McNally's Risk (28 page)

"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.

"Garlicky dressing," Theo said.

"My fault," I confessed. "I asked for it."

"I'm not complaining," she said. "I love it."

I snuck glances at her as she ate. Mr. Pettibone was right; beauty
is
power. I mean she was so lovely that one was rendered senseless. I could understand why the Chinless Wonder would sign
anything
to win her, to have and to hold, till divorce doth them part.

"Do you think I'm wanton, Archy?" she asked suddenly.

That puzzled me because I thought she had said w
onton
and I couldn't see how she could possibly resemble Chinese kreplach. Then I guessed she had said
wantin'
as Leroy had just asked, "You wanting?" Finally I decided she had really meant
wanton:
lustful, bawdy. I think my confusion is understandable.
Wanton
is a written word. Have you ever heard it spoken?

"No, Theo," I said, "I don't think you're wanton. Just a free spirit."

"Free?"
she said with a crooked grin. "Don't you believe it. It costs."

Did she mean it cost her or cost others? I didn't know and couldn't guess. This woman never ceased to surprise and amaze. I was no closer to kenning her essential nature than I was the first time we shook hands at the Pristine Gallery.

"Theo," I said, "something is obviously troubling you. Would you like to tell me about it? Perhaps I can help."

"No," she said immediately. "But thanks. I can handle it. I always have."

"You're very independent," I told her.

"Yes," she agreed, "and I think that's my problem. It just kills me to have to rely on other people. I know I have to do it, but I don't like it."

"You're referring to Chauncey?"

"Chauncey. His mother. My father. You."

"Me?" I said, astonished. "What on earth do you rely on me for?"

"A four-letter word beginning with F."

I pondered. "Fool? Fuss? Fill?"

She laughed. "You know what I mean. I wish we had time this afternoon. But there will be other afternoons. Right, Archy?"

She was more riddles than I could count but the largest made me groggy when I tried to solve it. Was she aware of my role in her affairs and enlisting my support by letting her blue butterfly soar? Or was she genuinely attracted to me and needed my enthusiastic cooperation as an antidote to the numbing company of CW and his forbidding mama?

The enigma I faced was hardly original or unique. It faces every man when a woman acquiesces. Is it from profit or desire? The Shadow knows.

We sat quietly in that deserted room for another half-hour. I had a second glass of wine, but Theo declined a third martini. I don't recall what we spoke of. I have a dazed memory of murmurs, small laughs, a few sad smiles. I had a feeling, totally irrational, that this afternoon in a waning light was a farewell. I can't explain it but I had the sense of a departure, a leave-taking.

I believe Theo had the same impression, for just before we rose to leave she reached across the table to pat my hand.

"Thank you, Archy," she said softly, "for all you've done for me."

I was grateful for her sentiment, of course, but it did nothing to unravel the mystery of Theodosia Johnson.

I signed the tab at the bar and we went out to our cars. I think there was much we both wanted to say and neither had the courage. But perhaps I was fantasizing. There's a lot of that going around these days. I wondered if we would kiss on parting but we didn't; we shook hands.

I drove back to the beach in a dullish mood. It seemed to me that our luncheon conversation had been inconclusive to the point of incoherence. I had to admit I simply didn't know Madam X. And so, when I arrived home, I reacted as I customarily do when confronted with a world-class brainteaser: I took a nap.

It was an uneventful evening at the McNally manse. Casual talk during the cocktail hour and dinner was mainly concerned with Lady Cynthia Horowitz's buffet on Tuesday night. Her engraved invitation had specified informal attire, and I declared that permitted Bermuda shorts and no socks. Naturally my father objected strenuously to such an interpretation. His idea of "informal attire" is appearing in public without a vest.

I returned to my cell after dinner to prepare for my ten o'clock brannigan with Hector Johnson. I was tempted to phone Sgt. Rogoff and remind him of his assignment as a confederate concealed in the McNally garage. But on further reflection I decided not to call. Al hates to be nudged. He said he'd be there and I knew he would.

I spent the remaining time rehearsing my lines, attempting to imagine Hector's responses, and devising my rebuttals. It all seemed so simple, so logical and neat, I saw no way he could escape the trap I was setting for him. I might as well have pledged allegiance to the Easter Bunny.

