McNally's Trial

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Are drugs his main source of income?” I said.

  “Only a part of it. I’m convinced he’s into guns, brand-name ripoffs, money laundering, and maybe even counterfeiting. Lately there’s been a flood of the queer in South Florida: I tell you this Gorton is a world-class nasty and he’s going to take a fall if I have to chill him myself.”

  There was no mistaking the triple-distilled venom in his voice. Rogoff and I traded a quick glance. We both knew how unpredictable and potentially dangerous a lawman can be when obsessed by a private vendetta.

  Special Agent Griffin Kling apparently realized he had said too much. He rose abruptly and donned his black sunglasses. “I’ll be in touch,” he said crisply. “I’ll keep you up to speed on what’s happening in Miami, and I hope you’ll let me know of any developments up here.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  There was another round of hand-shaking and the two men departed. I reclaimed my swivel chair and stared down at my desk blotter where, I saw, Kling’s nervous fingers had ripped every match from a book and then had shredded the cover into jagged strips. Obviously a stressed man and I wondered if I had made an error of judgment in welcoming his assistance.

  Doesn’t W.S. say something about having a long spoon when you eat with the devil? I must look it up.

  24.

  WHAT A DELIGHTFUL FRIDAY evening that was! Because nothing happened to roil the McNally equanimity. Father stirred up a pitcher of excellent gin martinis at the family cocktail hour and Ursi Olson served cervelli con uova for dinner. That’s calves’ brains with eggs, and if you haven’t tried it, don’t knock it.

  I went up to my hidey-hole, played a cassette of Sinatra’s “Duets,” smoked an English Oval, sipped a very small marc, worked on my journals in a desultory fashion, and suddenly realized I was happy. That always comes as something of a shock, does it not? I mean, you have problems, troubles, frustrations, and then you realize how gossamer they are and you’re content to be breathing. Of course it may have been the calves’ brains, Sinatra, or the brandy that brought on my euphoria, but whatever the cause I welcomed it.

  Connie Garcia phoned around nine o’clock to tell me her cousin’s condition had stabilized and doctors were hoping for a complete recovery. Good news. My belle amour said she’d probably remain in Miami for three or four days, and when she returned she definitely expected an orgy à deux, both gustatory and physically frolicsome. I gave her a verbal contract.

  And so to bed. Not forgetting to spread my arms wide to the ceiling and murmur, “Thank you, God.” That’s as serviceable a form of prayer as any, innit?

  Saturday turned out to be an equine of a different complexion, and I was rudely wrenched back to the demands and insecurities of reality. I slept late and awoke with vague hopes of a lazy, laid-back weekend. Maybe some tennis, a round of golf, a game of poker, perhaps a gimlet or two or three. Look, Mr. Holmes had his cocaine and I have my Sterling vodka. Which of us is to be more severely censured?

  I bounced downstairs to a deserted kitchen. Father, I reckoned, was on his way to his club for 18 holes with a foursome that had been playing together for so many years I swear they now communicated solely with grunts. Mother and Ursi were probably out shopping for provisions.

  I had a jolt of Clamato, toasted a muffin I slathered with peach preserve, and boiled up a pot of instant black. I was on my second dose of caffeine when Jamie Olson came wandering in and planted himself down across the table from me. He was smoking his pungent old briar and in self-defense I lighted my first cigarette of the day.

  “Got a raccoon,” he reported glumly. “Pried the lid off the trash can. Made a nice mess.”

  “I thought the new can we bought was supposed to be raccoon-proof.”

  “Supposed to be,” he said. “Wasn’t. Them animals are smart buggers. Could work a combination lock, I have no doubt. Any coffee left?”

  “Maybe a cup,” I said. “Help yourself.”

  We sat awhile in silence, sipping and smoking.

  “Jason,” he said finally. “The Whitcombs’ man. We hoisted a few together yesterday afternoon.”

  “Good,” I said. “Learn anything?”

  “Some. Like I told you, Jase is no blabbermouth when it comes to his family. But he admitted things are rough these days between father and son.”

