“I started the whole thing,” he said ruefully. “Told Sunny Fogarty to look into it. And now see what’s happened: my son a deceiver, Sunny’s safety at risk, my business threatened, the FBI involved. I have been hoisted by my own petard.”
“I don’t think that expression particularly apt, sir,” I told him. “It implies self-destruction, and you’re far from that.”
“Perhaps,” he said, not really believing it. “What do you propose to do now?”
“Continue what I have been doing. Sniff about, ask questions, listen to what people say and observe what they do, wait for things to happen. And sometimes give them a nudge.”
“It’s an art,” he said. “What you do.”
“Not quite,” I said. “More of a craft.”
Silence again, a long silence while he scrabbled at crumbs on the tablecloth. “My God,” he said in a low voice, “we do manage to mess things up, don’t we?”
I feared he was losing his nerve and it alarmed me. “Sometimes it seems so, Mr. Whitcomb,” I said, “but one never knows, do one? I mean, think of those lads who fought the men-of-war in your collection.”
That brightened him. “Yes,” he said, “you’re right. Have you ever heard the apocryphal story of what happened when John Paul Jones was battling the Serapis from the bridge of the Bonhomme Richard? His ship was riddled, on fire, sinking, decks awash with the blood of dead and dying sailors. Jones was called upon to surrender and shouted back, ‘I have not yet begun to fight!’ A Marine marksman high in the rigging looked down at the destruction below and said, ‘There’s always one son of a bitch who never gets the word.’”
We both laughed and I hoped he would be that son of a bitch, though naturally I didn’t mention it. I thanked him for the morning’s refreshment, we shook hands, and I departed. I drove slowly back to the McNally Building, thinking that for all his candor, his revelations and confessions, he had not yet told me the complete truth. The man was concealing something that troubled him mightily. I was convinced of it, but what that secret could be I had no idea. I had the dizzy notion it was the key word in a perplexing crossword puzzle. Ferret it out and everything would become clear: solved and elegant. Or so I thought.
I descended into our underground garage, parked, and-hopped from the Miata. Herb, our security guard, came lumbering over, his big dogleg holster flapping against his thigh.
“Hey, Mr. McNally,” he said, “you got a visitor. A lady.”
“Banzai!” I said. “Where is she—in the reception room?”
“Nah,” he said, jerking a thumb. “Over there.”
I turned to look. A new white Honda Accord. Very nice. I started toward it and the driver’s window came purring down. I leaned and peered within. There was no mistaking that tangerine hair: Ms. Rhoda Starlight/Flembaugh.
“Hi there!” she said brightly.
27.
“TREAT A HARLOT LIKE a lady and a lady like a harlot.” Who said that? I have no idea, although it sounds like the Earl of Chesterfield advising his son. But I resolved to follow this counsel, so when Rhoda gave me a Cheshire cat grin and patted the seat beside her, I obediently circled the car, entered, and immediately became aware of the scent she was wearing. Stirring. One might even say invigorating—and I do say it.
“Arky,” she said. “I can call you Arky, can’t I?”
“If it pleases you. Actually my name is Archy.”
“Of course. Archy. We met once before, didn’t we?”
“We did indeed. Briefly. In Dr. Pflug’s office.”
“Oh, him,” she said disdainfully.
“Ernie calls him El Jerko. Isn’t that funny?”
“Hilarious,” I said.
“Well, I shook that turkey,” she went on. “I’m self-employed now. My own business.”
“Good for you.”
She dug into a bulging wallet, extracted a business card, and handed it to me. The engraved legend was simplicity itself: “Rhoda. Physical Therapy for Discerning Gentlemen.” This was followed by a phone number and, wonderful to behold, a fax number. No address.
“Are you a discerning gentleman?” she asked.
“I try,” I said modestly. “I don’t always succeed.”
She laughed and clamped a warm hand on my knee. “Ernie has told me so much about you I just knew we had to become better friends. Are you busy this afternoon?”
“Unfortunately I am. An appointment with my trichologist for the repair of a small tonsure.”