When my phone rang about nine-thirty I plucked it up, hoping it was Rogoff calling to confirm our arrangement. It was Hector Johnson.

"Arch?" he said. "Listen, I think we better change our schedule."

"But you—"

"I just don't feel comfortable driving around at night with this much cash in the car."

"We could—"

"Too many outlaws on the road these days," he charged ahead, ignoring my attempted interruptions. "The best thing is for you to come over to my place. Theo is having dinner at her guy's home so we'll be able to have a one-on-one and maybe a few belts to grease the wheels of commerce, if you know what I mean. So you just drop by at ten o'clock."

"Heck, I don't—"

"I'll be waiting for you," he said and hung up.

I sat stunned, my battle plan reduced to shredded wheat. I now had no doubt whatsoever that Hector had never intended to replay our first meeting. His last-minute change of setting was made to insure that he would not be caught in a snare, which was exactly what I had planned for him. No dummy, our Mr. Johnson.

It appeared to me that I had few options. I could phone him back immediately and postpone our get-together. But to what avail? We could set a different time, a different place, but Hector would surely make yet another revision at the last moment. I might curse his strategy but I had to admire it. Skilled one-upmanship.

Naturally I phoned Sgt. Rogoff. I tried his home first and received a curt reply from his answering machine. I left a message. Then I called police headquarters. He wasn't in his office and the duty officer informed me his present whereabouts were unknown. But if he called in, I was assured, he would be told to contact yrs. truly at once.

Snookered.

Deep, deep thoughts. Pros. Cons. The odds. The risks. Did I dare? Reuben Hagler was in the Fort Lauderdale clink so Johnson would be my sole antagonist. Could I take him? Could he take me?

I suspect you may think me an epicene lad with an overweening interest in wine, women, and song. (Not too heavy on the song, and I could live without wine.) It is true I am something of a coxcomb but I am not completely incapable of self-defense or violent physical action should it become necessary. I have played lacrosse at New Haven and rugby in South Florida. What I'm trying to convey is that my muscles are not spaghettini even though my brain may be Silly Putty.

And so I sallied forth to dance a pas de deux with Hector Johnson, papa of the unknowable Madam X.

The first thing I did after exiting was to search our three-car garage, hoping to find Al Rogoff lurking in the shadows. He was not. And during the early moments of my drive I tried to spot Al's parked squad car or pickup. No luck. I was on my own.

The Johnsons' condo was brightly lighted and Hector opened the door before I knocked. He was grinning, and he grabbed my arm and pulled me inside with a great show of boisterous good-fellowship.

"Glad you could make it, Arch!" he shouted. "Sorry about the change of plans, but I figure it's better this way. Am I right?"

"Sure, Heck," I said.

He practically pushed me onto that cretonne couch of recent fond memory.

"Hey," he said, looming over me, "I'm having a Chivas. How about you?"

"No, thanks," I said. "I've been drinking wine and it's instant blotto to mix the grape and the grain. But you go ahead."

"I was just pouring a refill when you pulled up," he said. "Be right back."

He went into the kitchen. I didn't think he was sozzled, but he wasn't stone sober either. I wanted him to keep drinking, figuring it might impair his coordination if things turned nasty. He returned with a full glass and no ice cubes that I could see.

"Your daughter is having dinner with her fiancé?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, plopping down in an armchair facing me. "She drove the Lincoln. That guy of hers is a real stiff, isn't he? What Theo sees in him I'll never know."

"Maybe she sees five million dollars," I suggested.

His expression didn't change, but he took a deep gulp of his Scotch. "I'm glad you brought that up, Arch," he said. "Listen, I got bad news. I know I told you I had fifty grand and I did, but now I don't. I was depending on a pal to help me out, but he's in a bind and can't come up with the gelt. Arch, I'm really, truly sorry about this, and you have every right to be pissed. I mean I think you're in the right to ask for a finder's fee and if I had it I'd be happy to hand it over with a smile. But like they say, you can't get blood from a turnip. I only wish there was some other way we could work this out."

The opening I had hoped for . . .

I was silent a moment, looking at him thoughtfully. "There may be, Heck. And it won't cost you any cash."

He took another swig. "No money?" he said. "Then what do you want?"

"That painting you bought from Marcia Hawkin."

"What painting?" he cried. "What the hell are you talking about?"