McNally's Trial

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Of course not,” I said hastily. “Didn’t expect you to. But you might hint around. Gently, you know. Tell him you’ve heard gossip. Something like that. He may tell you something he wouldn’t reveal to me.”

  “Yep,” he said. “Jase don’t blab when it comes to his family. But I can buy him a Bushmills. That’s his favorite, and it would be a treat for him.”

  I took a twenty from my wallet and slid it across the table. “Buy him two Bushmills,” I said, “and see if he’ll loosen up about Horace and Oliver.”

  “With two Bushmills in him,” Jamie said mournfully, “he’ll tell me again about Peaches and Daddy Browning.”

  I was preparing to depart when the phone rang and I picked up in the kitchen.

  “The McNally residence,” I said, figuring it was probably a call for mother.

  “Archy?” Binky Watrous said. “Why aren’t you in your office?”

  “Because I’m here,” I explained. “What’s on your mind, Binky?—if you’ll forgive a slight exaggeration.”

  “How about buying a fellow lunch?” he asked eagerly.

  “And what fellow do you suggest?”

  “Come on, Archy,” he said. “You don’t pay me a salary, and the least you can do is feed me for all my hard work. I’ve got a lot of neat stuff to tell you. Besides, the Duchess has canceled my credit cards. Archy, I’m starving!”

  “All right,” I relented. “Meet you at the Pelican Club around twelve-thirty.”

  “Can’t we go somewhere tonier?” he said plaintively. “And more expensive.”

  “No,” I told him.

  I drove to the McNally Building, went directly to my office, and got on the horn. I phoned Operator Assistance in New York, Boston, and Chicago. I called vehicle license and registration bureaus, trade associations, and even chambers of commerce. And by noon I had my answer.

  Or rather I had no answer. None of the sources I contacted had any record—past, present, or applied for—of the Cleo Hauling Service. Apparently it did not exist.

  I can’t say I was shocked. After all, it would be a fairly simple scam to finagle. One truck for each of the three aforementioned cities, the trucks purchased secondhand or stolen. Ditto for the license plates and registration. No insolvable difficulties. Then you painted whatever you wished on the truck sides, added a phony address, and you were in business.

  But what business?

  20.

  LEROY PETTIBONE, OUR ESTEEMED chef at the Pelican Club, occasionally grew bored with preparing his special cheeseburgers or seafood salads for luncheon. Then he switched to what he called a Deli Delite: a hot corned-beef sandwich on sour rye with a heap of coleslaw spiked with coarsely ground black pepper, and a plate of kosher dill spears. Leroy had also discovered a hot mustard made in Detroit, of all places, that made your eyes water.

  The Deli Delite was not the equal of masterworks from the Stage or Carnegie in Manhattan of course—but then what is? But it was as yummy as anything of the genre I had tasted in South Florida.

  And that’s what Binky Watrous and I had for lunch, with enough cold beer to keep our palates from charring.

  “All right, Binky,” I said as we scarfed, “what’s the neat stuff you said you had to tell me?”

  “About this Dr. Omar K. Pflug,” he said, mumbling through a mouthful of corned beef. “He was kicked out of New York and New Jersey. And now he’s working in Florida. Also, he’s a druggie.”

  “Why was he kicked out of New York and New Jersey? Was his license to practice revoked or was he just accused and is under investigation? And for what? Has he been licensed to work in Florida?”

  “Well, those are just minor details, aren’t they? I mean, the guy is obviously a wrongo.”

  “Binky, did you check with your family physician or contact professional associations and the state licensing board as I suggested?”

  “Well, ah, no,” he said, taking a chomp of a pickle. “I thought there really wasn’t much point in going through all that folderol. So I just asked Mitzi Whitcomb and she told me.”

  I tried to repress a groan and didn’t quite succeed. I looked at him, saw a brain sculpted solely of cottage cheese, and wondered if I had suddenly become a victim of synesthesia.

  He must have sensed my outrage, for he immediately became defensive. “You can depend on what Mitzi told me,” he said. “Absolutely!”

