The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  But I answered. It wasn’t Connie. It was Theodosia Johnson.

  “Hey, Archy,” she said, “how would you like to buy a girl a drink?”

  “Love to,” I said. “Do you have any particular girl in mind?”

  “Yes,” she said, laughing, “this girl. Daddy is using the car tonight so you’ll have to come get me.”

  I hesitated. It was a rather dicey situation. After all, she was practically betrothed to the Smythe-Hersforth scion and he was a client of McNally & Son. I decided to express my fears.

  “What about Chauncey?” I asked her. “Mightn’t he object?”

  “He doesn’t own me,” she said coldly. “Besides he just dropped me off after dinner and is on his way home to mommy.”

  “Be there in a half-hour,” I said. “Will casual rags be acceptable?”

  “Pj’s will be acceptable,” she said.

  What a sterling woman!

  I pulled on a silvery Ultrasuede sport jacket over a pinkish Izod and flannel bags, thrust my bare feet into black penny mocs, and paused long enough to swab the phiz with Obsession. Then I dashed.

  I pulled up outside the Johnsons’ condo and Theo exited immediately, pausing just long enough to double-lock her door. Then she came bouncing down to the LeSabre.

  “Archy,” she said, “how many cars do you own?”

  “Just one. But the Miata’s in the garage for an enema. Theo, you look smashing!”

  It was the truth. She was dressed to the tens in honey-colored silk jacket and pantaloons. Her only jewelry was a choker of braided gold, and if the Chinless Wonder had donated that he had more taste than I had given him credit for.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said and leaned forward to kiss my cheek. “Yummy,” she said. “Obsession?”

  “Correct, supernose,” I said. “You know everything, and it’s scary. We’re going to the Pelican Club. Nothing fancy, but the drinks are huge and if you want to sing ‘Mother Machree’ no one will call the cops.”

  “Great,” she said. “My kind of joint.”

  That phrase she used—“My kind of joint”—jangled the old neurons. It sounded like something Pinky Schatz might say. But from the soon-to-be fiancée of Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth?

  I mean we all make critical judgments, usually immediate, of people we meet, based on their appearance, speech, behavior. We instantly decide: He’s a nudnick. She’s a cipher. And so forth. Sometimes these initial impressions are modified or even totally revised after closer acquaintance, but it’s amazing how often first reactions prove to be accurate.

  I had thought Theo Johnson to be a well-bred young lady, independent, emancipated, and rather freewheeling in the morality department. But her saying “My kind of joint” made me wonder if there was a coarser side to her nature I had not heretofore recognized. Does that make me a snob? I thought you had already determined that.

  In any event, my confusion grew. I simply could not categorize this woman; she was truly Madam X. Her taste in clothes and makeup, her table manners and social graces seemed faultless. And, of course, her physical beauty was nonpareil. I think perhaps what I found most inexplicable was her tattoo. It was like finding a hickey on the neck of the Mona Lisa.

  “Where did you and Chauncey dine?” I asked as we sped westward.

  “Cafe L’Europe.”

  “Excellent; I hope you had the veal.”

  “I did,” she said. “Archy, I think you and I enjoy the same things. Don’t you agree?”

  “Oh yes!” I said. “Yes, yes, yes!” And she laughed.

  Jolly Pandemonium was the leitmotiv of the Pelican Club that night. It was at its noisiest and smokiest. Dart players were darting, table-hoppers were hopping, and everyone was guzzling happily and laughing up a typhoon.

  “Uh-huh,” Theo said, glancing around, “I belong here. Is Chauncey a member?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “Didn’t think so,” she said with a wry-crisp smile. “Not his scene. He’s such a fuddy-duddy. I mean he still reads newspapers. Can you believe it?”

  I made no comment but led her into the dining area. Lights were dimmed, dinner was no longer being served, but there were a few couples lingering, holding hands across tables and looking into each other’s eyes for promise. I claimed my favorite corner spot, and we were no sooner seated than Priscilla came sauntering over.

  “You know the reputation of this man?” she asked Theo.

