McNally's risk am-3 Read online

  But then I comforted myself with the thought that his dictum applied to him as well as to me, and perhaps his disappearing luck would be my good fortune. It was a zero-sum game.

  A few minutes before ten o'clock I went downstairs and stood outside the back doorway. The portico light was on and I placed myself directly below it so he'd be sure to see I was alone. I lighted a cig and waited. He was almost fifteen minutes late but that didn't bother me. I was certain his tardiness was deliberate; it's a common ploy to unsettle one's adversary. I've used it myself on several occasions.

  Finally the white Lincoln Town Car came purring into our driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. It stopped, the headlights went off, flicked on, went off again, and I stepped down to join Hector Johnson.

  The first thing I noted after I had slipped into the front passenger seat and closed the door was the melange of odors: 86-proof Scotch, cigar smoke and, overpowering, his cologne, a musky scent I could not identify.

  "Hiya, Arch," he said with heavy good humor. "Been waiting long?"

  "Just came down," I lied cheerfully. "How are you, Heck?"

  "If I felt any better I'd be unconscious," he said and laughed at his own wit. "Hey, the reason I'm late is that I stopped at Louise Hawkin's place to check on how she's doing. She tells me you dropped by today and brought her a plant. That was real nice."

  "From the McNally family," I said. "To express our condolences on the tragic death of her stepdaughter."

  "Yeah," he said, "that was a helluva thing, wasn't it. First her husband, then Marcia. The poor woman is really taking a hit. Listen, would you object if I lighted up a stogie? If it would bother you, just tell me."

  "Not at all," I assured him. "Go right ahead."

  We were silent while he extracted a cigar from a handsome pigskin case. He bit off the tip and spat it onto the floor at his feet. He used an old, battered Zippo lighter, which made me wonder how much he knew about cigars. No connoisseur of good tobacco would use anything but a wooden match.

  "I guess you and Louise had a long talk," he said, puffing away and blowing the smoke out his partly opened window.

  "We did," I admitted. "She seemed in the need of a sympathetic listener."

  "Uh-huh," he said. "That's what I've been trying to be. She tells me you talked to Marcia the afternoon before she was killed."

  "That's correct."

  "And that lunatic kid said she was going to ask me for money so she could get her own apartment."

  "Heck," I said, "if Mrs. Hawkin told you that, she's confused. I said only that Marcia spoke of a business deal she was planning. It was Mrs. Hawkin who suggested she was going to ask you for money."

  "That figures," he said, showing me a warped grin. "Louise is a little nutsy these days. But that's neither here nor there. What I really want to talk about is Theo's pre-nuptial agreement. Let's see if I've got this clear. Chauncey comes to you and tells you about it. But he's afraid to tell his mother because then she might put the kibosh on the marriage. Have I got that right?"

  "You've got it."

  "And what did you tell him to do, Arch?"

  "Not to sign anything until I had a chance to think about it."

  "That was smart," Johnson said. "So you thought about it and figured Chauncey could sign the agreement without telling mommy. That's what you told Theo-correct?"

  "Correct."

  "Now I get the picture," he said. "He'll sign if you tell him to?"

  "I think he will."

  "Sure he will. We get a shyster to draw up the papers, Chauncey signs, and his mother and your father know nothing about it. It's our secret."

  "That's right, Heck."

  He turned slowly to look at me. "So why do we need you?" he demanded. "You've already told us how to handle it."

  "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.

  17

  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.

  "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."