McNally's Trial

by Lawrence Sanders

  He paused and we both continued to sip our brandies. I was listening attentively to his pitch. Oh, he was good! If he was a legitimate businessman his spiel would have made sense to me. But I knew he was proposing a no-show job. An experienced hustler with his background would never depend on someone else to make his investment choices.

  “It’s very kind of you to make the offer, Ernie,” I said.

  “I like you,” he continued, tapping my knee. “I genuinely and sincerely like you. Of course you’d have to move to Miami. But that’s no problem, is it? I have points in a couple of lush condos and I could fix you up with a flashy pad. What I’m talking about is a salary of fifty grand a year. Under the table if that’s the way you want it. How does that grab you?”

  “Tempting,” I said. I looked down at my glass and saw to my horror it was almost empty. If I were required to take a Breathalyzer test at that moment, I’m sure a siren would wail, bells ring, and the U.S. Marine Band would launch into “Stars and Stripes Forever.”

  “Well?” Gorton asked. “How do you feel about it?”

  “A generous proposal,” I told him. “But surely you don’t expect an immediate answer. It’s an important decision and I want to give it a lot of thought,”

  He patted my knee again. “That’s another thing I like about you, Archy. Most of the guys who work for me got sushi between their ears, but you know how to think.”

  “Thank you,” I said humbly. I know how to do humble.

  “How much time?” he said. “I need help and I can’t wait forever.”

  “A month tops,” I told him.

  “Make it two weeks,” he said, the demon bargainer.

  “All right,” I agreed. “I’ll let you know within two weeks.”

  We finished our cognacs and, with some effort, heaved ourselves from those cushioned thrones and exited.

  “Coming back to the party?” Gorton asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “You’ve given me a great deal to consider. I better go home and get started.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be in touch,” he said and stalked back to the Whitcomb Museum of Modern Schlock and all those fun people.

  I drove home slowly and cautiously. Despite the Brobdingnagian brandy I had consumed, the McNally gray matter (it’s really a Ralph Lauren plaid) was surprisingly lucid and functioning. My conclusions?

  Misconceptions: I had originally tagged Ernest Gorton as a two-bit grifter. I now saw him as a criminal Machiavelli and definitely not a man to be trifled with. I had also erred in assuming he and Oliver Whitcomb were equal partners and equally culpable in whatever their mischievous enterprise might be. But I now judged Gorton to be the leader and instigator.

  I had no evidence of that—it was all supposition—but I thought it logical and believable. Of one thing I was absolutely certain: Ernest Gorton was aware of my discreet inquiry and was attempting to buy me off. He had first tried to bribe me with a case of wine, probably to test the level of my venality. Rejected, he had then upped the ante with an offer of fifty thousand a year. I could not help but suspect the Oliver Whitcombs’ “spur-of-the-moment minibash” had been organized at Gorton’s urging (or command) simply to give him an opportunity to subvert me.

  I wondered how he had learned of my investigation. Binky Watrous may have revealed too much to Mitzi Whitcomb while romancing that lubricious lady. He might have boasted of his role as my assistant. That peabrain trusted everyone. He had never recognized the existence of evil in the world. Since he was nice, he assumed the entire human population of the planet was also nice. I’m sure he’d condemn an ax murderer of nothing more than bad manners.

  But if Binky had not queered our game, there was another way Ernest Gorton may have become aware of an investigation into his activities. I was convinced other personnel of the Whitcomb Funeral Homes—especially those three nouveau riche directors—were deeply involved in the plot. Oliver could hardly organize and conduct a scheme of such magnitude without inside assistance. And perhaps his fellow conspirators had noted Sunny Fogarty’s digging into records of Whitcomb’s out-of-state shipments of human remains.

  It was even possible, I reflected gloomily, that my visits to Sunny’s condo had been observed. Jeepers, her apartment (including the bedroom? Gulp!) may have been bugged, and the efficient and painstaking Ernest Gorton knew exactly what was going on. I waggled my head angrily at such fears; I was becoming as paranoid as father and I initially thought Ms. Fogarty to be.