  Madam X actually giggled. “I can imagine,” she said.

  “No, you can’t,” Pris said. “Whenever there’s a full moon he gets long hair on the backs of his hands.”

  “Love it,” Theo said, tilted her head back and bayed a long “Wooooo!” at the ceiling.

  “Just what I need,” Priscilla said. “A couple of loonies.”

  “Enough of your sass,” I said. “We may be loonies but we’re thirsty loonies. Theo?”

  “Wine,” she said promptly.

  “Pinot Grigio?”

  “Just right.”

  “A bottle, please,” I said to Pris. “And try not to crumble the cork.”

  “Keep it up, buster,” she said, “and I’ll crumble your cork.”

  She strolled into the bar area, and Theo laughed. “You’ve known her a long time, Archy?”

  “Years. Her family runs the place. Brother Leroy is our chef. Daddy Simon is bartender-manager. And her mom Jasmine is our housekeeper and den-mother. The Pettibones made the Pelican Club a winner. We were going down the drain before they took over.”

  “I hope you’ll ask me here again.”

  I didn’t quite know how to reply to that, but I was saved by Priscilla serving our wine. Chilled just right and with a slight flowery aroma.

  Theo sipped. “Loverly,” she said. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. I was in the doldrums.”

  “I’ve visited the doldrums,” I said. “Miserable place. It’s near the pits, isn’t it?”

  “Too near,” she said, not smiling.

  We drank our wine slowly, comfortable with each other. What a selfish delight it was to be in the company of such a beautiful woman. I tried not to stare at her but it was difficult to resist. “Feasting your eyes” is the cliché, and mine were famished.

  “I know so little about you,” I mentioned casually, trying not to sound like a Nosy Parker. “Tell me.”

  “Not a lot to tell,” she said just as casually. “Besides, I hate to look back, don’t you? The past is such a drag. The future is much more exciting.”

  She had neatly finessed me, and I feared that if I asked specific questions she’d think me a goof.

  “All right,” I said, “let’s talk about your future. Have you decided to become Chauncey’s one-and-only?”

  She gave me a mocking half-smile. “Let’s talk about it later,” she said. “Right now I’m with you.”

  “For which I give thanks to Aphrodite,” I said. “A.k.a. Venus. The goddess of love and beauty.”

  “It’s skin-deep,” she said.

  “Beauty?” I asked. “Or love?”

  “Both.”

  That seemed to me a rather harsh judgment, but I had no desire to argue.

  “And what about your lady?” she asked me.

  “We have an open relationship. Tonight she’s at a dinner-dance with another chap.”

  “And you’re jealous?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” she said with a boomy laugh. “Tell me, Archy, what do you do when you’re not real-estating.”

  “Eat, drink, smoke, swim in the ocean, play tennis, golf, and poker, watch polo, read trash, listen to pop singers, occasionally attend the theatre, opera, ballet, charity bashes, and private shindigs, buy clothes and trinkets, write to old friends, party with new friends, and sleep. I think that about covers it.”

  “Not quite,” she said. “You didn’t mention sex.”

  “I didn’t want to offend your sensibilities.”

  “What makes
you think I have any?” And before I could come up with a saucy rejoinder, she said, “You know what I’d like to do after we finish this bottle of wine?”

  “Have another?”

  “No,” she said, “take a walk on the beach. Could we do that?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Sorry I can’t provide a full moon to prove my hands don’t grow hair. There’s just a sliver.”

  “It’ll be enough. Can I take off my sandals, roll up my pants, and wade in the surf?”

  “Whatever turns you on.”

  She looked at me with a crooked smile. “I asked Chauncey the same thing earlier this evening. He said the water might be too cold, I might cut my bare feet on shells, and the Beach Patrol might pick us up for loitering.”

  “Well, yes,” I said. “All those things could happen.”

  “But you don’t care, do you, Archy?”

  “Not much.”

  She reached across the table to clasp my hand. “I told you how alike we are,” she said. “I wish you were the marrying kind.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “Chauncey,” she said, almost bitterly. “Let’s finish this divine wine and go.”

