. You want I should send her over when the set ends?"

"Please," I said, paid for the beer, gave her a five-dollar tip, and glanced sorrowfully at my rapidly shrinking wallet.

The music paused briefly, the dancers left the stage, a new squad took over. The "fatso redhead" came sashaying toward my table. She had the loveliest silicone I've ever seen.

"Hi, honey," she said, beaming. "You asked for me?"

"If you're Pinky Schatz."

She nodded. "That's right, and I bet you want a table dance. It's my specialty."

"No, no," I said hastily. "Just a little conversation."

"Oh-ho," she said. "Well, that's okay, too. You can tell me how your wife doesn't understand you. Can I have a drink?"

"Of course. Whatever you want."

"Hey, Mabel," she called to the waitress. "My usual." Then she leaned to me. "They'll charge you for booze," she whispered, "but it's just iced tea."

I liked her. She was a large, vital woman with a ready smile and a hearty laugh. Marvelous skin tone. Also, she had a tattoo of an American flag on her left bicep, and that reminded me of you know who.

Her drink was served and we lifted our glasses to each other.

"You're a tall one," she said. "I like that. How come you asked for me?"

"You were a close friend of Shirley Feebling, weren't you?"

Her face hardened and she started to rise. I put out a hand to stop her.

"Please don't leave," I begged. "I'm not a cop, and this is very important to me."

She sat down slowly. It was odd conversing at a minuscule table with a rosy, naked woman, but I swear to you I wasn't distracted. Charmed, as a matter of fact, but not unduly aroused.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

I had devised a scam on the drive down from Palm Beach. It was a cruel deception but I could think of no alternative.

"My name is Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth," I said. "Did Shirl ever mention me?"

Her big eyes grew even bigger. "Oh gawd," she said. "You're the guy who wanted to marry her."

I nodded.

Her hand fell softly on my arm. "I'm sorry, Chauncey," she said. "Really sorry."

"Thank you," I said. "Listen, I need your help. The police seem to be getting nowhere on this, and I want the guy who did it found and sent to the chair. You can understand that, can't you?"

"Sure," she said. "Me, too. Shirl was my best friend, and a sweeter girl never lived."

"Did she ever say anything about someone following her or annoying her or making threatening phone calls? Anything like that?"

"I told the cops. She said that for the last few days-this was before she was killed-she kept seeing this Cadillac. It was around all the time while she was at work and at home and when she went shopping."

"A Cadillac? Did she describe the model and color?"

"Not the model. She said it was a funny color, like bronzy."

"Did she get a look at the driver?"

"Not a good clear look. She said he had a hatchet face. She said she thought she had seen him before in the pizza joint near the car wash."

"Pinky, have you any idea who she was talking about? Did you ever meet a hatchet-faced man who drives a car like that?"

She looked at me steadily, her stare unwavering, unblinking. It shocked me because when people are about to lie, they put on a look like that. It is not true that liars are shifty-eyed, blink frequently, or turn their gaze away. Experienced liars hope to prove their honesty by a steady, wide-eyed look expressing complete probity.

"Why, no," Pinky Schatz said. "I never met a man like that. I have no idea who he could be. That's what I told the cops."

I thanked her, slipped her fifty dollars, and left the Leopard Club. I was depressed. Not so much by the sadness of that joint-lonely, longing men and bored, contemptuous women-but by what I considered the blatant falsehoods of Pinky Schatz. It wasn't difficult to imagine the motive for her lies. It was fear.

It was latish when I arrived back in Palm Beach and it seemed silly to return to my office and stare at the walls. So I went for a swim, removed the ocean's residue with a hot shower and loofah glove, and dressed for what I devoutly hoped would be an uneventful evening.

And it was until about nine-thirty. I had gone up to my lair after dinner and was recording in my journal the mise-en-scene at the Leopard Club when my phone did what phones are supposed to do. I wasn't sure I wanted to pick it up, fearing it might be Connie calling to tell me what a frabjous evening she was having with Wes Trumbaugh.

But I answered. It wasn't Connie. It was Theodosia Johnson.

"Hey, Archy," she said, "how would you like to buy a girl a drink?"

"Love to," I said. "Do you have any particular girl in mind?"

"Yes," she said, laughing, "this girl. Daddy is using the car tonight so you'll have to come get me."

I hesitated. It was a rather dicey situation. After all, she was practically betrothed to the Smythe-Hersforth scion and he was a client of McNally Son. I decided to express my fears.

"What about Chauncey?" I asked her. "Mightn't he object?"

"He doesn't own me," she said coldly. "Besides he just dropped me off after dinner and is on his way home to mommy."

"Be there in a half-hour," I said. "Will casual rags be acceptable?"

"Pj's will be acceptable," she said.

What a sterling woman!

I pulled on a silvery Ultrasuede sport jacket over a pinkish Izod and flannel bags, thrust my bare feet into black penny mocs, and paused long enough to swab the phiz with Obsession. Then I dashed.

I pulled up outside the Johnsons' condo and Theo exited immediately, pausing just long enough to double-lock her door. Then she came bouncing down to the LeSabre.

"Archy," she said, "how many cars do you own?"

"Just one. But the Miata's in the garage for an enema. Theo, you look smashing!"

It was the truth. She was dressed to the tens in honey-colored silk jacket and pantaloons. Her only jewelry was a choker of braided gold, and if the Chinless Wonder had donated that he had more taste than I had given him credit for.

"Thank you, dear," she said and leaned forward to kiss my cheek. "Yummy," she said. "Obsession?"

"Correct, supernose," I said. "You know everything, and it's scary. We're going to the Pelican Club. Nothing fancy, but the drinks are huge and if you want to sing 'Mother Machree' no one will call the cops."

"Great," she said. "My kind of joint."

That phrase she used-"My kind of joint"-jangled the old neurons. It sounded like something Pinky Schatz might say. But from the soon-to-be fiancee of Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth?

I mean we all make critical judgments, usually immediate, of people we meet, based on their appearance, speech, behavior. We instantly decide: He's a nudnick. She's a cipher. And so forth. Sometimes these initial impressions are modified or even totally revised after closer acquaintance, but it's amazing how often first reactions prove to be accurate.

I had thought Theo Johnson to be a well-bred young lady, independent, emancipated, and rather freewheeling in the morality department. But her saying "My kind of joint" made me wonder if there was a coarser side to her nature I had not heretofore recognized. Does that make me a snob? I thought you had already determined that.

In any event, my confusion grew. I simply could not categorize this woman; she was truly Madam X. Her taste in clothes and makeup, her table manners and social graces seemed faultless. And, of course, her physical beauty was nonpareil. I think perhaps what I found most inexplicable was her tattoo. It was like finding a hickey on the neck of the Mona Lisa.

"Where did you and Chauncey dine?" I asked as we sped westward.

"Cafe L'Europe."

"Excellent. I hope you had the veal."