  Before I fell asleep that night I was assailed by yet another fear. If I continued to resist Ernest’s bribes and blandishments—as I fully intended to—what might be his final solution to end my prying? I didn’t care to dwell on that. I don’t have Binky’s Pollyannaish philosophy; I did not think Mr. Gorton was a nice man.

  23.

  FRIDAY WAS BLOOMY. THE fog and overcast had blown away, and an azure sky looked as if it had been through a wash-and-dry cycle. More important, my anxieties of the night before were banished by sunshine; the customary McNally buoyancy was working its wonders and I was ready for a fight or a frolic.

  I awoke in time to breakfast with my parents, and what a treat it was! The previous evening we had feasted on a roasted Butterball turkey and on Friday morning Ursi Olson started using leftovers by serving creamed turkey on biscuits. Scrumptious! And a little dab of mild salsa instead of cranberry sauce didn’t hurt.

  Invigorated by the matutinal bracer I drove to the office singing another of my favorite songs: “It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie.” Loved the tune; totally disagreed with the lyrics. I was no sooner at my desk than Connie Garcia called.

  “Archy,” she wailed, “we can’t have dinner this weekend.”

  “Oh? Got a better offer, have you? Kevin Costner?”

  “You silly,” she said. “One of my Miami cousins was in an accident. Her car was totaled and she’s in the hospital with broken bones and God knows what else.”

  “Ah, what a shame,” I said. “Can I drive you down?”

  “You’re sweet to offer, but I wouldn’t think of it. I’m taking an afternoon flight.”

  “Then how about lunch?” I suggested. “You better have something before you start out.”

  “Well... okay,” she said. “But I’m so shook I probably won’t be able to eat. It’s Gloria—the girl who got hurt—and you know she’s my favorite cousin. We’re practically like sisters.”

  “Tell me about it at lunch,” I urged. “The Pelican at noon?”

  “Thank you, Archy,” she said, and I could hear she was close to tears. A very emotional woman, our Connie.

  I parked my mocs atop the desk and fell to brooding about the Whitcomb case. Well, perhaps brooding is a bit excessive; what I actually did was review everything I knew and everything I surmised about that strange affair. I tried to make sense of what was happening, but none of the scenarios I devised sounded the clarion call. I could not find any coherence in all those incongruous facts and fancies.

  There was one fact I did not have. I also had no idea whether or not it might prove significant. Probably not. But while conducting a discreet inquiry I like to collect as many snippets of skinny as possible, even if most of them prove to be the drossiest of dross.

  I could have obtained the information I sought by calling Sunny Fogarty. But because of my suspicion that rogues were at work in the hushed environs of the Whitcomb Funeral Homes I thought it prudent not to phone her office.

  And so I spent half an hour calling Air Cargo Services at three national carriers. At the end of this chore, having been shunted from one department to another, I had an answer to my query. Human remains in a coffin, properly gift-wrapped for air shipment, weigh approximately four hundred lbs.—an interesting factoid that will enable you to enliven conversation at the next cocktail party you attend.

  I was preparing to depart for luncheon with Connie when I was delayed by a phone call.

  “Al Rogoff,” he said brusquely. “Can you make lunch at twelve-t
hirty?”

  “No, I cannot,” I told him. “I have a prior engagement.”

  “Who with—one of your tootsies? Cancel it.”

  “I do not have a date with a tootsie,” I said indignantly. “And I refuse to cancel.”

  “All right, all right,” he said. “Don’t get your cojones in an uproar. Suppose we come over to your office at two o’clock.”

  “We?” I asked. “Al, are you suddenly using the royal plural pronoun—or may I expect a visit from two or more persons?”

  “Two of us.”

  “And who will be the other visitor?”

  “You’ll find out,” he said and hung up.

  It was such a weird conversation I wondered if Rogoff wasn’t already out to lunch.

  Connie was seated at the bar when I arrived at the Pelican Club. She was gazing mournfully into a glass of Evian and definitely drooping. I gave her a hug, a cheek kiss, and hustled her to our favorite table in the dining area.

