McNally's risk

'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 wonton 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.