“Charlene, that was her name. Charlie’s girl. She divorced the actor and married one of the Cassini brothers. Not the dress designer. The one who wrote a gossip column. Then she took her own life, man. Charlene, that is. Sleeping pills it was. Very tragic. Do you know why she did it, Archy?”
“No, sir, I don’t.” And I hoped he wasn’t going to tell me.
“Neither do I. Thought the Capote book would have something to say about it. Which reminds me, Archy. I got a call from a dealer in California. He says a porter at the Greyhound Bus Depot in Los Angeles, who was in charge of breaking open the lockers of people who rent them and never return to claim what they stored, contacted him. It seems the man found a manuscript in one of those lockers years ago. The man was a closet collector, and he took the manuscript home to add to his cache of other items he had found in unclaimed lockers. The man is now retired. Well, he was watching a biography of Truman Capote on the television and...”
This is where I came in—so I left.
On the way out, Sam Zimmermann gave me a neatly packaged box of his mini-pastries.
“Why, thank you,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“That’s why you got them, sir.”
I charred burgers on Georgy’s little outdoor grill. She was making fries from a package of frozen shoestring potatoes and an iceberg and romaine salad mix that came cut and washed in a plastic bag. The Thousand Island dressing came in a squeezable plastic bottle. When it comes to convenience shopping, Georgy girl has no peer.
“I work odd hours, Archy,” she defended herself. “I don’t have the time to fuss.”
Strangely enough, I rather enjoyed the meal. In fact, it was hard not to enjoy yourself in Georgy’s company.
“We make a good team,” she said while passing the ketchup. It, too, came in a squeezable plastic bottle. “I wish you could have seen Whitehead’s face when you opened the door.” Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds.
Needless to say, Georgy’s boss was overjoyed with the results of our little operation and was putting her in for a commendation along with Swathmoore and the other rookie, Anita Doolittle.
“It was all thanks to me, and what do I get for my sweat, blood and tears? Not to mention my remarkable noodle.”
“You’re a genius, Archy.”
“I’m not,” I said. “But knowing I’m not makes me smarter than most.”
“And what you get is a hefty fee from Fortesque,” she pointed out. “How much do you make, Archy?”
“That’s a most indelicate question for a young lady to ask.”
“I’m not a very delicate lady,” she confessed. “I do okay, but Uncle Sam zaps me. I would do better filing a joint return.”
“For that you need a husband.”
“How odd you should bring up that word. Is it on your mind, Archy?”
“What’s on my mind would make you blush.”
“Really? Try me.”
We watched Hotel Berlin, and it was as campy and enjoyable as I remembered it from previous screenings in New York and New Haven at cinemas that specialize in showing movies that were made before they became something called “films.”
I didn’t tell Georgy about Dantine’s marriage to the oil baron’s daughter, leaving ancient gossip and scandals to the master, Decimus Fortesque.
Instead, I showed off and said, “Did you know that Helmut Dantine was in Casablanca?”
“No.”
“He was.” I nodded sagely. “Might have been his first film. He plays Jan Brandel, the Bulgarian who tries to win at Rick’s roulette table to save his wife’s virtue. A bit part for which he didn’t get a credit.”
Georgy was impressed. “I’ll rent Casablanca for our next night at the movies.”
It was almost midnight when I left the gingerbread cottage. I beeped the landlady on the way down the. drive, and I think she waved. I still hadn’t seen Georgy’s bedroom, but who knows? After watching Bergman leave Bogart in the lurch, would Georgy have the heart to part with me in a similar manner?
Driving through the cool night under a sky full of scudding dark clouds and a half moon, I listened to an instrumental version of “Sentimental Journey” coming from the Miata’s radio and asked myself, “Quo vadis, Archy McNally? Quo vadis?”
Was Connie, at this very moment, driving north? Or had she decided to spend yet another night in Miami and come home in the morning? Or not at all? I don’t think Connie would enjoy being Mrs. Mayor, but then I never thought I would enjoy dinner garnished with the contents from squeezable plastic bottles.