  Priscilla came bopping over, took one look at Connie, and said, “What’s wrong, honey?”

  My paramour gave her a brave smile. “Family troubles, Pris. My favorite cousin got smashed up in a car accident in Miami. I’m flying down to see her this afternoon.”

  “Aw, that’s rough,” Pris said, instantly solicitous. “I hope she comes out of it okay. Listen, I think you better have a stiff wallop and then some solid food.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “You!” she scoffed. “You need a stiff wallop like Missouri needs another flood. How about vodka-rocks first and then a big platter of Buffalo chicken wings with Cajun-style rice and maybe a beer to put out the fire.”

  “Excellent medicine,” I told her. “Thank you, nurse. And don’t forget the Rolaids for dessert.”

  Connie was eager to talk during that luncheon and I was content to listen. She told me more about her extensive family man I had heard before. Most of her relatives were Marielitos and were succeeding admirably in their new homeland. For instance, Gloria, the injured cousin, managed a boutique, and her father had opened a Cuban art gallery.

  Listening to Connie chatter on about parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and all their progeny, I began to comprehend part of the attraction this woman has to me. Perhaps the major part.

  She is physically alluring—but so was Mrs. Agnes Snodgrass, my homeroom teacher in the sixth grade. She has inexhaustible brio—but so did Eve Arden. She has wit and sensitivity—but so did a dozen other women with whom I had briefly consorted.

  I think my abiding affection for Connie is due to her ordinariness. I don’t mean that as a put-down, of course, for she is a lady of quality, feisty and passionate. The ordinariness I refer to is the life she lives. You must understand that most of the women I dallied with, or who dallied with me, were encountered during the course of my discreet inquiries. More often than not they had lives of noisy desperation.

  When I begin to believe that all women are like that, Consuela Garcia offers a healthy dose of normality. Quite simply, she restores me to sanity. Her world consists of the basics: family, job, friends—and me. You may find normality a bore; I found it a blessing. In fact, in the treacherous and sometimes violent world in which I moved, my attachment to Connie may well have been my salvation.

  Professor McNally’s next lecture on Psychopathology in Intergender Relationships will be held on Tuesday at Radclyffe Hall.

  By the time we finished lunch, Connie’s spirits had been elevated if not restored to their usual vertiginous heights. I had lent a willing ear to her nonstop monologue, but I cannot claim credit for her recovery. I think it was the Cajun rice that did the trick.

  We parted outside. Connie held me close, looked at me sternly, and said, “I may be gone for a few days or a week. You’ll behave, won’t you?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “No,” she said.

  We paid mutual lip service and she promised to call me from Miami. Then she was gone. I watched her drive away. I had a sudden, mercifully brief attack of guilt and contrition. Don’t ask me why.

  I was a few minutes late getting back to the McNally Building and looked into the reception area to see if my visitors had arrived. They had. Sgt. Al Rogoff, in uniform, was seated next to a tall chap in civvies who was wearing sunglasses so dark they were practically opaque. Both men looked grim.

  I made a brief apology for my tardiness and led them up to my model office—model in the sense of being a miniature, not an ideal. The three of us squeezed in and Rogoff introduced his companion: Special Agent Griffin Kling from the FBI office in Miami. He was built like a pencil and looked as if he had once beep an artiste of the slam dunk. He took off those menacing specs before he shook my hand. I wished he had left them on; his eyes were pale and hard.

  I got him seated in the swivel chair behind my desk. Al took the folding steel chair reserved for visitors. I stood.

  Kling wasted no time. “Two nights ago,” he started, “I was having a few belts with a friend of mine who’s with Metro-Dade homicide. He told me he had received a query from Sergeant Rogoff here regarding Ernest Gorton. The reason my pal mentioned it was because he knows of my interest in Gorton. That creep’s been Number One on my personal Most Wanted list for more than five years. I know he’s into everything rotten, but I’ve never been able to nail him. On top of that, about a year ago I was running an informant, a nice young kid who got racked up on a minor drug rap. We turned him and he was paying his dues until he got smoked. Gorton ordered the kill—I’m sure of it—but I couldn’t pin it on him. That slime has become a real—” He paused helplessly. “What’s it called when you can’t get something out of your mind?”

