Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"Why are you telling me all this horseshit?" he demanded. "I'm not interested in prenuptial agreements. What has it got to do with the PBPD?"

"Please," I begged, "let me finish. I need your help."

I described in detail the scam I had already set in motion and what I hoped to gain from it.

"That certainly affects your homicide investigations," I pointed out. "If my con works, you'll clear both the Marcia and Silas Hawkin cases."

He was silent a long time and I could almost see him, eyes slitted, calculating the odds.

"What you guess happened makes a crazy kind of sense," he said finally. "I can buy it. But what you're planning is strictly from nutsville. If you're right, you're liable to get blown away."

"And if I am," I said, "it'll prove I was right, won't it? Then you can take it from there."

"I always knew you were a flit," he said, "but I never suspected you were a total cuckoo. But if you want to take the risk I can't stop you. What do you want from me?"

"The showdown is tonight at ten o'clock. We'll be in Johnson's white Lincoln Town Car parked on the turnaround behind my house. He keeps insisting that just the two of us be present. I was worried he'd bring Reuben Hagler along, and then I'd really be in the minestrone. That's why I was so happy when you told me Hagler is behind bars in Fort Lauderdale. Now what I'd like you to do is park your squad or pickup someplace where Johnson can't spot it. Then be in our garage at ten o'clock-concealed, of course-in case I need assistance."

"Yeah," he said, "that's a possibility."

I ignored his irony. "If I need your help," I went on, "I'll give you a shout."

"Oh sure," he said. "But how are you going to do that if he's got his mitts clamped around your gullet?"

"He won't," I said with more aplomb than I felt. "I'm not exactly Charles Atlas, but I assure you I'm not a ninety-seven-pound weakling either. I mean brutes don't kick sand in my face on the beach without inviting serious retaliation."

"Cuckoo," Al chanted in a falsetto voice. "Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo."

"Your confidence in me is underwhelming. Just tell me this: Will you be hidden in our garage at ten o'clock tonight?"

"I'll be there," he promised.

I hung up, satisfied that I had done all I could to prepare to play Wellington to Hector Johnson's Napoleon.

I saw little reason to venture out into that scruffy climate so I decided to stay home, bring my journal up to date, futz around and wait for the great denouement that evening. That plan evaporated, for my next phone call was from Theodosia Johnson. Southern Bell was having a profitable morning.

"Archy," she wailed, "I'm going cuckoo."

I laughed. "Two of a kind," I said. "What's the problem?"

"This miserable weather is suffocating me. And father has been a bear. He was bad enough last night but this morning he got a phone call-I don't know what it was about-and I thought he was going to blow a fuse. Ranting, raving, cursing. And he started drinking directly from the bottle. Have you ever done that, Archy?"

"Thirty-six years ago. But it had a rubber nipple on it."

It was her turn to laugh. "You always make me feel better," she said. "Listen, I'm going to drive daddy over to Louise Hawkin's place. He says he'll be there all afternoon. The two of them will probably get smashed-but who cares? Anyway, I'll have the car and I'd love to meet you for lunch at that funky place you took me to."

"The Pelican Club?"

"That's it. Tonight I'm having dinner at the Smythe-Hersforth mortuary so I've got to build up my morale, and you're the best morale builder-upper I know. So how about lunch?"

"Sure," I said bravely. "Meet you at the Pelican in an hour. Can you find it?"

"I can find anyplace," she said, and I believed it.

I didn't bother getting duded up, just pulled on a navy blazer over the white Izod and tan jeans I was wearing. The snazziest part of my ensemble was the footgear: lavender New Balance running shoes.

Madam X was already seated at the bar of the Pelican Club when I arrived. She and Simon Pettibone were engrossed in a heavy conversation. They seemed startled when I interrupted.

"Glad to see you've met our distinguished majordomo," I said to Theo.

"Met him?" she said. "I've already asked him to marry me, but he says he's taken."

"I think I've just been taken again," Mr. Pettibone said solemnly. "Mr. McNally, this young lady could charm the spots off a tiger."

"Stripes," I said. "And she could do it. What are you swilling, Theo?"

"Vodka martini on the stones."

"Oh my," I said, "we are in a mood, aren't we? I'll have the same, Mr. Pettibone, if you please, and hold the fruit."

I took the bar stool next to Theo and examined her. She was dressed as casually as I. Her jeans were blue denim and she was wearing a black T-shirt under a khaki bush jacket. Her makeup was minimal and her hair swung free. Her appearance was enough to make my heart lurch.

"Mr. Pettibone," I said when he brought my drink, "do you recall the other day when you and I were talking about money?"

"I remember," he said.

"You stated that money in itself isn't important, it's the power that money confers. Is that also true of beauty?"

"Oh yes, Mr. McNally," he said, looking at Theo. "Beauty is power. And even in our so-called enlightened age, it remains one of the few sources of power women have."

"You got that right, kiddo," she said to him. "If a woman's not a nuclear physicist she better have elegant tits. Archy, I've got to pick up daddy in a couple of hours. Can we get this show on the road?"

"Sure," I said, and glanced around at the almost empty bar area. "Slow day, Mr. Pettibone."

"It's the weather," he explained. "The boys and girls don't want to get out of bed."

"Lucky boys and girls," Theo said.

I carried our drinks and we sauntered into the dining room. We were the only customers, and when no one appeared to serve us I went into the kitchen. I found Leroy Pettibone, our chef, seated on a low stool in his whites. He was reading a copy of Scientific American.

"Hey, Leroy," I said, "where's Priscilla?"

"Mailing," he said. "She'll be in later. You wanting?"

"Whatever's available. For two."

He thought a moment. "How about a cold steak salad? Chunks of rare sirloin and lots of other neat stuff."

"Sounds good to me," I said. "Heavy on the garlic, please."

"You've got it," he said.

I returned to the dining room and told Theo what we were having for lunch. I suggested a glass of dry red zin might go well with the steak salad.

"Not for me, thanks," she said. "You go ahead but I'll have another marty."

I went out to the bar and relayed our order to Mr. Pettibone. He nodded and prepared the drinks.

"Dangerous lady," he commented. It was just an observation; there was no censure in his voice.

"Yes," I agreed, "she is."

I toted the fresh drinks back to our lonely table. It was not the one at which Connie Garcia and I usually dined. I had deliberately avoided seating Madam X there. Don't ask me why. Probably dementia.

We raised glasses, sipped, said, "Ah!" in unison, stared at each other.

"Archy," she said, "I'm caught."

"Caught?"

"In a pattern," she said. "My life. And I can't get out. Don't you find your life is a pattern?"

"More like a maze," I said. "But I must like it because I have no desire to change."

"You're fortunate," she said wistfully.

I wanted to learn more about her being caught but then Leroy brought our salads and a basket of garlic toast.

"Looks delish," Theo said, giving him one of her radiant smiles. I could see he was as smitten as I.

"Plenty more," he said. "If you folks want seconds, just yell."

It was as good as it looked: Boston lettuce, cherry tomatoes, hunks of cold steak, radishes, shavings of feta, cucumber, thin slices of red onions, black olives-the whole schmear.