McNally's Caper (34 page)
But I was not deterred by the inclement weather, being determined to accomplish all the important tasks I had planned for that day. My first stop was at the salon (“Hair Apparent”) of Herman Pincus, where I received a light trim, scissors on the side, nothing off the top. We discussed a possible cure for a limited but definite tonsure that had appeared on my occiput. The bare spot, no larger than a silver dollar, struck terror to my heart, and I had visions of street urchins yelling, “Hey, baldy!”
But Herman assured me a hot oil massage of the affected area would help. So I endured that, wondering if a very small, circular rug might be a better answer for my affliction. Something like replacing a divot, y’see.
My second stop was at a gentlemen’s boutique on Worth Avenue, where I purchase most of my threads. I was looking for any new hats that might be available since I have an irrational love of headgear. To my delight I was able to purchase a visored Greek captain’s cap woven of straw. It was definitely rakish, added a certain je ne sais quoi to the McNally phiz and, best of all, concealed that damnable loss of hair. I was convinced it signified the looming end of youth, romance, and perhaps even sexual prowess. (All is vanity, the Good Book saith, and I agreeith.)
It was then time to buzz out to the Pelican Club to meet Connie Garcia for lunch. I was a bit early, the place was almost empty because of the downpour, and I was able to sit at the deserted bar and discuss with Mr. Pettibone what I might have to chase my temporary melancholia. He suggested a brandy stinger, but I thought that a mite heavy for noontime refreshment. We settled for a Salty Dog, a lighter potion but rejuvenating.
The reason I have described my morning’s activities in such explicit detail is to give you a reasonably accurate account of an average day in the life of a relatively young Palm Beach layabout—at least
this
layabout. I freely confess it was a life of carefree idleness. My only excuse is that at the time I did not think myself engaged in any serious discreet inquiries. In other words, I faced no energizing challenge. Before the day ended I was disabused of that notion.
When Connie appeared it was immediately obvious the miserable day had not crushed
her
spirits. She was her usual bouncy, ebullient self and danced toward me as if the sun were shining and the future unlimited. I know it may sound sexist, but I cannot refrain from describing Connie as dishy. The fact that I am continually unfaithful to her only proves that when it comes to a contest between a man’s brain and his glands, hormones are the inevitable winner. It’s sad but it’s something males must learn to live with.
She was wearing stonewashed denim jeans and vest with a pink T-shirt blessedly free of any legend. Her long black hair swung free, and if it was rain-spangled it was all the more attractive for that. She exuded a healthy physical vigor, and her “What, me worry?” grin would have brought a smile to the face of a moody tyrannosaur.
“Hello, bubba,” she caroled, giving me an air kiss.
“Bubba?!”
I said, outraged. “Since when have I been a bubba?”
She giggled. “I just wanted to yank your chain. Hey, let’s eat; I’m famished and don’t have much time.”
There was only one other couple in the dining room, so Connie and I were able to sit at our favorite corner table. Priscilla came bopping over to take our order while snapping her fingers. Pris is the only waitress I know who wears a Walkman while working.
We ordered Leroy’s special hamburgers, which have no ham, of course, but are a mixture of ground beef, veal, and pork. He also adds other ingredients when inspired by his culinary muse. On that day I believe it was curry powder. Very nice. We also had a basket of thick chips and shared a platter of cherry tomatoes and sliced cukes. Coors Light for Connie and a Heineken for me. It was a delectable lunch as lunches go, and as lunches go, it went—rapidly.
Connie brought me up-to-date on the most recent excesses of Lady Cynthia, including a proposal to issue ID cards to all the bona fide residents of Palm Beach.
“Wouldn’t a tattooed number be more effective?” I suggested. “Is the woman totally insane?”
“Not totally, but she’s getting there. And what have you been up to, hon?”
“Zilch.”
“No discreet inquiries?”
I want to be honest—well, I don’t
want
to be, but I must—and I confess that since the meeting with Sunny Fogarty I hadn’t given a fraction of a thought to the doings at the Whitcomb Funeral Homes. It seemed ridiculous to investigate a business simply because it was showing a handsome profit. But idly, for no other reason than to make conversation, I asked Connie:
“Ever hear of the Whitcombs?”
“The burying people?”
I nodded.
“Sure, I’ve heard of them,” she said. “Oliver and Mitzi Whitcomb. Socially active—and I mean
very.
You might even call them swingers.”
“Oh?” I said, beginning to get interested. “And where do they swing?”
“Here, there, and everywhere. They throw some wild parties.”
“In Palm Beach?”
“Boca. But I understand they also have a villa on the Costa del Sol and a condo in Saint Thomas.”
“Sweet,” I said. “Shows what one can reap from planting people. Do Oliver and Mitzi have children?”
“Nope,” Connie said. “Swingers are too busy to breed. Why this sudden interest in the Whitcombs?”
“New clients,” I said casually. “I’m just trying to learn more about them.”
She stared at me coldly. “I hope that’s all it is. I wouldn’t care to discover you’ve been consorting with Mitzi Whitcomb.”
“My dear Consuela,” I said loftily, “I keep my personal relations with clients to an absolute minimum. It’s a matter of professional ethics.”
“Son,” she said, “you’ve got more crap than a Christmas goose.”
“Zounds!” I exclaimed. “How quickly you’ve picked up the elegant idioms of your adopted country.”
“Oh, stuff it,” she said. “Listen, thanks for the feed, but I’ve got to run.”
I signed the tab at the bar and we went out to the parking area. And there, standing in the drizzle, I donned my puce beret. As expected, Connie drove away laughing hysterically. It doesn’t take much to make her happy.
I tooled back to the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. It is a starkly modern edifice of glass and stainless steel. Not at all to my father’s taste, I assure you, but the architect convinced him the headquarters of McNally & Son must make a “statement,” so mein Vater went along with the express understanding that his private office would be paneled in oak, with leather furniture, an antique rolltop desk, and other solid (and rather gloomy) trappings that would have pleased Oliver Wendell Holmes.
I parked in our underground garage and sat there a moment, thinking of what Connie had told me about the sociable younger Whitcombs. Hardly earthshaking, I Concluded, but it was a bit unsettling to learn that the CEO of funeral homes and his wife were swingers. I mean, one does expect somber decorum from people in that profession—not so?
But perhaps my moral arteries are hardening and I’m becoming a young Savonarola.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1994 by Lawrence A. Sanders Enterprises, Inc.
cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4532-9826-8
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
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