  I took that cum grano salis. With a heap of salis, if the truth be known.

  “Binky,” I said, “did it ever occur to you the lady may be lying?”

  He was astonished. “Why should she do that?”

  I sighed. “People usually lie for reasons of self-interest of which you wot not.”

  “Well, Mitzi wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “Oh? Give me a because.”

  “Because she’s in love with me.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Not exactly. But she let me paint her toenails.”

  This surreal conversation, I realized, was getting me precisely nowhere.

  I asked, “Did Mitzi Whitcomb reveal any other nuggets of information?”

  He pondered a moment, pale brow furrowed, a shred of coleslaw hanging from his chops. Then he brightened. “Sure she did! The carrottop, the nurse you saw in Pflug’s office—well, she’s no nurse. She’s not exactly a hooker, but she’s sort of a call girl and uses the doctor’s place as a home base.”

  “Some home,” I said. “Some base. Did Mitzi tell you her name?”

  “Rhoda. Mitzi didn’t know her last name.”

  “Is Ernest Gorton managing her?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “To put it crudely, is Gorton her pimp? Providing customers?”

  “Oh,” he said, and I think he actually blushed. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  I finished my second beer and sat back. The Deli Delite had more than adequately compensated for that wretched bran muffin I had for breakfast.

  “All right, let’s assume Mitzi Whitcomb’s information is accurate. Then what we’ve got is a rogue doctor willing to sign fake death certificates, presumably to finance his drug addiction. He also shares working quarters with a call girl who may or may not be the girlfriend and/or employee of Ernest Gorton, a Miami hustler who claims to be in the import-export trade. Is that how you see it?”

  “See what?” Binky said.

  There was no point in screaming at the pinhead. He was a good-hearted chap, no doubt of that, but his thought processes were so sluggish as to be almost immobile.

  “Binky,” I said gently, “discreet inquiries demand the ability to deal with complexities and complications. You must be able to endure total confusion temporarily with the faith that eventually you will be able to bring order out of chaos. You follow?”

  “Oh sure,” he said. “Hey, let’s have a kirsch at the bar. Just to cut the grease, you know.”

  Later we were in the parking area when, emboldened by the cherry brandy, Binky said eagerly, “What’s my next assignment, kemo sabe?”

  “If you are to play Tonto to my Lone Ranger,” I told him, “you must demonstrate energy and inspiration. I suggest you investigate Rhoda, the faux nurse. Discover her last name and home address. Determine whether she is Ernest Gorton’s inamorata or merely his employee. And what is her relationship to Oliver Whitcomb.”

  He was completely flummoxed. “How do I do all that?”

  “Use your imagination,” I advised. “Perhaps you might start by asking Rhoda for a date. Take her home to have dinner with the Duchess.”

  He blanched and began to tremble. “Oh golly,” he said, “I couldn’t do that. You’re joking, aren’t you, Archy? Tell me you’re joking.”

  “I’m joking,” I assured him. “How you do it is up to you. Just do it.”

  “I wonder if she’d enjoy birdcalls,” he said thoughtfully.

  “I’m sure she would,” I said. “Try a cockatoo.”

  I apologize for that one.

&n
bsp; I drove back to the McNally Building asking whatever gods may be why I had been saddled with a disciple who was such an utter goof. It wasn’t that Binky was incapable of reasoning, but his gears had slipped a bit, just enough so his thinking was slightly skewed. I mean, he was the kind of numbskull who, informed that a friend had choked to death on a fish bone, was likely to inquire, “Broiled or sautéed?”

  I arrived at my office to find a message that Mr. Horace Whitcomb had phoned and requested I return his call. The number given was Whitcomb Funeral Homes’ headquarters in West Palm Beach, and I had to navigate through the queries of receptionist and private secretary before their chieftain came on the line.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Archy,” he said.

  “Not at all,” I said. “How are you, sir?”

  “I’m well, thank you,” he said, his voice at once stiff and hollow. “But Sarah is back in the hospital.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Whitcomb.”

