McNally's Trial

by Lawrence Sanders

  “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.

  3.

  THE 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.”
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br />   “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.

  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.”
r />   “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.

  4.

  I RODE THE AUTOMATIC elevator to my fourth-floor cubicle. It would be gross exaggeration to call it an office. I am not suggesting it was so cramped that you had to enter sideways, but I always thought of it as a vertical coffin and spent as little time entombed as possible. I do believe my liege consigned me to that windowless cubby to forestall accusations of nepotism. If so, he succeeded brilliantly. Fellow employees at McNally & Son referred to my sanctum as “Archy’s locker.”