“Golly,” she said, distressed. “Does it hurt?”
“The pain is excruciating,” I said, “especially when the wind is from the east.”
“Then how about tonight?” she inquired. “You could come to my place or I could come to yours. No charge. It’ll be a freebie.”
“Rhoda,” I said, “you are an extremely attractive young lady and your beauty is exceeded only by your generosity. But there is something you should know: I am engaged to be married to a woman I have known for several years. I love her dearly and have sworn to her my undying devotion and absolute faithfulness.”
The hand on my knee didn’t relax. “She doesn’t have to know, Arky.”
“Archy. But I’ll know, won’t I, and it will make me feel like a cur.”
“You must love her very much.”
“I do, I do!” I cried, and if I could have wiped a tear from my eye or stifled a small sob I would. I have no shame—as you well know. “Rhoda, she means the world to me and I could not live with the thought of betraying our love. Have you ever felt that way?”
The warm hand was withdrawn from my knee. “No,” she said sorrowfully, “but I’ve dreamed of it. Some guy who would really turn me on and we’d make it together. I mean, I’d cook and clean for him and everything. But you’re right; if I found out he was cheating on me it would spoil the whole deal.”
“Of course it would. I knew you’d understand how I feel,”
“Yeah,” she said, “I can see where you’re coming from. I hope you make it. Right now my life’s the pits.”
I felt a momentary twinge of guilt at the way I was misleading this poor, brainless lass—but I really had no choice, did I?
I opened the passenger door and prepared to withdraw.
“Rhoda,” I said, “I hope you find the true love you’re seeking and start a new life.”
“You really believe that could happen?” she said hopefully.
“Of course it could,” I assured her., “You must think positively.”
“What does that mean?”
“Be confident that better times are coming.”
“Yeah,” she said determinedly. “I’ve got to keep thinking better times are coming. Thanks, Arky.”
I stood there and watched the white Honda Accord exit from the garage. I felt dreadful. I had tried to be a bucker-upper, but if I had given her a lift I knew it would be brief. Her life had fallen into a cast-iron mold and it would take a sledge to smash it.
Of one thing I had no doubt: Rhoda’s unexpected visit and invitation had been ordered by Ernest Gorton. Her offer of a “freebie” was his Ultimate Bribe. The way his mind worked simply amazed me. He had decided his offer of a no-show job at a handsome stipend might be rejected. If money didn’t work, sex was another option. And if that failed, I was certain he would resort to a threat of physical violence.
I began to appreciate Mr. Horace Whitcomb’s fear of Sunny Fogarty being endangered. And I found myself sharing Special Agent Griffin Kling’s fury at this brute’s machinations. Ordinarily I am a “live-and-let-live” sort of bloke, but Ernest Gorton’s evil designs caused me to question the latter half of that philosophy.
I hadn’t totally prevaricated during my surreal chat with the carrottop. It was true I had an appointment with Herman Pincus, my tonsorial artiste, that afternoon. And it was a delight when he showed me, with the aid of two mirrors, that the bald spot on my bean was now boasting the fuzz of a hirsute peach.
I endured another hot oil
massage, and Herman assured me it would not be long before my luxuriant locks were restored to their pristine glory. What a relief! You think me guilty of vanity? Of course I am. And so are you. Self-love is the only enduring passion. C’mon, admit it.
I returned to my office and found a message requesting I phone Al Rogoff instanter.
“Progress report,” the sergeant said briskly. “I told Kling about Rhoda Flembaugh, Gorton’s floozy, and he couldn’t have been happier. He just called me. He ran a trace and she’s got a record. Nothing heavy. Loitering for the purpose, lewd and lascivious behavior, and swell stuff like that. Anyway, Kling is going to pay her a visit and ask how come a nice girl like her is the registrant of trucks in New York, Boston, and Chicago used to haul stiffs.”
“I hope Special Agent Kling is a discerning gentleman,” I said.
“You hope what?”
I told him of my recent tête-à-tête with Rhoda. Al chuffed with laughter.
