McNally's Caper (33 page)

I glanced at my Mickey Mouse wristwatch, saw it was scarcely ten o’clock and I could still enjoy that brandy if I so desired. I did so desire and dashed upstairs to change to fawn slacks, a madras sport jacket, and Loafers From Hell: acid-green suede—with tassels yet. Then I bounced downstairs, pausing briefly at our second-floor sitting room to give the mater a good-night kiss. Her velvety cheek was wet. She was watching a TV rerun of
Stella Dallas
and tears were leaking.

I was still driving my vintage Miata, a flaming red job of the first model year and still holding its saucy flair. I hopped in and headed for the Pelican Club, my favorite oasis in South Florida. It’s a private watering hole and has a membership of effervescent lads and lasses from Palm Beach and environs. It’s a pleasantly laid-back joint, serves high-caloric grub, and no one would object if I clambered onto a table and recited “Sheridan’s Ride.” “Up from the south at break of day...”

The place was clanging when I arrived. Roisterers were two-deep at the bar, and couples were to-ing and fro-ing from the dining area. I finally caught the attention of Mr. Simon Pettibone, an elderly gentleman of color who is our club manager and doubles as bartender.

“Rémy!” I shouted to be heard above the din and he nodded.

He was back a moment later with my wallop, handing it to me across the shoulders of club members bellying the mahogany.

“Rushed, Mr. Pettibone?” I inquired.

“Love it, Mr. McNally,” he said. “Just love it. Pays the rent.”

“So it does,” I agreed happily. The Pelican Club, of which I had been a founding member, was a candidate for Chapter 7 until we had the great good fortune of putting our future in the hands of Mr. Pettibone and his family. His wife Jas (for Jasmine) was our housekeeper and den mother. Son Leroy was our chef, and daughter Priscilla our waitress. The energetic and hard-working Pettibones had turned our little enclave into a profitable enterprise, and we now had a waiting list of would-be Pelicanites, eager to wear the club blazer bearing our escutcheon: a pelican rampant on a field of dead mullet.

Glass in hand, I looked about for a place to park the McNally carcass. And there, in a far corner of the pub area, sitting by his lonesome at a table for two, I spotted my goofy buddy, Binky Watrous himself. His head was bowed over a tumbler of an amber liquid. I made my way to his side.

“Binky,” I said, “may I join you?”

He looked up and his loopy expression became a beam. “Archy!” he cried. “Just the man I wanted to see. Sit down, sit down, sit down!”

“Once will do nicely,” I said, taking the bentwood chair opposite him. “What is that you’re drinking?”

“Scotch,” he said.

“With what?” I asked.

“More Scotch.”

“Binky,” I said, “we have been pals for a long time, but I must warn you that I shall not carry you home tonight. I am willing to call an ambulance, but that’s the extent of my responsibility. Why on earth are you getting hammered?”

“I’ve got troubles,” he said darkly.

“And pray, who does not?” I said, looking at him more closely.

Binky usually wears a look of blithe unconcern, but now I could see his chops were definitely fallen. He’s a fair-haired lad with a wispy growth of blond hair on his upper lip that can be seen in a strong light. He’s a bit on the shortish, plumpish side, and if you can imagine a Kewpie doll with a mustache, that’s Binky.

Though he may not be physically impressive, he’s a generous, good-hearted chap who’d give you the shirt off his back. But you probably wouldn’t want it since it was liable to be voile with alternating stripes of heliotrope and mustard. But how can one dislike a man whose bedroom walls are plastered with photos of Lupe Velez?

“Binky,” I said, “what seems to be the problem?”

He took a gulp of his drink. “It’s the Duchess,” he said mournfully. “She demands I get a job.”

“A true cri de coeur,” I commented.

“What’s that, Archy?”

“Something like a kvetch,” I explained. “And did the Duchess suggest any particular field of gainful employment?”

He shook his head. “She just said it’s time for me to earn a living. Archy, what am I going to do since it’s obvious I can’t
do
anything?”

I should explain that Binky’s mother and father were lost at sea while attempting to sail their sloop to Curacao. Binky was a mere tot when the tragedy occurred, and he was raised by a wealthy maiden aunt, one of the grandest grande dames of Palm Beach.

Everyone referred to her as the Duchess. She was not a real Duchess, of course, but could play one on TV. I mean, she was imposing, haughty, and rather frightening. Her customary greeting was not “How are you?” but “You’re not looking well.”

