McNally's Trial

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Excellent suggestion,” I said. “I’ll be delighted to attend. Have you also invited the employees of your store?”

  He paused to look at me curiously. “I haven’t,” he admitted. “Do you think I should?”

  “How many workers do you have?”

  “Four full-timers. The manager, Ricardo Chrisling, and three clerks. And we’re trying to find a part-timer for scut work.”

  “Invite them all,” I advised. “I want to meet everyone you deal with on a daily basis. In addition, you’ll score brownie points as a kindly employer.”

  He gave me a wry-crisp smile. “I was right, you are a sharp lad. All right, I’ll ask them.”

  I pocketed his list and rose to leave. We shook hands again. This time I thought his clasp was weaker, as if the recital of dreadful events recently endured had enfeebled him.

  “Give Ralph a good-bye,” he said.

  “Good-bye, Ralph,” I said, knowing what was coming.

  The bird opened its eyes. “Go to hell,” it said.

  And on that cheery note I departed.

  There were several customers in the store and I waited until the young lady I had first encountered completed the sale of a bag of cuttlebone to a scrawny, bespectacled teenager who looked as if he might also profit from an occasional snack of calcium.

  “Hello again,” I said, giving her the 100-watt smile I term my Supercharmer, since I feared she was too innocent to withstand the power of my Jumbocharmer (150 watts).

  “Hello yourself,” she said brightly. “Arnold McIntosh, isn’t it?”

  How soon they forget! “Archy McNally,” I repeated clearly. “Now you know my name but I don’t know yours.”

  “Bridget,” she said. “Bridget Houlihan.”

  “Mellifluous!” I said admiringly. “Comes trippingly off the tongue. Bridget, I see you have a notice in the window advertising for a part-time assistant. I have a friend who might be interested. If he decides to come in, may I give him your name? Perhaps you could then direct him to the proper person for an interview and questions about his competence.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “Tell him to ask for me and I’ll take care of him.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said. “Have a grand day.”

  “I mean to,” she said pertly. What a delightful bubble she was!

  I exited into the sunshine and boarded the Miata. But before starting up I buzzed Binky Watrous on my cellular phone.

  “Save me!” he cried piteously.

  “Save you?” I said. “From what?”

  “The Duchess wants me to accompany her to a charity luncheon followed by a two-hour film on the mating habits of emperor penguins. Apparently the males incubate the eggs by balancing them on their feet.”

  “I wish you hadn’t told me that,” I said. “I really didn’t want to know. Listen, old boy, tell the Duchess you’ve received an emergency call concerning your on-the-job training to become the Nick Charles of Palm Beach. It’s of vital importance you meet with me immediately to discuss a case of criminal conspiracy threatening the very existence of Western Civilization.”

  “Gotcha,” he said happily. “Where and when?”

  “Pelican in half an hour. I’ll be at the bar.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Naturally.”

  The Pelican Club is a private home-away-from-home for many of the glossier thirty-somethings of the Palm Beaches. It is located in a decrepit freestanding building out near the airport and offers a bar area, dining room, dartboard alley, and all one could wish for in the way of raucous fellowship, generous drinks, and a menu that disgusts cholesterolphobes.

  As one of the founding members, I can testify we were close to bankruptcy when we had the great good fortune to put the fate of our club in the capable hands of the Pettibones, a family of color. Simon, the patriarch, became club manager and bartender. His wife, Jas (for Jasmine), was our den mother who saw to housekeeping chores, preserved limited order on unruly weekend nights, and was capable of gently ejecting members whose conduct exceeded her generous standard of decorum. Daughter Priscilla served as waitress and son Leroy as chef.