I drove past Dunbar Road to see if Al Rogoff might still be hanging around. I needed a shoulder. But no, the patrol car was gone and all was quiet. The house had been secured once again, and Tyler Beaumont was back in New York.
I stopped for a moment to look at the old mansion that had played host to grand dukes and ex-kings. A cloud obscured the moon for a moment, and I swear I saw a light come on in the upstairs nursery window, where it glowed brilliantly for a few seconds, dimmed and disappeared. In me distance the clang, clang, clang of a fire truck bell pierced the still night.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Archy McNally Series
ONE
I AM LYING FACEDOWN on the leather-padded massage table clad immodestly in my heather-gray briefs while a curvaceous masseuse in a rather abbreviated nurse’s uniform strokes my left hand, one finger at a time. Seductive music—Ravel’s Bolero, I believe—floats on the jasmine-scented air.
Lest you think you walked in on an opiate-induced pipe dream, let me state that I am in the offices of Touch Therapy—A New-Age Approach to Subliminal Relaxation and Human Bonding. This enterprising establishment is located on a pricey stretch of Via Bethesda in pricey Palm Beach, Florida. My auburn-tressed bonding therapist is called Bunny. Probably no relation to Mr. Hefner’s crew, but in her Florence Nightingale attire she looks ready to join the warren.
We are in the converted family room of a former dwelling that has been stripped of all amenities except for a plush rag, the table, a couch that becomes a bed at the flip of a lever, and the type of screen one finds in doctors’ offices. Bunny instructs me to undress behind the screen, stretch out on the table and concentrate on my navel. Well, I think she said navel. With that she leaves the room.
I note the room has another door behind the screen, and it is from this door Bunny emerges, materializing from behind the screen like a benevolent specter. She takes hold of my hand, raises my arm, then releases her grip. My arm remains rigid.
“Tense, tense, tense, Mr. Davis. That will never do. Go limp, go limp,” she implores.
Again she raises my arm and lets go. This time I allow it to sag somewhat.
“Better,” she sighs, “but not much. We have a long way to go, Mr. Davis.”
She fiddles with my fingers then runs a cool hand down my spine, vertebra by vertebra; when she reaches the bottom she giggles. “Oh, Mr. Davis, you naughty man.”
I assume she has just noticed the elastic waistband of my shorts, which are embroidered with the famed biblical scene of Eve being tempted by the serpent. Quite adorable, actually.
I sense the moment has come. If Bunny is a licensed masseuse, I am Linus Pauling. “Your lovely receptionist told me you offered three human bonding techniques to achieve total subliminal relaxation,” I tell her.
“That’s correct, Mr. Davis. Her name, by the way, is Honey. For three hundred dollars we perform the standard hands-on bonding. For double that sum, we offer a more intense approach wherein the therapist interacts with the client in the buff, so to speak.”
“In the buff? You or the client?”
“For a thousand dollars, Mr. Davis, I open the specially designed therapy couch and it’s your call. Honey, by the way, is also a skilled therapist. For two thousand dollars we work as a team. Now if you’ll roll over...”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Bunny.”
“Come, come, Mr. Davis. No need to be shy. I’
m here to relieve the tension. We’ll begin with a simple hands-on and work up from there.”
“Well, if you insist, Bunny.” I roll over, she gawks, then screams. “There, there, Bunny, nothing to be afraid of.” I reach into my shorts and pull out the transmitter. “Welcome to Candid Radio. We’re on the air to several witnesses in my office and being recorded as well. Would you like to give us a few choruses of Love For Sale?”
“Why, you...”
“Easy, Bunny. The technicians must bleep all expletives.”
“What the hell do you want from me?”
“Glad you asked,” I say. “For starters, I want the snaps you took of Mr. Randolph Seymour as the two of you bonded on the Castro convertible. You remember, Bunny, the ones you wanted to sell to Mr. Seymour for ten thousand bucks or, should he refuse, give to his wife for free. I would strongly advise you and Honey to fold up your massage table and move on. I intend to give your radio performance, which includes the Touch Therapy menu, to the police in twenty-four hours.”
