McNally's chance (mcnally)

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Damn your tricks, mister. You tell me what you know or I’ll sue you from here to hell and back again.”

  I heard a voice in the background that I assumed to be Silvester’s wanting to know what was happening. Without bothering to cover the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand in the time-honored tradition, Sabrina told her husband to ‘shut up.” A moment later she was back on my case.

  “Did you hear me?” she shouted.

  “Let’s not lose our heads, Ms Wright. You hired me to do a job and in the course of my investigations on your behalf, I was approached by this individual. Still acting on your behalf, I told him just why you were in Palm Beach. The truth, Ms Wright. I told him the truth or should I say, I told him what you told me?”

  “What are you getting at?” She was practically ranting. A stratagem I would never have attributed to the fair Ms Frigidaire. Was her hair in disarray? Doubtful. But I bet Silvester’s was.

  To be sure, her response spoke volumes. “I’m getting at nothing,” I lied, ‘but before you have your attorney present me with papers just remember who I will call to bear witness on my behalf.”

  That did it. The tornado fizzled into a languid breeze. “Mr. McNally, forgive me. You must understand what’s happening here. Without warning I get a call telling me I am about to hear from someone I have not seen or heard from in thirty years. Someone with whom my emotional involvement led to dire consequences. Is it any wonder I lost my cool?”

  “No, ma’am. But don’t blame me. I thought I was being helpful.”

  “You are, Mr. McNally. You are.” She had it all together once again and like a good general was now sensibly getting the lay of the land.

  “What does he want? Did he say?”

  “He wants to make sure that you will never betray him.”

  “Didn’t you tell him I was down here for that very purpose?”

  I told her I had done just that. “But he’s worried. He’s most upset that you told Gillian her point of origin.”

  “So am I. I made two mistakes in my lifetime,” she philosophized. “One was opening my heart, the other was opening my mouth. I parlayed the first to my advantage and I will not allow the second to negate what I worked to achieve. I thought Gillian would be more sensible about my plight and empathize with what I had done for her. Instead, she insists on going against my wishes and digging up the past. It is not acceptable, Mr. McNally.”

  It would never occur to Sabrina Wright that had she been a more empathetic mother, Gillian might not be obsessed with finding her father whom she hoped might give her the love Sabrina had forgot to include along with fancy Swiss finishing schools and a generous monthly allowance.

  I, too, had made a mistake. Calling the lady to warn her of the voice from the past with which she would have to deal in the immediate future. Instead of a thank you I got flak, which just shows to go you that the most perceptive seer of the twentieth century was the great Dorothy Parker who preached: The do-gooders of the world are the louses of the world. Case closed.

  “Mr. McNally,” my nemesis said, ‘can you assure me that no one else on our planet knows who he is?”

  “If they do, they didn’t hear it from me, and they never will.”

  Not able to let go until she had tried one more time, she questioned,

  “And you will not tell me what compelled said person to call you?”

  “No, ma’am. I will not.”

  “Then I think our business is concluded, Mr. McNally. I will deal with my friend.” Getting in the last word, she bid me, “Good day. I wish I could say it has been a pleasure.”

  Bitch was the only word that came to mind as I dropped the phone. I wondered how much of our conversation she was going to repeat to Silvester. I would imagine he had heard enough to know what was afoot, and wasn’t he as curious as Gillian to know the name of his wife’s former lover? That name, by the bye, never passed our lips the whole time we talked, a fact that was going to soon boomerang and hit Archy on the back of his unsuspecting noodle.

  “I will deal with my friend,” Sabrina had said. The irresistible force was going to go head-on with the immovable object. Who, or what, would give remained to be seen. I would have to go head-on with Lolly Spindrift when I reported that the exclusive I had promised him with Sabrina Wright was off. That would cost me a fortune in willing and dining to appease his rage.

  Speaking of which, I was in need of a drink and what I got was Binky Watrous and the afternoon mail.

  “Well, if it isn’t Hannah Homemaker, in person. What’s new at the trailer court, young man?”

  With a fervent gushing I found boring, if not offensive, Binky informed me in great detail. Binky does not understand that a simple “How are you?” is a greeting, not a question.