  Under the aegis of the Pettibones the Pelican Club had flourished and its fame had spread. We now had a long list of wannabes (m. and f.) eager to wear on their jackets the club escutcheon: a pelican rampant on a field of dead mullet. It had certainly become my favorite watering hole in South Florida, and if my monthly tabs were shocking I consoled myself with the reminder that I conducted more business there for McNally & Son than I did in my emaciated office. Thus I could rightfully claim a goodly portion of my expenditures for beer and cheeseburgers on my expense account. Our treasurer, Raymond Gelding, frequently disagreed—but we all know what treasurers are like, don’t we.

  It wasn’t quite noon and the club was deserted when I removed my panama, swung aboard a barstool, and relaxed in the dim, cool interior that always smelled faintly and delightfully of Grand Marnier.

  “Mr. McNally,” Simon Pettibone greeted me, “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

  “I know,” I said. “It must be almost forty-eight hours. Mr. Pettibone, it is unexpectedly warm and steamy out there—a theme park called Sauna World—and I am in dire need of something tall, frigid, and refreshing. Suggestions?”

  “You know,” he said, “last night a young lady asked for a Tom Collins. Haven’t mixed one of those in years. She seemed to enjoy it. Like to try one?”

  “The ticket!” I cried. “I knew I could depend on you. Please make sure the ice is cold.”

  “I’ll try,” he said, not changing expression. Mr. Pettibone and I have an understanding.

  He really is an expert mixologist and I watched with admiration as he constructed my Tom Collins and added the fruit.

  “No straw,” I warned.

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” he said.

  I sipped and rolled my eyes. “Elixir,” I said. “Mr. Pettibone, are you familiar with a member named Peter Gottschalk?”

  “I am,” he said shortly.

  “My father asked my opinion of him and I said I thought he was rather undisciplined. Do you think I was being unduly censorious?”

  “No,” he said. “On target. He’s a wild one. Jas has booted him out a few times. Not for intoxication, mind you. He doesn’t drink all that much. But occasionally he starts talking in a loud, irritating voice. Practically shouting. Butts in where he’s not wanted. Becomes a real nuisance.”

  “What does he shout about?”

  “Nonsense. Crazy stuff. No rhyme or reason. He just goes off. No control.”

  “Could it be physiological?” I asked. “Mental?”

  “Could be,” Mr. Pettibone said. “One minute he’s nice as pie and then suddenly he’s raving. Maybe it’s a brain thing and a pill could straighten him out.”

  “Maybe,” I said. But at that moment Binky Watrous came scuttling in and I was faced with the case of another man with a brain problem. Binky lacked one. He and a female companion had once been arrested for playing hopscotch in the Louvre.

  He slapped my shoulder and slid onto an adjoining stool. “I’ll have a fresh cantaloupe piña colada,” he declared.

  Mr. Pettibone and I glanced at each other. “Sorry, Mr. Watrous,” he said. “No fresh cantaloupe available today.”

  “No?” my pal said. “What a shame. In that case I’ll have a double Cutty Sark.”

  Typical Binky. The would-be Philo Vance was a complete goof.

  I ordered a refill and we carried our drinks to the dining room before the luncheon crowd came charging in. We grabbed a corner table for two and Priscilla sauntered over. She was wearing a T-shirt, splotched painter’s overalls, and a baseball cap with the visor turned jauntily to one side.

  “Well, well,” she said. “The Dynamic Duo. Batman and Robin.”

  “Enough of your sass,” I said. “What’s Leroy pushing today?”

  “Vitamins,” she said. “He’s on a one-day health kick. A gorgeous seafoo
d salad with fried anchovies.”

  “That’s for me,” I said. “Binky?”

  “I’m game,” he said. “But go easy on the lobster. It gives me a rash.”

  “Yeah?” Pris said. “Men have the same effect on me.”

  She bopped away and Binky took a yeomanly gulp of his Scotch. He was a palish lad who looked as if he might shampoo with Clorox. He sported a mustache so wispy one feared for its continued existence in a strong wind. But despite his apparent effeteness—or perhaps because of it—he was an eager and successful lothario, and I hesitated to estimate the limit of his conquests if his mustache had been black and long enough to twirl.

