Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

There were connections, I was convinced, but they were so tenuous as to be ungraspable. (There is such a word; you can look it up.) After a long bout of jumbled pondering I decided I had no choice but to engineer another meeting with Pinky Schatz, close friend of the slain Shirl Feebling. I could not forget my impression that the bouncy Ms. Schatz had lied to me because of fear. But fear of whom I could not imagine. Unless he drove a gunmetal Cadillac.

All this Sturm und Drang was so depressing. I really don't know how psychiatrists do it. I mean they listen to woeful confessions of ridden people every day. All they hear is weeping, wailing, and the gnashing of teeth: stories of hate, abuse, greed, lust, violence, and other swell stuff. Who could blame the shrinks if they went home at night and, to survive, read fairy tales-or anything that ends "And they lived happily ever after."

I suppose I was in that mood when I determined to call Connie Garcia. I needed a dose of normality. It was close to midnight, and I let her phone ring and ring. But she did not answer.

I went to bed. I was not gruntled.

I might have slept forever on Wednesday morning but I was gradually nudged awake by the persistent ringing of my bedside phone. I opened one eye wide enough to see the clock dimly. It was either 9:05 a.m. or a quarter to one p.m. But since a low sun was striking through my bedroom window I judged a new day had just begun.

"H'lo?" I said in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Don't you ever get to your office on time?" Sgt. Al Rogoff complained.

"That's why you called?" I said sleepily. "To comment on my working habits?"

"Wake up," he said sternly, "and try to listen. Have you seen Marcia Hawkin lately?"

I woke up. I saw no reason to prevaricate. "Yesterday afternoon," I told him. "At the McNally Building. We had a talk."

"About what?"

"Pure craziness. She was off the wall."

"That I can believe," Al said. "We've got a sheet on that young lady. Picked up for strolling naked on Ocean Boulevard at midnight. Picked up for throwing rocks at seagulls. Picked up for setting off illegal fireworks. Nothing serious. No charges. But the girl is a total fruitcake. What was she wearing when you talked to her?"

I tried to recall. "Uh, blue middy blouse with white piping, pleated silk skirt, scuffed running shoes."

"Uh-huh," Rogoff said. "That tallies. She have wheels?"

"Black Jeep Cherokee. Al, what's this all about?"

"Her mother called this morning. The kid didn't come home last night. She's gone and so is the Cherokee. We usually wait forty-eight hours on things like this. People stay overnight at a friend's house or pull off the road to grab some sleep. But since the Silas Hawkin homicide is still open, I got interested and decided to give you a call. Did she say anything about leaving home?"

"No."

"Meeting someone?"

"No."

"Going somewhere in particular?"

"No."

"Thank you for your kind assistance," the sergeant said with his heavy irony. "Would you care to make a wild guess as to where this loony might be?"

"Haven't the slightest," I said. "Al, did you hear anything from Michigan on those two names I gave you?"

"Nada. I told you these things take time. When I do hear, you'll be the first to know-after you tell me why you want the skinny. Archy, if you hear from Marcia Hawkin give me a shout."

"Sure I will," I said.

I hung up and crawled out of bed. It was just what I needed-a moral dilemma first thing in the morning. Should I open that cursed envelope or shouldn't I? Recalling my promise to Marcia, I decided not to. Only if she died, not if she was merely missing. I told myself she was sure to show up. Told but not convinced.

There was no one in the kitchen when I clattered downstairs, so I fixed my own breakfast: a large GJ, instant black coffee, and two toasted English muffin sandwiches with fillings of brisling sardines in olive oil. Look, you eat what you want for breakfast; don't give me a hard time.

I should have enjoyed that mini-meal but I didn't. Because the tickling of guilt continued. Had I been as sympathetic with Squirrel as I could have been? Might I have expressed more forcibly my willingness to help her? In other words, had I failed another human being in trouble? But then I am neither Dr. Schweitzer nor Mother Teresa. Looking for a saint, are you? Ta-ta.

I futzed about the house till noontime. I prepared my laundry and dry cleaning for the weekly pickup. I scanned several personal letters I had received which I had intended to answer but now were so dated there was no point. I tore them up. I clipped my fingernails. I examined my tongue in the bathroom mirror. Yuck.

Actually, as I well knew, I was delaying what I had to do: drive to Fort Lauderdale and confront Pinky Schatz. I didn't relish another visit to the Leopard Club; all those juicy dancers and desiccated spectators seemed unbearably dreary. I mean when it comes to nudity, public revelation is in reverse ratio to private stimulation. Or something like that.

But when duty's bugle blares, yrs. truly is ready to lead the charge. Also, I consoled myself with the opportunities the trip offered to jigger my expense account. And so I set off whistling a merry tune and reflecting that if one strove to maintain a positive attitude, life could be a bowl of pasta con fagioli.

There had been reports of potential hurricanes heading our way, departing the coast of Africa and boiling westward. You'd never know it from that day's sky. Pellucid is the word. About the same shade of blue, I decided, as the wings on Theo Johnson's butterfly tattoo. But I digress.

I parked outside the Leopard Club and approached the guarded portal. The sentinel on duty was not the same chappie I had previously encountered. This one had the head of a bald eagle and the body of an insurance salesman.

"Is Pinky Schatz dancing today?" I inquired politely.

"Nah," he said. "She called in sick."

"Sick?" I cried. "Good heavens, I must bring the poor girl some chicken soup or calf's-foot jelly. Do you happen to know where she lives?"

The griffin looked at me. "Yeah," he said, "I know. But you don't."

"True enough," I said, taking out my wallet. "A Jackson?"

"A Grant," he said firmly.

Sighing, I handed over a fifty. He consulted a tattered notebook he extracted from his hip pocket. He gave me Pinky's address, and I was startled. I knew the building: an elegant high-rise condo on the Gait Ocean Mile.

"Fancy," I commented.

"What else?" he said. "If you got it, flaunt it. And Pinky's got it."

"How true, how true," I agreed.

It took another twenty minutes to drive down to the Gait Ocean Mile. On that stretch of beach a row of huge high-rise condos forms a concrete wall that effectively prevents the peasants from viewing the seascape. Life is unfair; even tykes know that.

I found Pinky's building and pulled into the Guest Parking area. I neglected to eyeball the other cars. That was an error because when I started to open the lobby door Reuben Hagler was about to exit. We both halted, shocked, and exchanged stares.

"Hey, Mr. Hagler," I said, my voice ripe with false joviality, "imagine meeting you here."

"Yeah," he said. "Small world."

"A friend is coming down from New York," I explained, "and wants to rent for a year. I understand they have some attractive rentals in this building."

"I'd guess so," he said. "One of my investors lives here, and he's got a lush pad. Have a nice day."

"You, too," I said, and we traded puny smiles.

I paused to light a cigarette slowly, long enough to observe him get into that gunmetal De Ville I should have spotted. He drove away and I discovered I was suffering a mild attack of the heebie-jeebies. Did you ever catch Bela Lugosi in Dracula? That was Reuben Hagler. He looked as if he had just yawned, stretched, and climbed out of his coffin.