Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"Two reasons," I said. "First of all, I could tell Chauncey not to sign."

"Wouldn't work," he said, shaking his head. "If he wants my daughter-and I know he's got the hots for her- he'll sign regardless of what you tell him. You're just not built right, Arch; you can't compete with Theo."

"That's probably true. But the second reason is that you're asking five million. A lot of money. I'd like a small piece of the action."

At least he had the decency not to express sorrow that his image of me as a "straight arrow" had suddenly been demolished. He just bit down hard on his cigar and stared grimly through the windshield at the night sky.

"For what?" he said. "So you won't tell Chauncey's mommy?"

"Let's call it a finder's fee," I said. "Just like you wanted for telling me about Mrs. Hawkin's intention to sell her property."

His laugh was short and not mirthful. "You got a great memory, boy. Okay, let's say you tell Chauncey to sign the prenup and you agree not to squeal about it to Mrs. Smythe-whatshername. How much do you figure that's worth?"

"A hundred thousand," I said brazenly. "Two percent. Very modest."

"Sure it is," he said. "Cash, I suppose."

"You suppose accurately."

He tossed his half-smoked cigar out the window. "Doesn't taste so great," he said. "Tastes like shit."

"Too bad."

He turned his head to stare at me. "I guess I underestimated you."

"Many people do." I smiled at him.

"A hundred grand," he said. "Is that your asking price?"

"No," I said. "I don't enjoy haggling. That's the set price."

"Like the song goes: 'All or Nothing at All.' "

"Exactly," I agreed.

"That's a lot of loot to raise in cash," he said.

"You can't swing it?"

"I didn't say that. When it comes to my little girl's happiness I'd go to hell and back."

"Of course you would," I said approvingly. "She's worth it."

"Listen, Arch, let me think about this and make a few phone calls. Maybe we can work it out. I'll be in touch."

"When?" I asked.

"I should know by tomorrow. I'll give you a buzz."

"Can you make it early, Heck? I'm going to be running around all afternoon and wouldn't want to miss your call."

"I'll make it early," he promised.

I nodded and got out of the car. I stood at the opened door. "Sleep well," I said.

This time his laugh was genuine. "You're a nervy bastard," he said. "I'll say that for you."

I watched him drive away and then tramped up to my digs. I was generally satisfied with the way our face-to-face had gone. I believed he had taken the bait. Now all I had to do was set the hook.

My most worrisome problem had been to determine how large a bribe to demand. If I had asked for a million, for instance, or even a half-million, I knew he would have rebuffed me instantly. But a hundred thousand sounded reasonable: not too outlandish, not too covetous.

Of course I was gambling that there was no way on God's green earth that Hector Johnson could raise a hundred thousand dollars in cold cash. I had an approximate idea of his bank balance, I didn't think Reuben Hagler was rolling in gelt, and Mrs. Hawkin would be on short rations until her late husband's estate was settled. I calculated Hector would make a counterproposal, and I could launch the second part of my scam.

I thought my plan was brill. But if, by any chance, Johnson handed over the hundred thousand bucks I'd be a puddle of chagrin.

There was a tropical depression moving slowly northward over the Atlantic about two hundred miles off the coast. It was no threat to South Florida, according to the weather wonks, but it turned Monday morning into a kind of soup. Well, consomme, at least. The air was choky, hard to breathe, and the sun gleamed waterily behind a scrim of clouds the color of elephant hide.

I awoke early enough to breakfast with my parents. It was an unusually quiet meal because a woolly day like that blankets the spirits and, if you're wise, you remain silent so you don't start snapping at other people or maybe tilting back your head and howling.

However, before father departed for the office he asked how my meeting with Hector Johnson had gone. I held up crossed fingers and he nodded morosely. That was the extent of our communication.

I returned to my journal, donned reading glasses, and began scribbling. I must confess that I mention my daily labors so frequently because the record I keep becomes the source of these published accounts of my investigations and brief romances. I just don't want you to think I'm making it all up.

I plodded along steadily, hoping for a morning phone call from Johnson. It didn't arrive until almost eleven o'clock, by which time I had begun to fear my crafty plan had gone awry.

"Listen, Arch," Hector said with mucho earnestness, "I know you're not an unreasonable man."

"No, I'm not unreasonable," I readily agreed.

"Well, to make a long story short, I can't come up with the total number you suggested. You capisce?"

"Yes, I understand."

"But I think I can swing half of it," he went on. "It should be available by tonight, and I was hoping we could work out a deal satisfactory to both of us. I'm ready, willing, and able to sign a personal note for the remainder to be paid over a period of time at regular intervals."

"You mean like an IOU?" I asked.

There was a brief silence. Then: "Well, yeah," he said finally, his voice tense, "something like that. How about us getting together and discussing this arrangement like gentlemen?"

"Suits me," I said.

"Hey, that's great!" he said, heartily now. "Let's do just what we did last night: I'll drive over to your place at ten o'clock and we'll sit in my car and crunch the numbers. Just you and me. And we'll both end up winners-right?"

"Right, Heck," I said.

I hung up and stared into space. I believed it extremely unlikely that he had raised fifty thousand in cash in such a short time. And I thought his offer of an IOU was a clumsy ploy. I reckoned he had another motive for wanting to meet with me and I suspected what it was. Definitely not comforting. So I phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff at police headquarters.

"What a coincidence," he said. "I was just about to give you a tinkle."

"Give me a what?" I said.

"A tinkle. A phone call. Ain't you got no couth?"

"I'm awash in couth," I told him, "but tinkles I can do without. Why were you going to call?"

"Good news for a change. The Lauderdale cops grabbed Reuben Hagler."

"That is good news, Al," I said. "You have no idea how happy it makes me. They're holding him?"

"Yep. He's in the slam."

"Very efficient detective work," I said.

Rogoff laughed. "I wish I could say the same but actually it was just dumb luck. He was beating up on that Pinky Schatz in her condo, and she was yelling and screaming so loud that neighbors called 911. That's how they nabbed Hagler. And the icing on the cake is that the Schatz woman is sick and tired of getting bounced around so she's talking."

"Wonderful," I said. "Did she identify Hagler as the killer of Shirley Feebling?"

"She can't do that, Archy," the sergeant said. "She wasn't an eyewitness and Hagler never told her that he had done it. But she's supplied enough to hold him on suspicion."

"Al," I said anxiously, "don't tell me he's going to walk."

"He probably will," Rogoff admitted, "unless Lauderdale gets more evidence. Like finding the murder weapon hidden in his closet wrapped in his jockstrap. Right now they haven't got enough to convict. Why did you call me?"

"Listen to this," I said, "and try not to interrupt."

I started repeating everything I had told my father: what I knew, what I surmised, what I planned to do. I was halfway through my recital when Rogoff interrupted.