McNally's Chance (13 page)

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 confidence, 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.

Eleven

The Caper of the Trojan Horse or, beware Archy bearing a microwave oven. I dressed in jeans, a pink Izod, and penny loafers. The boy next door? One look in the glass told me I had achieved that goal without shouting its intent.

After breaking my fast with fresh squeezed orange juice, cinnamon French toast with pure maple syrup and a cup of Java, Paris set out for the rape of Helen. Really, it’s just a figure of speech.

When I turned the Miata onto Ocean Boulevard I glanced in my rearview mirror and watched a black stretch limo materialize like a mirage out of the sultry air. I didn’t see it approaching when I pulled onto the boulevard so it must have been parked on the road’s shoulder waiting for a chance to join the traffic or waiting for me? In Palm Beach, stretch limos are a common sight and a fear of the mechanical dinosaurs has never been among my many phobias, but in my business it pays to keep alert.

I moved south, passing the Palm Beach Country

Club and swung onto N. County Road. The limo came with me. I stayed on N. County to Breakers Ocean Golf Course, went west on Cocoanut Row, ignoring the Flagler Memorial Bridge. I kept south to the PB

elementary school and then took a sharp right over the Royal Palm Way bridge. When I got to the mainland, the limo was no longer visible in my rearview mirror. My thrill for the day? With what I had in mind, I hoped not.

Owing to the Inland Waterway that runs smack through Lake Worth, Palm Beach island is connected to the mainland by three drawbridges. It has long been thought that should a big heist take place on the island, the police could order all the bridges up, trapping the culprits on the island. Not a bad place to linger with a sack full of legal tender, I should think.

At a trendy appliance store I purchased a microwave oven like I knew what I was doing. Instinct told me not to buy the top of the line because it would contain a lot of frills not necessary to nuking a frozen chicken pot pie. I avoided the bottom of the line because it probably would have trouble melting an ice cube. Like Americans on Election Day, I went with the one in the middle, veering slightly toward the top. My guess was that Binky would spend hours trying to bring in the evening news on the gadget’s fifteen-inch screen.

I had it gift-wrapped and a kind salesperson helped me carry it to my car. The microwave and Archy filled the Miata’s front seat. From there to the Palm Court where I parked in the space reserved for number 1170.

One space over was filled with a black Mercedes. My, my, what a surprise.

Toting the bulky package without help was cumbersome but not impossible. I hauled it up the three steps to number 1168 and rang the bell. The Greeks had landed.

Bianca opened her door, looked at the man on her doorstep holding a gift-wrapped crate, and said, “I didn’t order it.”

“It’s not for you,” I told her.

“Then go away,” she said.

“If I may explain…”

“Are you selling computers, door to door?”

“No, ma’am. It’s a microwave oven.”

“I have one,” she said. “Good day.”

Before the door closed in my face, I explained, “It’s for your neighbor Binky Watrous. I’m Archy McNally.”

Her pretty blue eyes opened wide, from her ruby lips came an “Oh!” and the faintest hint of color surfaced on her white cheeks. If Helen’s was the face that launched a thousand ships, Bianca’s was the one that got Archy to buy Binky a microwave oven. Who’s to say which face will survive the test of time? This woman was made for color snaps, picnics in summer, football games in fall, sleigh rides in winter, and chasing around the Maypole in apple blossom time.

“Mr. McNally. I am so sorry. What can I do for you?”