Looking around, I added, “By the way, where is your photographer? I’m guessing behind the screen. Hi, Honey, come out, come out, wherever you are.”
“Who the hell are you?” Bunny cries, still slightly dazed. A transmitter is the last thing she expects to see popping out of my shorts.
Honey comes flying out from behind the screen waving the business card she had no doubt taken from the wallet I had foolishly left in the inside pocket of my jacket.
“His name isn’t Davis,” Honey bellows, “it’s McNally. Archy McNally, Discreet Inquirer.”
TWO
(From the Palm Beach Daily News) JACKET REQUIRED
Interview and Photography by Michael Price
Editor’s Note: This is a weekly series of question-and-answer portraits of Palm Beach notables by freelance photographer Michael Price. The subjects will all be photographed wearing the vintage Lilly Pulitzer blazer Price rescued from a thrift shop 10 years ago.
Archy McNally is one of Palm Beach’s most eligible bachelors. He is employed by the prestigious law firm McNally & Son, located in the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. Archy attended Yale University, swims two miles every day (weather permitting), considers himself an avant-garde Beau Brummell and a connoisseur of wine, women and song, not necessarily in that order. His clubs include the Pelican and he was once invited for a drink at the Everglades.
What is the best thing that has ever happened to you?
Being interviewed for JACKET REQUIRED.
What is the worst thing that has ever happened to you?
Being photographed in a Lilly Pulitzer blazer my father donated to a thrift shop forty years ago.
Who is your favorite living screen actress?
Lila Lee.
Who is your favorite living screen actress?
Living screen actress is an oxymoron.
What do you like best about Palm Beach?
Thong bikinis.
What do you like least about Palm Beach?
People in thong bikinis who should know better.
What do you do at McNally & Son?
Everything but windows.
What is your favorite sport?
Watching other people play.
Do you have a pet?
Yes.
Name?
Georgia.
Cat or dog?
Oh, that pet? Sorry. His name is Hobo and he’s a canine of blended heritage.
Who is Georgia?
None of your business.
Thank you, Archy McNally.
My pleasure.
THREE
TENNIS EVERYONE!
It was the height of the season in Palm Beach, where anyone knows a benefit a day keeps ennui away. After the previous night’s encounter with Bunny and Honey and their traveling circus, a bit of good clean fund-raising was just what I needed to restore my faith in humankind.
Malcolm MacNiff’s Tennis Everyone! has long been the town’s premier fund-raiser for those who can afford to fork over five thousand bucks for the privilege of donning their tennis togs (white only on the court, please) to strut their stuff across MacNiff’s courts—one clay, one grass.
Nifty, as he was called at St. Paul’s and still is because boys who prep together stick together, opens his courts once a year for his private scholarship fund benefiting deserving high school graduates who would otherwise never see the inside of a college lecture hall. Nifty’s backyard courts cover five prime acres on the west side of S. Ocean Boulevard.
The downside of being on the west side of the Boulevard is that you have to cross it to get to the beach. The upside is that were you wise as well as rich, you tunneled under the highway, thereby proving the mathematical axiom about a straight line being the shortest distance between two points. The gates to the tunnel were invitingly open on this tropical winter day, but no one seemed eager to leave the party for a stroll on the beach.
Tennis Everyone! redefines “exclusive.” Only one hundred check writers in white can indulge in an afternoon of doubles involving both mixed couples, and ladies only and gentlemen only, all drawn by lots. I would like to report that those chosen to participate in Nifty’s tennis marathon are summoned by a higher power but, alas, this being Palm Beach they are summoned by a coveted invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm MacNiff.
That’s correct. By invitation. So popular is Nifty’s fund-raiser that only those carefully selected by the MacNiffs can give them five grand for the privilege of whacking the hell out of a Spaulding wrapped in fuzzy wool. The uninvited don’t dare show their faces in town on the day of Nifty’s event. The boutiques on Worth Avenue are empty of shoppers and the ladies who lunch are stricken with the vapors or suddenly remember pressing engagements in Nepal and Zimbabwe.