  “I signed my lease and Mrs. Rutherford gave me a key and a coffee mug with my name on it. Compliments of the Palm Court.”

  Compliments of the management? Did everyone at the Palm Court have a coffee mug with their name on it? Al Rogoff had never mentioned owning such a piece of crockery but then there was much the sergeant didn’t admit to. “And when does the actual move take place?” I asked as if I cared.

  “I already started, Archy. I brought my shaving gear over this morning and most of my clothes. I’m going to sleep over tonight.”

  Not without his Victoria’s Secret collection, I bet. The shaving gear brought to mind the mustache Binky used to sport when he was in love with a girl who fancied men with hairy upper lips in the tradition of Gable and William Powell. Binky’s was a pale blond affair that was all but invisible except when it got rained on. Then it resembled the tassels of a wilted ear of corn.

  And I introduced myself to some of my neighbors,” he gushed on like a garden hose that had sprung a leak.

  I foresaw a mass exodus from the Palm Court that might cause the waters of Lake Worth to part. “What neighbors?” I asked as if I cared, and I did.

  “Bianca Courtney.” This was accompanied by a grin that brought to mind a cat who has just moved next door to a creamery. “Do you remember her, Archy?”

  I pretended to ponder the question before answering, “Vaguely. A chubby thing with a poor complexion.”

  “No way, Archy. Bianca is a dish. She invited me in for a cup of coffee.”

  Wasn’t that nice. Please understand that for obvious reasons Binky and I have never competed for the affections of a lady fair and I wasn’t about to start now. That said, the memory of a pretty lass getting into her Mercedes is something that sticks to your ribs, like a hearty breakfast of eggs and porridge. And, as Binky didn’t stand a chance with this one I saw no reason to withdraw in his favor.

  “Did she have a mug with her name on it?” I wanted to know.

  “No, Archy. We drank from proper china cups, with saucers. Bianca is a lady.”

  Saucers certainly attested to good breeding. Could she be the victim of impoverished gentry, hence the motor court digs and the job as companion to a rich old lady? In short, a latter-day Jane Eyre? If so, Binky Watrous was not her Mr. Rochester and the Palm Court was no Thornwood. Picking up the packet of envelopes Binky had deposited on my desk, I made a show of looking for one that was affixed with a first-class stamp. And what did you and the lady discuss, Binky? The joys of living in a corridor?”

  A bit sheepishly, or so I thought, he said, “As a matter of fact, Archy, your name came up over the coffee and croissants.”

  Croissants? Not Jane Eyre, but Julia Child. Bless her heart. Binky was about as subtle as the writing on a latrine wall. Al Rogoff had told us of Bianca’s quandary and even chanced that we were at the Palm Court at her bidding. To impress his neighbor, Binky had told her that his best friend ran Discreet Inquiries, explained its function, and, no doubt, hinted that he was in some way associated with the agency.

  What did I think of all this? I loved it. Someplace in the back of my wicked, scheming, conniving, and perverted mind I was thinking of just such a ploy to insinuate myself into the c
onfidence, and perhaps the arms, of Bianca Courtney. How, was the question, and lo, Binky was the answer. Unthinking to be sure, but then few of Binky’s actions are accompanied by thought. Conclusion: if Bianca and I hit it off, it’s all Binky’s fault.

  To be sure, I wasn’t going to tell him this. Let ‘em squirm was my modus operandi. Wide-eyed, I questioned, “My name? In what connection, pray tell?”

  He told, adding, “I mentioned that I often help in your inquiries.”

  Just as I suspected. “Really, Binky? Refresh my memory.”

  “Well,” he said, ‘remember that party at Manalapan Beach when I drove the pretty girl’s car to your house so you could follow with her in your car?”

  And Hobo bit you and you wanted to sue.”

  “I was crippled, Archy.”

  “You had a scratch on your ankle.”

  Leaning on his mail cart as if to accentuate his former injury, he tried again. “What about the time I got a job in the pet store so you could follow up a lead?”

  And the parrot bit you.”

  Grasping at straws, he uttered, “When your sister was here last Christmas, I took little Darcy to the beach.”