  “Well, it’s only for more of those damnable tests, and I hope she’ll be home by the weekend. But she’s somewhat depressed, as you can imagine. She asked if I’d call and see if you have time to pay her a short visit. Just for a few moments, you know. I think it would cheer her immensely.”

  “Of course I’ll visit,” I said. “Immediately if hospital rules permit.”

  “You’ll have no problem,” he said. “Sarah is in a private suite.” He gave me the hospital name and address. “Thank you so very much, Archy,” he said huskily. “I know my wife will be delighted to see you.”

  Errands of mercy do not come easily to yrs. truly, and I find hospital visits particularly difficult. In fact, I loathe hospitals. Most of them look like fortresses or warehouses, and then there’s that deplorable hospital odor. No matter how much wild cherry spray they use, one still imagines an underlying scent of sickness and sheet-covered bodies on gurneys.

  And also, of course, there’s your own behavior to sadden you: the stretched, mirthless grin and a complete inability to keep the conversation casual and comforting. How Florence Nightingale and Walt Whitman did it I shall never understand.

  But off I went to visit the hospitalized Sarah Whitcomb. Naturally I could not arrive empty-handed, but I decided against flowers; she was sure to have plenty of those. I stopped at a gift shop and found a windup music box. There was a tiny porcelain lady in a formal gown on top and she twirled as you heard a plinked “I Could Have Danced All Night.” Kitsch? It was, but I hoped Sarah would find it as amusing and evocative as I did.

  I guessed Horace Whitcomb was paying horrendous daily rates for that private two-room hospital unit, but my first impression was that I had entered a motel suite. An upscale motel, to be sure, but there was still the hard, impersonal look: everything gleaming, everything of assembly-line sleekness including framed floral prints bolted to the walls and an excess of vinyl and Formica.

  The bedroom was a little better, a little softer, and Mrs. Whitcomb lay in a bed covered with gaily patterned sheets I was certain she had brought from home. She was lying still, her skull now covered with a blue medical cap. Her head was turned and she was staring out the window at the endless sky.

  “Sarah,” I said softly.

  Slowly—oh, so slowly—she moved to face me and her bright smile was almost enough to cause me to lose my cool and blubber.

  “Archy!” she said. “What a sweetheart you are to come visit an old, decrepit lady like me.”

  “Neither old nor decrepit,” I said. “Madonna wanted me for the afternoon, but I told her I had a better offer.”

  Her eyes squinched with merriment but her laugh seemed to cause pain. “Kissy,” she said.

  I leaned to kiss her cheek and then pulled up a small armchair covered with a trompe 1’oeil fabric depicting the Colosseum. Just what I needed.

  “Getting along, are you?” I asked. It was the best I could do; I was acutely uncomfortable.

  “Getting along,” she said. “Right now I’m very drowsy. I think they’ve given me something. If I fall asleep while we’re talking, I hope you’ll understand.”

  “Of course,” I said. “But before you snooze, here’s a little nothing I brought for you.”

  I unwrapped the music box, wound it up, and set the porcelain dancer twirling.

  Sarah’s reaction was unexpected. Tears came to her eyes and she reached out a quavery hand.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Just beautiful. Thank you so very, very much. But how did you know?”

  “Know what, dear?”

  “When I was a young girl I loved ballroom dancing. I even entered contests and won prizes. In those days it was all waltzes, the fox trot, the two-step, and if you were very daring, the tango. Thank you again, Archy. It’s the loveliest present anyone has ever given me.”

  “I admit I cherish me tune,” I said. “I like songs with a melody. But that’s hardly a weakness, is it?”

  “If it is,” she said, “it’s one more ailment to add to my long, long list.”

  She seemed to be fading, her voice dimming. I had to crane to hear what she was saying.

  “Oliver tells me the two of you had lunch.”

  “We did indeed,” I said. “A splendid luncheon.”

  “Oliver likes you,” she said and looked at me awaiting the expected response: “And I like Oliver.”