  “An idée fixe?” I suggested.

  “Is that what it is?” the FBI agent said. “Well, I got it. I want to see Gorton put down so bad I can taste it. So when I heard Palm Beach was asking questions about this shark, I drove up here hoping to find out something I can use. But Rogoff says it’s not official business and not something he can tell me. He claims it’s your baby and if you want to give me what you’ve got, it’s okay with him, but he can’t without your say-so. How about it?”

  I was grateful for Al’s discretion. He had acted honorably, knowing what his uncooperative attitude might cost him.

  My first reaction was to refuse to reveal anything about the Whitcomb affair to the FBI. But then I realized those shipments of coffins across state lines might possibly have shattered federal laws. In addition, it would do no harm to have a colleague in the Miami area, Gorton’s home territory.

  I was silent for such a long time the Special Agent became impatient.

  “Do you know exactly what Gorton is doing in this neck of the woods?” he demanded.

  “Not exactly,” I admitted. “But I’d wager it’s something illegal.”

  “You’d wager?” Kling said, blinking.

  “That’s the way Archy talks,” Rogoff advised him. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “How about a quid pro quo?” I asked the FBI man. “I’ll tell you what I know if you’ll promise to keep Sergeant Rogoff and me promptly informed of any developments resulting from my information.”

  He rose to his feet and extended a hand to shake mine once more. “Done,” he said and sat down again.

  I told him what I had previously related to the sergeant: the unexplained increase in Whitcomb’s income, those puzzling out-of-state shipments to the same consignee in New York, Boston, and Chicago: the Cleo Hauling Service. I also mentioned Ernest Gorton’s close relationship with Oliver Whitcomb, CEO of the funeral homes.

  As before, I said nothing of the equivocal roles being played by Sunny Fogarty, Horace, and Sarah Whitcomb. But I still had the feeling the drama being enacted there had a peripheral but perhaps meaningful connection to the criminal activities at the mortuaries.

  “That’s all you’ve got?” Griffin Kling said when I finished my recital.

  He had taken no notes but, staring into his st
ony eyes (an easy trick if you concentrate your gaze on the bridge of the nose between the eyes), I knew he had missed nothing and would forget nothing.

  “It’s all I have,” I assured him.

  He nodded—but I was certain he didn’t believe me. He was a hard man and wouldn’t testify the sun would rise tomorrow until he saw it.

  “All right,” he said. “There are a few things I can do immediately. I’ll contact our offices in New York, Boston, and Chicago and request they trace ownership of the Cleo Hauling Service. And if they can spare the manpower—excuse me, the personpower—I’ll ask them to tail the Cleo trucks when they pick up coffins at the airports.”

  “I’m betting those trucks aren’t delivering to funeral homes or cemeteries,” Rogoff put in.

  “I’m betting the same thing,” Kling agreed. “But all that out-of-town stuff is going to take time. Meanwhile there’s something I can do. Gorton’s front is a legit import-export company. Mostly he brings in wood furniture from South America. The business seems to be clean. It better be; we’ve persuaded the IRS to do an audit every year. Anyway, Gorton has a warehouse out near the airport where he keeps his furniture inventory until it’s sold and trucked out. I think I’ll request twenty-four-hour surveillance on that place, either by a stakeout or concealed TV cameras. How does that sound?”

  “Makes sense,” Al said.

  “Has the warehouse ever been searched?” I asked.

  The agent’s smile was as cold as his eyes. “Twice,” he said. “By me. I thought he might be bringing in drugs in hollowed-out parts of the furniture. I struck out; the furniture was just that; nothing hidden in holes, panels, or anywhere else. Now I figure the vermin isn’t a smuggler; he’s buying his stuff directly from the cartels, cash on delivery in Miami.”