  And little Darcy bit you. Let’s face it, Binky, you bring out the feral instincts in man and beast. It could be your cologne.” I stopped him from extolling the merits of Old Spice by returning to the point of this dialogue: “Did you tell Bianca I would call upon her for details of this alleged crime?”

  “Sort of. You see, Archy, as much as she wants to hire you, she can’t afford you.”

  I nodded my understanding in the grave manner of a doctor telling a patient the operation needed to save his life was priced beyond his means and referring him to the doc’s brother-in-law, who happened to be an undertaker. “There’s no charge for the initial interview; after that we can see what we can do.”

  “Like pro bono,” Binky spouted.

  A few months of hauling mail in a law office and the guy spoke as if he were delivering scrolls to the Roman senate. “When did you say I might call, Binky?”

  “I didn’t, Archy, but I’ll ask her tonight. She’s invited me to dinner, seeing as my kitchen isn’t set up as yet.”

  “How neighborly. What’s she making, did she say?”

  “Chinese takeout,” Binky blustered like it was the bill of fare at the Ritz.

  “With three you get egg roll,” I told him.

  “We’ll only be two, Archy.”

  Sometimes I wondered if under that head of droopy blond hair there wasn’t a wise guy screaming to get out.

  Ten

  That evening, I got in my swim, showered, parted my freshly washed hair neatly on the left, and combed the remainder straight back in imitation of the young Ronald Reagan in his Warner Bros, hey days Not bad. Troy Appleton’s wife wasn’t the only one who knew how to use someone else’s coiffure to win friends and get out the vote.

  Satisfied with what I saw in the mirror (I’m very easy with me) I dabbed a bit of my personal and very expensive scent onto the back of my neck, donned a pair of Newport red Bermuda shorts over a matching shade of cotton briefs, and pulled a blue sweatshirt, emblazoned with a foot-long white Y, over my head. I never wear the thing in father’s presence as it evokes stares and sighs of woe that would have neighbors believe the McNallys were putting on a revival of Oedipus with a Greek chorus of one.

  Actually, I wore it last winter when I took Connie to a performance of Puns of Steel by the Princeton Triangle Club at the Alexander W.

  Dreyfoos Jr School of Arts in

  West Palm. Connie was embarrassed but I got a round of applause from the Elis present.

  Regardless of the effect the lettered shirt has on the pater, the outfit would never do for family dining were he at home. When breaking bread with the help in the kitchen on a balmy summer night, it was perfect.

  I mixed myself a proper Sterling vodka martini in the den before joining Ursi and Jamie. I must say, I am certainly making the most of the master’s absence, which, alas, must soon come to an end. Nothing is forever and rightly so, for I do miss mother.

  “Roast chicken with lemon and herbs,” Ursi recited the bill of fare as I entered. Jamie had his nose buried in the evening paper with a bottle of beer before him. “And don’t you look sporty, Archy.”

  “Thank you, Ursi. I do have good legs, don’t I?”

  This got Jamie to look up, scan my legs, and go back to his paper. A no comment, I’ve always thought, is the most telling comment of all.

  “What do we get with the chicken, Ursi?”

  “Rice pilaf and a romaine salad with buttermilk dressing,” she answered. “Very light and easy and just the thing for a hot summer night, don’t you think?”

  I did think. But, for starters, Ursi couldn’t resist passing around one of her specialties. Miniature pizzas, no more than two bites per munch, with a variety of toppings. Not very light fare, but then they were just to get the juices flowing. Jamie, who drinks his beer straight from the bottle, put aside his paper to concentrate on the tray of finger food his wife had placed on the table.

  “Now tell us all about Sabrina Wright,” Ursi said as she puttered around the stove. “Did you find her daughter?”

  “Let’s say her daughter gave herself up,” I told them. “The family is now together at The Breakers.”

  “And the young man?” Ursi asked, opening the oven from which the aroma of lemon chicken escaped to tantalize my taste buds.

  “He’s with her,” I said.

  “In the same room?” As she spoke, Jamie reached for a tidbit of bread, cheese, tomato sauce, and anchovy but froze to await my answer.

  “No, Ursi. They are in separate but adjoining rooms.”

  “Is there a connecting door?” Jamie’s voice so startled us we stared at him as if he were daft. Picking up his mini pizza he popped it into his mouth.