  And so we did. When I signed the tab, Priscilla looked about to make sure Theo was out of earshot and then whispered, “You’re asking for trouble, son.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I demanded.

  “I just know,” she said and moved swiftly away.

  I drove back to the shore and parked the Buick in the McNally driveway. Hand in hand, Theo and I trotted across Ocean Boulevard and stepped down the rickety wooden stairway to the sea. That splinter of moon was obscured by clouds, and an easterly breeze was warm and clammy. We didn’t care. It was the wine, I suppose, and the joy of being alone on the beach at midnight.

  Theo kicked off her sandals, rolled the cuffs of her pantaloons above her knees, and strode into the milky surf, kicking her way through. I stood on dry land, bemused, and watched her cavort. She seemed suddenly released, laughing, bending to scrub her face with cupped handfuls of saltwater. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if she stripped starkers and plunged in. But she didn’t.

  I walked back to the wall, sat on the sand, lighted a cigarette. I had finished it before she came gamboling out, flicking glittery droplets from her fingertips and caroling, “Super, super, super!” She plumped down beside me and asked for my handkerchief to dry sodden strands of her chestnut hair. There wasn’t much moonglow, but I could see her face was shining.

  “Was that what you wanted?” I asked.

  “It was what I needed,” she said, and then gestured toward the dark, rolling sea. “What’s out there, Archy?”

  “Water. Lots of it.”

  “No, I mean eventually.”

  “Eventually? Africa. Around Morocco, I’d guess.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Whenever.”

  Her voice was light but I felt she was serious. Certainly half-serious.

  She turned, took my face between her cool palms, kissed me, drew away. She leaned forward, hugged her knees. “Do I scare you?” she said.

  “Of course not,” I lied valiantly, because to tell you the truth she did. A little. There was a wildness in her, a willfulness that was daunting.

  “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked suddenly.

  “More than pretty,” I said. “Lovely. Beautiful.”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding, “I know. And I thought it would bring me happiness but it hasn’t. Like an actress who knows, just knows she has a special talent. But she can’t get an acting job so it doesn’t do her a damned bit of good. Just goes to waste. Do you understand what I’m saying, Archy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got the looks and the body,” she went on. “It’s not conceit; I just know. But things didn’t work out the way I thought they would. Bad luck, I guess.”

  “Your father spoke to me about luck,” I told her. “He said, in effect, that when you need it desperately, it doesn’t appear. But when you don’t give a damn you have all the luck in the world.”

  “Did daddy say that? Well, he should know. Take off your clothes.”

  “What?”

  “Take off your clothes,” she repeated, unbuttoning her jacket.

  “All right,” I said.

  I must inform you that anyone who attempts to make love on a sandy beach soon learns the meaning of true grit. But we managed, and we were so enthusiastic, so joyously vocal that I suspect both of us were tempted to wonder “Was it as good for me as it was for you?”

  I shall not fully describe the scene—dying moon, scudding clouds, sultry wind—because I’ve always felt love scenes are best played on bare stages. There may be scenery artfully arranged but it becomes invisible when the butterfly flutters—as it did that night.

  And then, triumphant, we both laughed. At our own madness, I imagine. It was a sweet moment, but brief. Because as we nakedly embraced, Theo murmured, “Tonight at dinner I told Chauncey I’d marry him. That’s why he hurried home, to tell mommy the news.”

  “Oh,” I said, which I admit was not a very cogent reaction. But I was stunned.

  “Do you blame me?” she asked softly.

  “Blame?” I said. “Of course not. What right do I have to blame you? It’s your life and you must live it in whatever fashion you decide. Believe me, darling, I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

  She made no reply but rolled away from me and slowly began to dress. I did the same, and we made ourselves presentable in silence. Finally I stood shakily and helped her to her feet. We hugged tightly a moment. I was affected, thinking it a final farewell.

  “Thank you for tonight,” I said huskily. “The only word for it is memorable. I know we shan’t be seeing much of each other from now on.”

