"I don't understand," I said, understanding very well. "Involved in what?"

"That's what I like," Hector said, addressing the other man. "A closemouthed guy. Archy don't blab either. Well, a few days ago this Chauncey Smythe-whatever, a fellow my daughter has been dating, comes to me and says he wants to marry Theo and he wants my approval. Can you top that? In this day and age he wants the father's permission before he pops the question. Is that nutsy or what?"

He looked at me to gauge my astonishment.

"Amazing," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "This Chauncey-hey, Arch, what in hell kind of a name is Chauncey?"

"I believe it's of French derivation."

"No kidding? Well, this Chauncey works in a bank and I guess he's got mucho dinero. You know anything about that?"

He was, I decided, one brash lad. "I don't believe the Smythe-Hersforth family is hurting," I said carefully.

"Uh-huh," he said, shoveling in more coleslaw, "that's what I thought. Well, that's all to the good; every father wants to see his little girl well-provided for. But from what he said I figure his mama holds the purse strings. Am I right? Hey, let's have another round of beers."

And without waiting for our acquiescence he did his finger-snapping shtick again. I was glad he did because it gave me time to frame a discreet answer to the question about who controlled the Smythe-Hersforth millions. But I needn't have bothered; Hector didn't pause for a reply.

"The reason I figured that," he continued, "is because this guy who wants to be my son-in-law told me his mother asked her lawyers to investigate my daughter. Is that right, Arch?"

If the Chinless Wonder had been there at that moment I could have cheerfully throttled the numskull, possibly by force-feeding him a dozen of those colossal tongue sandwiches.

I realized I had no choice but to tell the truth, even though it is foreign to my nature. "That's correct, Heck," I said. "I have been assigned the job of gathering information about your daughter."

Unexpectedly he accepted it quite good-naturedly. "I can understand that," he said. "Can't you, Rube? The old lady's got a lot of loot and she doesn't want her sonny boy falling into the hands of a gold digger. Isn't that about it?"

"Something like that," I agreed, taking a deep swallow of my beer.

"Sure," Reuben Hagler put in. "If I was the old lady, I'd be doing the same time. Smart-know what I mean?"

"Absolutely," Johnson said. "She's protecting her own, and who can blame her for that? So I went to Theo and asked her if she really liked this guy. And she-"

"Wait a minute," I interrupted, suddenly horrified. "You didn't tell Theo I was investigating her, did you?"

"Hell, no!" Hector said, drowning his remaining fries in catsup. "Positively not! Because that girl's got a lot of pride, and if she knew she was being tracked she'd have dumped that Chauncey so fast he wouldn't know what hit him. No, I didn't tell her, Arch; I just asked if she wanted to marry Chauncey, and she said she did. So I phoned him and gave him the go-ahead."

Both men looked at me, and I wondered what they were expecting me to say. All I could manage was a weak, "You gave him permission to propose to Theo?"

"That's right," Hector went on. "He seems like an okay guy. Maybe not too swift, if you know what I mean, but solid. You agree, Arch?"

"Oh yes," I said, wanting to add "especially between the ears," but didn't.

"So now," Hector said, "the only thing standing in the way of these two swell kids getting hitched, as far as I can see, is the report you deliver to Chauncey's mommy. When I first told Rube about all this, he said I should offer you, you know, like a nice tip. But that's how Rube thinks- always dollars and cents."

"It's my way," Hagler said tonelessly.

"But I told him if I did that you'd be insulted. Was I right?"

I couldn't believe this totally inane conversation was taking place. Larry, Moe, and Curly were gobbling tongue sandwiches and discussing the fate of a lovely young woman. Where were Abbott and Costello when they were so sorely needed? And who's on first?

"You were quite right," I told Hector. "I would have been insulted."

"Sure you would. Because you're a straight arrow; I knew that from the start. You haven't heard anything bad about Theo, have you?"

"Not a word," I said. "No gossip. Not a hint of scandal. Nothing."

"And you won't find anything," he assured me. "That girl is true-blue, believe me. So that's what you'll tell old lady Smythe-whatshername?"

"If I had to report today," I said, "that's what I'd tell her."

If he caught my tergiversation he gave no sign of it. "That's great!" he enthused. "Listen, Rube and I have got to run. But I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for having a nosh so we could clear the air. I'm happy to know you're on our side."

We finished our beers and rose to depart. I noticed that not Hector Johnson but Reuben Hagler paid for lunch, and with a hundred-dollar bill. We walked outside into the afternoon sunshine. We all shook hands. Hagler's grip was cool and surprisingly boneless. I thanked them for lunch and we all agreed to do it again real soon.

I paused to light a cigarette. I watched them get into Johnson's white Lincoln and jazz away. Those two, I reflected, were definitely not gentlemen. But then, on occasion, neither am I.

I drove back to Palm Beach in a fractious mood. I was furious with the Chinless Wonder for telling his prospective father-in-law that the bride-to-be was being investigated. How dense can you get? But then I sighed and acknowledged the man was what he was-a brainless twit-and there was no point in getting angry at what God hath wrought. As Groucho Marx said, "Why wax wroth; let Roth wax you for a change."

Still reviewing that crazy luncheon, I concluded it was a clear case of attempted manipulation. If I was naive, which I trust I am not, I would have said Hector Johnson was simply a concerned father who wanted only the best for his "little girl" and would do whatever he could to insure her happiness.

But I could not believe his motives were as innocent as that. For instance, his mentioning that Reuben Hagler had suggested I be offered a "tip" for a favorable opinion on Theo was surely a trial balloon to test my mendacity. If I had expressed even a mild interest, I'm sure our conversation would immediately have degenerated into vulgar haggling. To wit: How much did I want to turn in an A-plus report card on his daughter?

The whole thing was a Jeroboam of annelids. What had begun as a simple investigation of the character of a young woman had become as complex as an inquiry into the causes of the Seven Years' War. And I was certain more surprises awaited me.

Sure enough, one was awaiting when I drove into the underground garage of the McNally Building. The moment I dismounted from the Miata, Herb, our porcine security guard, came bustling over, his huge revolver in its dogleg holster slapping against his thigh.

"You got a visitor, Mr. McNally," he said. "Been waiting a long time."

"Oh?" I said. "Where? In my office? The reception room?"

"Nah," he said, jerking a thumb. "Over there."

I turned to look. A black Jeep Cherokee. Marcia Hawkin. "Oh lordy," I said aloud and stared about wildly for an escape route. But I was doomed. The Cherokee door swung open, a white arm beckoned. I shuffled over, dreading another go-around with that young lady. And her greeting did nothing to relieve my angst.

"Where have you been?" she demanded angrily.

I wished I had my father's gift of raising one eyebrow. "Luncheon," I said. "People do have them, you know."

"Get in," she commanded imperiously.

I got in, wondering how I could possibly connive to drop off this spacey child at the nearest day-care center.