“That tootsie is something else,” he marveled. “No charge to you, huh? You think Gorton put her up to it?”
“Of course he did. The scoundrel is determined to find my weakness and exploit it.”
“He’d do better to offer you a mauve velvet fez.”
“True,” I admitted. “It might succeed. Let me know how Kling makes out with Madame Pompadour.”
I had no desire for lunch that day, having pigged out with Mr. Whitcomb. But I thought a period of quiescence was in order after a hyperemotional morning during which I felt like a shuttlecock being batted about by people playing a game with no rules. Something tall and cold at the Pelican Club would restore the McNally aplomb, I reckoned—but it was not to be.
I was starting from my office when the accursed phone rang and I stared at it with loathing. I was briefly tempted to depart and let it shrill its heart out to an empty room. But then I dreamed it might be the White House beseeching my advice on how to handle the latest crisis in the Udmurt Republic. Or, better yet, it might be the Amazonian contralto from the church choir who had tracked me down and wished to become better acquainted. It was neither of course. The caller was Oliver Whitcomb.
“Archy!” he said, all false joviality. “Can we have a drink together?”
“When?” I asked.
“Now,” he said. “The sooner the better.”
“I was just heading for the Pelican Club,” I told him. “Do you know it?”
A pause. “Yes,” he said. “All right, if you insist.”
I had suggested, not insisted, but I was in no mood to truckle. And so, half an hour later, Oliver and I were seated at a table in the almost deserted bar area of the Pelican. I had a depressing premonition the travails of my day had not yet ended and I was to be treated to another dose of someone else’s angst. I wondered idly what it might cost to rent a confessional wherein I could ply my trade.
We had ordered gin and tonics, and Oliver gulped his greedily. I am proud to say I sipped genteelly—and frequently. Whatever was troubling the lad kept him silent a few moments, giving me the opportunity to eyeball his attire. He obviously had no “important funeral” scheduled, for he wore the threads of a Neapolitan toff. I have a fondness for rather assertive duds, as you well know, but Oliver’s costume looked as if it had been created by a designer hooked on Crayolas.
“I visited mother in the hospital this morning,” he said moodily.
“Oh?” I said. “And how is she feeling?”
He shook his head. “Not good. I wanted to have a heart-to-heart, but it was a no-go. She was hallucinating. Kept talking about ballroom dancing. Old stuff. I couldn’t get through to her.”
“A sad situation,” I said—the most neutral comment I could devise at the moment.
Then his talk became so pizzicato it went beyond desperation and entered the realm of franticness.
“It’s the will, y’see. Mother’s will. She holds controlling interest in the business. Naturally I expect to inherit her shares.” He stopped sputtering and looked at me expectantly.
“Naturally,” I murmured.
“But I’ve got to know,” he rattled on. “After all, it’s my future, isn’t it? I just assumed... But now I’m worried. So much depends... Have you seen mother’s will?”
“No.”
“Do you know what’s in it?”
“No.”
“I called your father. He said he can’t release that information. Suggested I ask mother. But the woman can’t talk sense. She’s at death’s door.”
Death’s door. A grisly cliché. Unless, of course, it’s a revolving door.
“Archy, could you ask your father? About my mother’s will.”
“I could,” I said stonily, “but it would do no good whatsoever. He’d never tell me and he’d be horrified by my asking.”
“Yes? Well, how about this... There must be a copy in your office files. Could you sneak a peek? I need to make sure I inherit. There’s a lot riding on this, Archy.”
“Oliver, have you asked your father? He probably knows.”
His laugh was harsh. “My father and I are not simpatico these days. Archy, will you do it for me? Take a quick look just to confirm I’m inheriting. I can’t tell you how important it is to me.”
If I were a courageous, stand-up chap I would have delivered a stern “No!” immediately. But he was in such an agitated state I feared that if I rejected his appeal he would launch himself across the table and go for my jugular with his incisors.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said weakly.
“Good man!” he said, almost weeping with gratitude. “Good man! Do this for me and there’s a nice piece of change in it for you.”