  “Did he give any reason for their casus belli?”

  “Their what?”

  “Conflict. The reason for their dissension.”

  “I think it’s money.”

  “That’s odd,” I said. “Both Horace and Oliver are loaded.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jamie said. He was quiet a long time and I waited patiently. There was no point in trying to hurry our houseman; he had his own pace, more an amble than a stride.

  “Want me to guess?” he asked finally.

  “By all means.”

  “It’s Mrs. Whitcomb. From what Jason said, she’s fading. He doesn’t think she’s going to make it. Mebbe—I’m guessing now—she’s got more cash than husband or son. And that’s what the squabble’s about. Who inherits.”

  I looked at him, astonished. “Jamie,” I said, “you’re a genius.”

  “Just guessing,” he said. “Told you that.”

  We said no more on the subject. We cleaned up the kitchen and then I raced upstairs to flip through my professional diary, wanting to verify a vague memory. I found it: Father had told me that for tax reasons, Horace had transferred a majority of shares to his wife.

  Jamie had been almost right. Sarah didn’t have more cash than husband or son, but she held controlling interest in the Whitcomb Funeral Homes. That was the cause of the antagonism: Who would end up a lion and who a lamb?

  You may think it inexcusably crass and unfeeling for husband and son to be concerned with inheritance while wife and mother is expiring in a motel-like hospital suite. If you feel that way, you have had little exposure to the basic motivations of human behavior. They are not depraved, y’know; they are simply human.

  I phoned Sunny Fogarty, hoping to find her at home on a gorgeous Saturday morning.

  “Archy!” she said. “I was just thinking about you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “And I, you. Sunny, I’d like to see you briefly as soon as possible. I have a few questions.”

  Short silence. “But not on the phone?” she said. No dummy she.

  “Correct. And not at your home or mine. You know Mizner Park in Boca?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s a bookstore. Liberties. Do you think you could be browsing at noon?”

  Pause again. “Is it important?”

  “It is.”

  “Then I’ll manage,” she said. “Archy, you’re being very mysterious.”

  “I’m being very paranoid,” I told her. “I’ll explain when I see you. I’d love to ask you to lunch, but I don’t think it would be wise. We’ll chat a few moments and then go our separate ways.”

  Third pause. “All right, Archy,” she said. “I trust you.”

  That was comforting. And somewhat daunting,

  I had pulled on casual and rather raddled duds that morning, but now, preparing for a clandestine rendezvous at a smart bookstore, I decided something spiffier was called for. If you think me inordinately vain, you’re quite right. I donned an aqua polo shirt of Sea Island cotton, slacks of go-to-hell fuchsia, and a jacket of properly faded madras. No socks. The loafers were cordovans with floppy tassels—which drive mein papa right up the wall.

  It really was a splendiferous day and all during that exhilarating drive south to Boca I lustily sang “Enjoy Yourself—It’s Later Than You Think,” which pretty well sums up my basic philosophy.

  I found Sunny Fogarty standing before the cookbook section at Liberties. She was leafing through a volume on soufflés. I joined her and selected a treatise entitled Wild Game Stews. That tells you something about us, does it not?

  We stood shoulder to shoulder and conversed in hushed tones.r />
  “What’s this all about, Archy?” she said tensely.

  Speaking rapidly, I gave her a succinct account of Ernest Gorton’s apparent involvement in illicit activities at Whitcomb Funeral Homes and what I interpreted as his attempted bribery to convince me to end or soft-pedal my investigation.

  “He’s aware of my inquiries,” I told Sunny. “No doubt about it. And I think his information originated from within your office.”

  She nodded. “I’ve suspected someone has been listening in on my calls. I know positively my personal files have been searched. And our computer records have been tampered with.”

  “The villains are probably aware of your suspicions and investigation. What concerns me is that I fear they also know you have requested assistance from McNally and Son. They may even have observed my visits to your home. I don’t wish to alarm you unnecessarily, but you may be under surveillance and perhaps your apartment has been bugged.”