But this Duke-less Duchess did provide for her brother’s son and grimly endured his being expelled from Princeton for pushing a pie (chocolate cream) into the face of a banquet guest who made a biting remark about Binky wearing a tie patterned with the crest of the Irish Royal College of Surgeons. Binky was obviously not Irish, Royal, or a sawbones. The target of his pie turned out to be a visiting British VIP, and the resulting foofarah ended with Binky being booted.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons for our palship, since I had endured the same fate for a contretemps committed at Yale Law—a really minor misdeed. I had streaked naked (except for a Richard M. Nixon mask) across the stage during a performance by the New York Philharmonic.

Since his expulsion from Princeton, Binky had spent most of his time traveling, engaging in harmless mischief, enjoying several romantic dalliances, and generally living the life of a happy drone. The Duchess granted him an openhanded allowance, paid for his profligacies— including gambling debts—and had made no objections other than stiff chidings—until now.

“Archy,” Binky said gloomily, taking another swallow of his plasma, “what am I to do? You know I’m a complete klutz when it comes to work. That’s just a four-letter word to me.”

“Haven’t the slightest idea, old boy,” I said, sipping my cognac and feeling my toes beginning to curl.

“You work, don’t you? Investigations and all that. Like a detective.”

“Of course I work. Very diligently, I might add. And yes, my specialty is discreet inquiries.”

He looked at me thoughtfully—if such a thing were possible. “You know, I believe I could do that. Lurking about and asking questions.”

“There’s more to it than that,” I assured him. “It requires unique skills, plus curiosity and a keen intelligence.”

That pleased him. “Now I’m sure I qualify,” he said happily. “I’m inquisitive and no one’s ever doubted my brainpower.”

“Or even mentioned it,” I said, but he could not be stopped.

“I’ve read oodles of detective novels,” he rattled on. “Shadowing villains, threatening suspects, getting beat up and all that. I’m sure I can do it.”

“Binky,” I said, fearful of what I suspected was coming, “it really is an extremely difficult profession. The tricks of the trade can be learned only by experience.”

“You could teach me,” he said eagerly.

“I’m not sure you have the temperament for it.”

“Look, Archy,” he said, trying to harden his cherubic features into an expression of stern resolve, “why don’t you let me work with you on your next case. No salary, of course. Just to learn the ropes, so to speak.”

“And then what?” I demanded. “The old man would never let me hire a full-time assistant.”

“I realize that,” he agreed, “but after I catch on how it’s done I could set up my own business. Binky Watrous: Private Eye. How does that sound?”

“Loathsome,” I said. “Believe me, son, you’re simply not cut out to be a sherlock.”

“How do you know?” he argued. “I mean, you didn’t start out to be a snoop, did you? You were going to be a lawyer and then you became an investigator. And now you enjoy it, don’t you?”

I had to agree.

“Give me a chance, Archy,” he pleaded. “I’ll just tag along, observe and listen, and then I’ll get out of your hair. What do you say?”

I sighed. I knew it would be a frightful error, but I could not deny his request. The poor dweeb was really in a bind.

“Okay, Binky,” I said finally. “I’ll take you on as an unpaid helper. But I’ll be captain of the ship—is that understood?”

“Of course!” he said gleefully. “You command and I obey—absolutely! Do you think I should buy a gun?”

I gulped more Rémy. Allowing Binky to buy a gun would be like handing the Olympic torch to an arsonist.

“No, I don’t think you’ll have any need for a firearm.”

“A knife?”

“No.”

“Brass knuckles?”

“No weapons whatsoever, Binky. You’re not going into combat, you know.”

“We’ll just outsmart the bad guys,” he said. “Right?”

“Right,” I said feebly, knowing he was incapable of outsmarting a Tasmanian devil.

I finished my drink and rose. “Got to dash,” I said. “I told Connie I’d phone.”

“When do we start?” he asked anxiously. “I want to tell the Duchess I’m hard at work getting on-the-job training.”

“Call you tomorrow,” I promised.

“Great!” he said. “But not too early, Archy. I’ve got a golf date at noon.”

Typical Binky. I believe I told you in previous annals that his main talent was doing birdcalls. His imitation of a loon was especially realistic. I should also mention a formal dinner party we both attended during which corn on the cob was served. Instead of gnawing at the buttered kernels, Binky played the entire ear like a harmonica while humming “America, the Beautiful.” The other guests were convinced there was a lunatic in their midst.