We drained our glasses, shook hands, and departed. One drink. That’s all we had. I swear.
I drove slowly home, pondering what Oliver had just unwittingly revealed about the motivation for his association with Ernest Gorton. The plot was becoming clear to me, as I’m certain it is to you.
I had time for a swim that afternoon prior to the family cocktail hour. It was during my languid wallow that I began laughing and succeeded in choking on a mouthful of the Atlantic Ocean. The reason for my mirth? In one day I had been promised a “freebie” by Rhoda Flembaugh and “a nice piece of change” by Oliver Whitcomb. My position as Chief of Discreet Inquiries at McNally & Son was suddenly offering an abundance of fringe benefits.
Dinner that evening was something that might tweak your salivary glands: mahi-mahi sautéed with fresh herbs, tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil so virginal I was certain it had taken a vow of chastity. Profiteroles for dessert. I restrained myself and had only four.
“On a diet, Archy?” father inquired. Sometimes the pater’s sarcasm can nip.
I scuttled to my lodgment after dinner and set to work. I had been neglecting my journal shamefully and had a great deal to record since the last entry. I worked steadily and conscientiously, for I am not just another pretty face; when duty calls, McNally is ready to click heels and salute.
I was briefly interrupted by a call from Connie Garcia in Miami. She said she expected to return in a day or two, and it was welcome news; I missed that lady.
“Behaving yourself, laddie?” she asked.
“Don’t I always?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll get a complete report on your activities from my spies when I come back.”
“There’s nothing to report,” I protested. “The naughtiest thing I’ve done since you left was watching ‘The Sound of Music’ on TV.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire!” she scoffed and hung up.
I went back to my scribbling, labored determinedly, and finished shortly after eleven o’clock. I poured a marc, lighted a cigarette and began reviewing the entire account of the Whitcomb affair.
The role Oliver was playing now seemed evident to me, as was the hostility between son and father. The mysteries remaining concerned the curious behavior of Horace Whitcomb and Sunny Fogarty. And, of course, puzzle numero uno was the out-of-stat
e shipments of coffins going to a hauling service obviously owned by Ernest Gorton even if he had taken the precaution of registering his trucks in the name of the tarty Rhoda.
I wrestled with that enigma through one more brandy and one more cigarette. I experienced no grand epiphany. Finally I gave up, disrobed, and went to bed. I hoped to dream of Gene Tierney but Maria Ouspenskaya showed up instead. Oh well, it could have been Hoot Gibson.
28.
“I THINK THE DUCHESS hates me,” Binky Watrous said gloomily.
“Nonsense,” I said, although I wasn’t so sure. “It seems to me she’s been the soul of forbearance. Got you out of that scrape with the belly dancer in Tulsa, didn’t she?”
“Well, yes, but she makes me eat oatmeal for breakfast. I detest oatmeal and she knows it. But she insists. Says it’ll build strong bones. Who on earth wants strong bones? Not me. I mean, what can you do with them? Got a cigarette?”
I shoved my pack across the desk. It was Tuesday morning and when I had arrived at the McNally Building I found Binky grumping about, obviously in need of a kind word. I took him to my office and offered what cheer I could.
“Still partying with Mitzi and Oliver?” I asked him.
That quickened him. “Mostly with Mitzi,” he reported. “Oliver isn’t around much these days. Apparently his mother is extremely ill and also Mitzi says he’s got all these big deals cooking. And talking about deals, one of Whitcomb’s pals wants me to put some money in a new product he’s bringing out.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“A cognac lollipop. A sure winner, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Are you going to invest?”
“Come on, Archy, you know I have a bad case of the flats. But if I had a few bucks I’d certainly plunge on the cognac lollipop. It can’t miss. I don’t suppose you’d—”
“No,” I interrupted, “I would not. All my cash is tied up in a gerbil ranch. Binky, has Mitzi ever said anything about Oliver’s relationship with his father?”
He thought a moment. At least I believe he was thinking. It was hard to tell with Binky. He might have been dozing.
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