  She drew away far enough to tap my cheek lightly with her fingertips. “Silly boy,” she said.

  I don’t believe we exchanged a dozen words during the drive back to her condo. When we arrived I saw a white Lincoln Town Car parked outside, next to a gunmetal Cadillac De Ville.

  “Daddy’s home,” Theo announced. “The Lincoln is ours. The Caddie belongs to a friend.”

  “Oh?” I said. “He’s got Michigan plates. Down for a visit?”

  “No, he moved here recently. Just hasn’t switched to a Florida license yet.”

  I didn’t push it.

  She gave me a parting kiss. “Thank you, Archy,” she said. “Fabulous night.” She whisked out of the car. I waited until she was safely inside, then I headed homeward. I was not as fatigued as you might expect. I wasn’t eager to dance a polka, but I was more replete than exhausted.

  It was too late to shower since the gurgling of the drain would disturb my parents. I did my best with a washcloth to capture the vagrant grains of sand that remained on my carcass. Then I brushed the old choppers and donned a pair of silk pajama shorts emblazoned with multicolored crowns and scepters. Fitting, for I felt like royalty that night. Don’t ask me why.

  I waited patiently for sleep to come, knowing it would not take long. Meanwhile I did some heavy brooding on The Case of Madam X. I was not so concerned with the murders of Silas Hawkin and Shirley Feebling as I was with the unaccountable personality of the lady herself. I simply could not solve her.

  Did I know any more about her than I did when our evening began? Yes, I did, but what I had learned was disquieting. Her character seemed so complex, with nooks and crannies I had not yet glimpsed, let alone explored.

  Surely you’ve seen matryoska. (I think that’s the correct spelling.) They’re Russian nesting dolls. Remove the top half of the largest wooden doll and within is a smaller. Remove the top of that one and an even smaller doll is within. This continues for five or six dolls. You finally come to the last, which is solid wood and no larger than an unshelled peanut.

  That’s how I thought of Theodosia Johnson. She was a series of nesting women, and I had hardl
y begun to get down to the solid core. I was slowly unlayering her, and the awful thought occurred to me that when I finally uncovered the penultimate woman, there might be nothing within.

  I could not forget her final comment on the beach after I had suggested our just completed coupling would be the last. “Silly boy,” she said, an obvious implication that her affiancing to Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth, or even her marriage to that bubblehead, need not bring our fun and games to a screeching halt. A very amoral attitude, and it disturbed me.

  I mean I am not a holier-than-thou johnny. Far from it. But her insouciance was startling. I have always been a hopeful romantic, but it was still something of an epiphany to learn that a woman of ethereal beauty could have earthy desires.

  Or if not earthy, at least sandy. As well I knew.

  Chapter 11

  I AWOKE ON TUESDAY morning in time to breakfast with my parents in the dining room. Ursi served paper-thin latkes with little pork sausages and apple sauce, and a big wedge of casaba with a crisp winy flavor.

  The boss wanted to know if I required a lift to the office, his not-so-subtle way of telling me it would be nice if I got to work on time for a change. I explained I had to return the Buick and pick up my rejuvenated Miata. He accepted that without comment and took off alone in his black Lexus 400.

  I drove over to West Palm Beach and reclaimed my little beauty, sparkling after a bath and wax job. Then I returned to the McNally Building around ten-thirty to find on my desk two telephone messages, both asking me to call. The name Hector Johnson was familiar, of course, but I stared at the other, Luther Grabow, and at first it meant nothing.

  Then a lightbulb flashed above my head just as it does in comic strips. Luther Grabow. Ah-ha. The owner of the store where Silas Hawkin bought his art supplies. Intrigued, I phoned immediately and identified myself.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “Listen, your firm is settling Si Hawkin’s estate—am I right?”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Grabow.” The experienced liar always remembers his falsehoods.

  “And you told me one painting is gone. Is it still missing?”

  “It is. It’s listed in his ledger as ‘Untitled,’ but we haven’t been able to locate it.”