But enough about Binky Watrous. I drove home in a remarkably equable mood. I felt certain that by the time the sun was over the yardarm on the following day and the effects of Binky’s beaker of Scotch had worn off, my chum would have completely forgotten his determination to become a detective.

It was my second serious miscalculation on that portentous evening.

T
HE MCNALLY MANSE
was darkened and silent by the time I returned home. I tiptoed quietly up to my digs, took off the glad rags, and donned a silk kimono I had recently purchased. It was Japanese, and embroidered on the back was a fearsome samurai wielding a long sword and cutting off the head of a dragon that bore a startling resemblance to my barber, Herman Pincus. I suppose that’s why I bought the robe.

I lighted an English Oval—only my third that day— and poured myself a small marc. I keep my personal liquor supply in a battered sea chest at the foot of my bed. It holds a limited inventory of brandies and liqueurs— for medicinal purposes, you understand. Much healthier than sleeping pills. Honest.

Then I phoned Consuela Garcia, my light-o’-love. Connie and I have had a thing going for many years. She is Cuban, a Marielito, and a very, very feisty lady. Regrettably, I have been unfaithful to her on numerous occasions, but as I have previously explained, I am genetically disadvantaged and my infidelity is due to faulty DNA.

When Connie discovers my perfidiousness, which she inevitably does, her reaction is usually physical. I dimly recall an incident at The Breakers where I was wining and dining a lissome young miss, a friend of a friend of a friend. To my horror, Connie entered and spotted us. She marched over to our table, plucked a half-full bottle of Piper-Heidsieck from its ice bucket, shook it vigorously and spritzed me from brow to sternum. It was not a night to remember.

“Hiya, honey,” I said when she picked up after the seventh ring. “Whatcha doing?”

“Painting my toenails.”

“Hey,” I protested, “that’s my job. Listen, I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“And whose fault is that?” she asked tartly.

“All mine,” I admitted. “I’ve been an absolute rotter.”

“So you have,” she readily agreed. “Now make amends.”

“Dinner tomorrow night?”

“Can’t do it,” she said promptly. “Lady Cynthia is having a sit-down for twelve, and I’ve got to honcho the whole thing.”

“How come I wasn’t invited?”

“They’re all local pols. Want to join the party?”

“No, thank you,” I said hastily.

Connie is employed as social secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, possibly the wealthiest of our many moneyed chatelaines. Lady C also holds the Palm Beach record for ex-husbands: six. She’s a shrewd operator, a marvelous hostess and a demanding employer. I’m glad she considers me a friend. Her enemies usually end up whimpering.

“How about lunch?” I suggested. “Noon at the Pelican.”

Connie considered a moment. “Yes,” she said, “I think I can manage it. Wear your puce beret; that always puts me in a hysterical mood. What have you been up to, lad?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Life has been
bo-riiing.”

“Not casting a covetous eye about for any available dollies?”

“Not a dolly in sight,” I assured her. “I’ve really been behaving myself.”

“You better,” she said menacingly. “You know my spies are everywhere.”

That was an unpleasant truth.

“See you at noon tomorrow,” I said lightly, and we hung up after an exchange of telephonic kisses—energetic sounds that sometimes leave a bit of spittle on the mouthpiece.

When I told Connie there was no temptation of the female persuasion on the horizon, I did not prevaricate. But little did I know of the events that were to ensue from that doomed evening. I had been guilty of three grossly mistaken assumptions in less than two hours—a sad performance even by yrs. truly.

I overslept the next morning, as usual, and awoke to a world of damp gloom. Squalls were gusting in from the sea, and the sky appeared to be swaddled in disposable diapers. I was tempted to crawl back into the sack but stoutly resisted. There were deeds to be done, I told myself, and worlds to conquer.

By the time I clattered downstairs to the kitchen (not forgetting my puce beret), the house seemed deserted and I breakfasted alone. A search of the fridge provided a glass of cranberry juice, an English muffin sandwich containing boneless Portuguese sardines with a dab of Dijon, and two cups of instant black coffee.

Invigorated, I dashed out to our three-car garage and put the lid on my chariot. Then I started driving through a rain that was not vicious but vengeful. I mean, it was steady, resolute, and seemed likely to last forever. Even Sunny Florida has days like that. Tourists stay in their motel rooms, curse, drink beer, and watch television talk shows until their eyes glaze over.