  Her face grew increasingly grim. “Yes,” she said, “that’s possible.”

  “I think it best you use a pay phone whenever you wish to contact me,” I went on. “I really shouldn’t have called you at home this morning, but I had no choice. That’s why I selected a public place for our meeting and suggested we forgo luncheon just in case you might have been followed.”

  She accepted these dire warnings with admirable stoicism, and I saw again what a strong woman she was. I didn’t want to add to her strain by relating what I had learned from FBI Special Agent Griffin Kling about the nasty proclivities of Ernest Gorton. After all, Sunny, had no need to know; she had quite enough on her plate at the moment.

  “Archy,” she said in a toneless voice, “you said on the phone you had questions.”

  “I do. Two of them. First, have you heard anything recently about the condition of Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb?”

  “Not good,” she said, her face suddenly frozen. “Mr. Horace told me the doctors give him no hope. First they talked about years, then it was months, then weeks; it spread so swiftly. Now I’m afraid it’s days.”

  “Dreadful,” I said. “A lovely woman.”

  “Yes,” she said. “She’s been good to me, so understanding when my own mother became ill. I’ll never forget her kindness.”

  “How is Mr. Horace taking it?”

  “He’s trying to cope. But he’s hurting.”

  “And Oliver?”

  “I wouldn’t know about him,” she said curtly. “What’s your second question?”

  “Financial. Does Whitcomb hold a large cash reserve?”

  She looked at me. “What an odd thing to ask. Will it help your inquiry?”

  “I can’t swear it will, but it might.”

  “I shouldn’t reveal our balance sheet,” she said. “After all, we are not a public company. But I’ll take the chance. As I told you, Archy, I trust you. Up to about six months ago our cash balance was nothing extraordinary. About average for the past several years. Then those out-of-state shipments suddenly ballooned, and so did our cash reserve. I put most of it in three-and six-month Treasury bills. I can’t give you an exact figure, but it’s considerable. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “It is,” I said, “and I thank you.”

  We replaced our books on the shelves and smiled quizzically at each other.

  “Archy,” she said, “what you told me about people possibly being aware of our, uh, connection and my apartment being bugged, I guess that means you shouldn’t come over again.”

  “I’m afraid that’s what it means,” I agreed. “Until we bring order out of chaos.”

  She sighed. “I’ll miss you, Archy,” she said.

  Was I imagining it or did I detect a note of relief in her voice? I decided I would never understand this enigmatic woman.

  Sunny departed first and I watched her go, thinking what a stalwart figure she cut. I waited a few moments, then wandered out into the midday sunshine. I toured Mizner Park and found a German restaurant I hadn’t known existed.

  After inspecting the menu posted in the window and being panged by hunger—my customary state—I popped inside for a platter of plump potato pancakes with hot sauerkraut. There are those who like a spicy ketchup on their latkes; I prefer apple sauce. I also had a stein of an excellent chilled lager.

  I headed homeward reflecting that after my Teutonic snack I was in no condition for tennis, golf, or any other physical activity more vigorous than a game of jack-straws.

  But the McNally aptitude for creative delusions had not been impaired and Sunny Fogarty’s answers to my two questions began to form the spine of a theory explicating Oliver Whitcomb’s role in what was happening at the funeral homes. I still didn’t know exactly what was happening but had no doubt that, to paraphrase Woollcott, it was immoral, illegal, and fattening—to Whitcomb’s bank account.

  I spent the remainder of Saturday afternoon sharpening my solution to one part of the Whitcomb puzzle. A rereading of the jotted notes in my journal persuaded me that, as I had remarked hopefully to Sunny, order was beginning to emerge from chaos.

  I must admit right now that my elegant scenario turned out to be wrong. Not totally wrong, mind you, but half-wrong. In my defense I can only plead guilty of making a case from insufficient evidence.

  Well, what the hell, Columbus thought he had landed at Calcutta.

  25.