The event’s main attraction is usually a tennis superstar, and today’s chosen was none other than the enfant terrible of the pro circuit, Jackson (Jackie) Barnett. The six-foot-two blond with the looks of a comic strip hero and the temper of a two-year-old was garnering all the attention of the stargazers this afternoon and basking in the adulation.
At Wimbledon he had been cheered, then chased all over London by a titled lady who did or did not catch him, depending on the tabloid you read. He had been offered a million dollars for a five-minute cameo in the film version of this year’s best-selling novel and, most notably, he was applauded by spectators when he flung to the ground the racket that bore his name when it, not the player, failed to answer an opponent’s volley.
Jackie’s name was tossed into the hopper, just like the common folks, so his partners or opponents were strictly the luck of the draw and, to be sure, it was a great party booster each time Nifty pulled the names out of the hat to arrange the foursomes. Ladies who teamed with Jackie screamed when their names were called; the gentlemen, similarly honored, were obliged to square their shoulders and stiffen their upper lips. Losers could look forward to the next lottery, keeping all in a state of happy expectation.
Me? I’m Archy McNally, the only person here by the grace of a higher power, namely, my father, the CEO of McNally & Son, Attorney-at-Law. As representatives of the MacNiff interests we are always on the invited list. Like most firms doing business in Palm Beach, we are forced to subscribe to several charity events each season, though Tennis Everyone! is one of the few I would be sorry to miss. Although my serve leaves something to be desired and my backhand has been referred to as weak, I have a great pair of legs—and in Palm Beach it’s the visuals that matter.
When not at play, guests are invited to nosh at the enormous catered smorgasbord featuring the alpha and omega of party food: grilled filet mignon, sliced by a master carver before your very eyes; poached salmon; pheasant; fried chicken; foie gras; caviar; deviled eggs; every garnish, dip and crudité known to man, including ketchup and mustard for the burgers and hot dogs. Who said the rich aren’t catholic in their tastes?
There were, of course, several portable bars strategically positioned
on the property so that one was never out of sight of a gin and tonic or the young lads and lassies who serve, bus and look so splendid in their black pants, white shirts and black bow ties. Among them I spotted Todd, who waits tables at the Pelican Club on busy Saturday nights. Todd was christened Edward but redubbed himself in anticipation of a career on the silver screen. I don’t think Todd is any improvement over Edward, but it beats Jeb, Rock or Rip. Like many young folks in the surrounding communities, namely Lake Worth and West Palm Beach, Todd survives by toiling for the caterers and restaurants that abound in our upscale resort.
While I hadn’t yet been paired with or against Jackie Barnett, I did get called for the mixed doubles and found myself with a very attractive lady introduced as Holga von Brecht. The von made me wonder if she was a titled lady of German descent, though her accent was strictly New England Yankee. I guessed her age at forty, give or take, but these days she could have been a decade older and either well preserved or well connected to a surgeon with hands of gold.
We were opposite a young man named Joe Gallo and his partner, Vivian Emerson, who was a good deal older than Joe but, like Holga, a looker with a figure to match. Why the name Joe Gallo struck a chord I had no idea and, chosen to serve, didn’t have time to ponder the mystery. We played the allotted three sets and Holga and I took two of them. When we shook hands across the net I believe Vivian shot daggers at Holga. This being Palm Beach I immediately jumped to the conclusion that Joey belonged to Vivian and Holga was trying to make some points that had nothing to do with tennis. Ho-hum and pardon my lack of interest.
Later I drew an all-male foursome and was paired with Lance Talbot, a young man of sudden great wealth, due to his maternal grandmother’s demise. Grandmama was the daughter of a Detroit pioneer who had been on a first-name basis with the Fords, Chryslers, Dodges and Fishers. I recalled that Lance and his grandmother were estranged for years but it seems they kissed and made up just in time to keep Lance a member in good standing of the jet set. Palm Beach is chock-full of such heartwrenching tales.
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