  When I cannot lie I prefer to finesse. To be perfectly honest (well, no one is perfect), I didn’t much like Oliver Whitcomb. So I merely murmured, “That’s very kind of him,” and Sarah accepted that.

  “What I asked you to do,” she said with some effort, “and what you promised to do, was to investigate the hostility between my husband and my son. Have you discovered anything?”

  “Nothing conclusive,” I told her. “I think it may be just a generational conflict. Each man has his own standards. And I know I don’t have to tell you how far and how fast the world has moved in the past fifty years. Sarah, it may be just the difference in their ages that causes their disagreements.”

  She looked at me a long time in silence and then her eyes closed. I thought she might have fallen asleep but she hadn’t.

  “Archy,” she said faintly, “I think you are an intelligent and sensitive man.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I wish I could agree.”

  She waved that away with a flap of a palsied hand. “But I think there’s more to the situation between Horace and Oliver than a difference in their age. Something else is going on that’s tearing them apart. I sense it. Archy, I love my son, love him more than anything else in this world. I can’t stand the thought of him being hurt, and especially by his father. I am telling you these things because you’re not one of the family and because I trust your judgment and discretion. I know I don’t have much time left and I want you to be witness to this: If I ever have to choose between my husband and my son, God forbid, I will side with my son. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  What she had said had been spoken in tones of such sad finality that I knew she had given the problem much anguished thought and had come to her decision with sorrow and regret.

  “I understand, ma’am,” I said gravely.

  “But I still hope that with your help I can bring them together again. You will try, won’t you, Archy?”

  “I’ll try,” I promised again.

  “I’m falling asleep now,” she whispered. “I can feel it coming on.”

  “I’ll leave,” I said, rising. “Sarah, be well and may all your dreams come true.”

  “Thank you,” she said in a tattered voice. “Play the music box again for me.”

  I departed to the tinkly notes of “I Could Have Danced All Night.”

  21.

  IT HAD BEEN A shaking experience, not only to visit a doomed woman but to be plunged into the midst of what was obviously a familial crisis. So it was curious—as odd to me as it must seem to you—that during my drive back to the McNally mini-estate on Ocean Boulevard I could not
concentrate on the Whitcombs’ travails but only on how they might mirror my own relations with my parents.

  I arrived home, slid the Miata into our three-car garage, and went looking for mother. I found her in our little greenhouse talking to her begonias, and she looked fetching in a flowered apron that swathed her from neck to knee.

  I followed her about as she watered her darlings, pinching off a dried leaf here and there, and told her of my visit to Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb in the hospital.

  “That was very sweet of you, Archy,” momsy said approvingly. “I do hope you brought her a get-well gift.”

  “I did indeed,” I said and described the music box.

  Mother was delighted and said she’d surely visit Sarah or at least phone to gossip awhile. I said I was certain Mrs. Whitcomb would welcome a call.

  All this chitchat was stalling on my part, you understand. What I really wanted to do was ask mother, if circumstances demanded a choice of her sympathy, love, and understanding between her husband and her son, which of us would she choose? You can see how deeply I had been affected by Sarah Whitcomb’s dilemma.

  But I could not bring myself to ask the question. It would be an excruciating decision for her to make, I knew, but even worse I felt that even posing that louche query was an impertinent invasion of her privacy.

  And so, after a time, I wandered away, none the wiser but reflecting how often children (myself included) regard their mother and father simply as parents and rarely make an effort to consider them as individuals or give a thought to their secret lives, what they had sought, won, lost.

  I went upstairs to my digs still pondering the infernal complexities of family ties. I had told Mrs. Whitcomb I suspected the hostility between her husband and son might be a generational conflict. I did believe that was part of it but not the total answer.

  Now, preparing for my daily ocean swim, I brooded about my relationship with my own father. There was certainly a generational factor at work there, but more a difference than a conflict. I mean, he wore balbriggan underwear and wingtips. I wore silk briefs and tasseled suede loafers. Big deal.