  “Don’t be crude,” his wife reproached him. “Besides, connecting doors can be locked.”

  “From either side,” Jamie said, scanning the tray for his next assault on the minis.

  It was so unusual to hear the Olsons engaged in spirited repartee that I had allowed Jamie to get one up on me on the crusty delights. I had had an anchovy, a pepperoni, and a broccoli. I spotted another anchovy and got there before Jamie. He shot me a look and fished up a plain cheese-and-sauce. That should teach him to keep his eyes upon the food and his mind off bedroom doors.

  “So your case is closed,” Ursi said.

  “It is,” I answered, knowing I was making a public statement in the privacy of my home just like the musings of the man in the Oval Office.

  “Is Sabrina Wright going to allow them to wed?” Ursi asked, removing the chicken from the oven.

  “She can’t stop them,” I said. “Her daughter is of age, and so is her beau.”

  Under different circumstances I would have gone into more details of the case with Ursi and Jamie, but that would mean hearing the below-stairs gossip regarding Sabrina’s visit. Should the Appleton name wend its way into the conversation I didn’t want to risk having to avoid hearing it. Jamie Olson may be as vocal as a clam but he is also as slippery as an eel. Therefore I was relieved when Ursi announced dinner. “Are you going to have wine, Archy?” she asked, bringing the platter of lemon chicken to the already set table. The chickens had been expertly quartered by Ursi herself, garnished with parsley, and presented with the rice pilaf.

  “I think I’ll stick with beer tonight,”I said, unfolding my napkin and placing it on my lap.

  In lieu of grace Ursi said a “Bon appetit.”

  We had the romaine salad with our meal crisp and cool and dipped into a Dutch apple crumb cake for dessert along with iced Caffe Verona, ground fresh at our local Starbucks. I went up to my aerie sated, got out my journal, and recorded my last conversation with Sabrina Wright, officially ending the case. Having done my duty, I poured myself a marc and lit an English Oval in celebration of not having had one all day. Here, as often
happens when I’m alone in my allotted space long past sunset, I ruminated on man’s inhumanity to man and to Archy McNally in particular.

  Binky had gotten his own pad, and Connie was, once again, tossing out hints as shrouded as hand grenades that Archy do the same. What she really wanted was to begin the begat, as the Good Book encouraged. I was very comfortable where I was and not yet ready for the dubious benefits of love and marriage.

  Last evening, as predicted, we did go back to her place, a high-rise condo on the east shore of Lake Worth, a one-bedroom affair with a great view from her tiny balcony. I have been there so often I know she keeps the Absolut in the freezer and that you have to jiggle the handle of the toilet to avoid a perpetual flush.

  She played her Spanish tapes, which are Greek to me, and after many passionate kisses which, like a spider’s web, leads to a fly’s undoing, we retreated to the bedroom where a framed poster of the film Casablanca hangs over the bed. We undressed with all the nonchalance of an old married couple.

  Sparks didn’t fly, but neither did they fizzle. We knew each other’s erogenous zones and played them like skilled pianists on the closing night of a long tour. Okay, I’m making it sound far worse than it was.

  The truth is, it’s sometimes better than the first time but not all the time. Would marriage and a family make a difference? If so, how? For better or for worse? And don’t you just know why the marriage vow covers both possibilities and all the stops between?

  When Dora, my sister, visits on the holidays, do I look upon her, my brother-in-law, Ted, and their three lovely children with a wistful eye? Do I grow a little sentimental when I enter the kitchen just as Ursi’s soap is interrupted by a commercial for Disneyland? The answer to both is certainly I do.

  However, as the Bard spoke of music’s charm, Archy speaks of our modern-day poets, namely the lyricists, who give voice to the plaintive airs. “Down in the depths on the ninetieth floor’ or ‘high as a flag on the Fourth of July,” these word smiths never fail to come up with a phrase to sum up our sentiments in twenty-five words or less. Lionel Bart said it for me when, in his musical, Oliver, he has Nancy rationalizing the fact that Bill Sikes will never marry her. Nancy says of wedded bliss, “Though it sometimes touches me. For the likes of such as me. Mine’s a fine, fine life.” Charlie D. couldn’t have said it better.