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.