  I ACCOMPANIED MY PARENTS to church on Sunday morning. This rare event, I confess, was not due to a sudden upsurge of religiosity. Actually I was hoping for another glimpse of that Amazonian contralto in the choir. Sad to say, she was not present.

  Could she be ill? If so I would have been happy to hasten to her bedside with a jar of calf’s-foot jelly or a crystal decanter of chicken soup. But of course I didn’t know her name or address.

  I mention this ridiculous incident merely to illustrate my addiction to fantasies that sometimes engross me. Fortunately, few of them are ever realized.

  I returned home in a grumpy mood and immediately began making phone calls hoping to arrange some action on the courts, links, or even around a poker table. But all the pals I contacted had already made Sunday plans; I was odd man out, an unwonted and disturbing role.

  Finally, in desperation, I phoned Binky Watrous. He sounded as if he had just undergone several hours of CPR.

  “Binky,” I said, “why are you breathing like that?”

  “I’m fortunate to be breathing at all,” he said hollowly. “Archy, when I signed on I had no idea the job would entail so much wear and tear on the old carcass.”

  “Let me guess: You partied last night with Mitzi and Oliver Whitcomb.”

  “With them and a gaggle of other fruitcakes. It was a traveling party: here, there, and everywhere. I think at one time we might have been in Fort Pierce, but I can’t be sure. Those people skitter around like characters from that Christmas ballet, ‘The Ballbreaker.’”

  “Binky,” I said gently, “it’s called ‘The Nutcracker.’”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well... whatever. Archy, you know what I need right now?”

  “A new head?”

  “It would help, but before I have a transplant I’d like a very big, very strong, very peppery Bloody Mary.”

  “So mix one.”

  “I can’t. The Duchess decided I’ve been imbibing too much, and she’s put our liquor supply under lock and key. Guess who’s got the key. Not me. And the saloons aren’t open yet. Archy, if you have a soupçon of charity in your heart, help me!”

  I sighed. “All right, Binky. Drive over and I’ll give you an injection.”

  “I can’t drive over.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  “You didn’t total it?”

  “No, but I left it somewhere.”

  “Binky, where did you leave your car?”

  “I can’t remember, but I’m sure it’ll come to me after I take my medicine.”

  “If you don’t have a car, how did you get
home last night—or this morning?”

  “Someone must have delivered me.”

  “Who delivered you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Binky,” I said, “everyone knows that before you are allowed to become a private eye you are required to take and pass a peculiarity test. You have just qualified. Hang on, old buddy. I’m on my way.”

  I went into the kitchen and hurriedly prepared a quart thermos of iced Bloody Marys. I remembered to take two plastic cups and set out for the Duchess’s rather grungy residence on South County Road. Binky was waiting for me outside, slowly to-ing and fro-ing with hands thrust deep in trouser pockets, his head hanging low. The poor lad did appear to be one short step away from rigor mortis.

  “You have my plasma?” he croaked.

  I nodded.

  “Not here, not here,” he said hastily. “The Duchess is probably watching from her window and cackling at my torment. Let’s vamoose.”

  I had no desire to chauffeur this shattered hulk to the McNally home even for the purpose of resuscitation. Nor did I wish to park on the beach where a gendarme might become outraged at the sight of a desperate young man swilling from a quart thermos. So we ended up in the vacant parking area of the Pelican Club, which had not yet opened for business.

  I poured Binky a cup of Bloody Mary and he gulped greedily.

  “More!” he gasped.

  “In a few moments,” I said sternly. “If you are willing to overindulge you must be ready to accept the consequences.”

  “What was I to do?” he demanded, enlivened by the stimulant (it was the horseradish that did it). “I couldn’t sit there like a lunkhead, could I, when everyone else was swigging or smoking. By the way, her name is Starlight; I remember that.”

  “Whose name is Starlight?”

  “Ernie Gorton’s carrottop, Rhoda Starlight.”

  “You’re jesting.”

  “Well, her real name is Rhoda Flembaugh, she told me, but Rhoda Starlight is her stage name.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “And what stages has the lady graced lately?”