  After the accidental death of his parents when he was a toddler, Binky had been raised, educated, and generously supported by a maiden aunt known to Palm Beach society as the Duchess. She was not an actual duchess of course but could have played one on Masterpiece Theatre. It was said she had once fired a butler for sneezing in her presence.

  The Duchess had heretofore financed Binky’s travels, brief romantic liaisons with ladies who sometimes made greedy demands, and his gambling debts. But recently she had brought her largesse to a screeching halt and demanded Binky seek gainful employment. But he had no experience in any practical occupation. His sole talent was birdcalls and there are very few, if any, Help Wanted ads headed “Birdcaller Wanted.”

  In desperation Binky had approached me with the request I take him on as an unpaid assistant in my Department of Discreet Inquiries for McNally & Son. It was to be on-the-job training and Binky had visions of becoming a successful private investigator. I thought he had as much chance of becoming a successful nuclear physicist, since of all my loopy friends he was the King of Duncedom.

  Against my better judgment, and only from a real affection for this twit, I had allowed him to assist me on one case and had been pleasantly surprised to find his contributions of value. I had told him only those details of our client’s travails I felt he needed to know, and I’m certain that in his ingenuous way he was totally unaware of the significance of the information he uncovered. But he did help me bring the case to a satisfactory conclusion. I mean he hadn’t been an utter disaster and the idea of having a nutty Dr. Watson amused me.

  “Binky,” I said as we awaited our meal, “a new discreet inquiry has been assigned to me, and I feel I may benefit from your unique skills.”

  He preened. “Of course I shall be happy to assist you,” he said formally. “No chance of a paycheck at the end of the week, is there, old sport?”

  “Afraid not,” I said regretfully. “The old man wouldn’t approve. It must be part of your unpaid apprenticeship.”

  He sighed. “Better than nothing I suppose. The Duchess has been feeding me a diet of dirty digs lately, asking when I intend to land a job. If I can tell her I’m learning how to become a private eye, even if it’s temporarily no-pay, she may stop her grousing.”

  “Also,” I pointed out, “it will provide a perfect excuse for your absences, eliminating the need to accompany the Duchess to charity bashes and those flute recitals you so rightfully dread.”

  “How true, how true,” he said, brightening. “I’m your man.”

  “You understand, don’t you, that I’m to be captain of the ship and you a lowly seaman not allowed to question my judgments.”

  “Of course,” he said. “You lead and I shall faithfully follow. What is it, Archy?”

  “There’s a bird shop in West Palm. Parrots Unlimited. That’s all they sell—parrots. And accessories for their care and feeding. They’re looking for a part-time assistant. I want you to apply for the job and do your best to obtain it.”

  He was horrified. “Surely you jest.”

  “I do not jest.”

  “Jiminy crickets, Archy, they’ll have me cleaning out the cages.”

  “That will probably be part of your duties,” I admitted.

  “I know nothing about parrots.”

  “But you’re—” I started, but caught myself in time. I had been about to say “birdbrained” but changed it to, “You’re birdminded. Your imitations of birdcalls are famous in South Florida. Your mimicking of a loon is especially admired.”

  My flattery didn’t succeed.

  “I really wasn’t destined for a career of cleaning birdcages,” he mourned.

  “You’ll be paid for your labors,” I reminded him. “It won’t be much, granted, but it’ll be walking-around money. That should make both you and the Duchess happy.”

  He was wavering but still not wholly committed and so I played my trump card.

  “There is a young lady who works there,” I mentioned casually. “Quite attractive. You may be interested.”

  He blinked his pale eyes twice. “Oh?” he said. “A cream puff?”

  “A charlotte russe,” I assured him. “A mille-feuille. Possibly even baklava.”

  He sighed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  Many people have accused me of being devious. They may be right.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1995 by Lawrence A. Sanders Enterprises, Inc.

  cover design by Jason Gabbert

  978-1-4532-9827-5

  This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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  New York, NY 10014

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