McNally's chance (mcnally)

by Lawrence Sanders

So Harry had called. Again I wondered if Tom and Dick had, too. “So why do you need me, Mr. Schuyler?”

  “Quite frankly, because I don’t trust her. I want a spy in her camp.”

  “I’m not in her camp, sir.”

  “You have entry, Mr. McNally.”

  I said I was going to keep out of this, but thanks to that chance I took when I told Ursi and Jamie about my meeting with Sabrina, everyone in town knew the author and I had a working relationship. Of course, the most problematic folks on my list were the three kings she had bilked out of a fortune. I took a chance and look at the hand I drew.

  Three kings, a queen, and yrs. truly, the joker.

  Right there I decided it would be in my best interest to join the game and declare jokers wild. I would call Sabrina. First, to warn her of just how desperate her three old paramours were and to tell her to get them off my back. Also, I wanted to hear what the lady had to say in her defense. Plenty, I was sure. I would also bill Harry for my time and perhaps Tom and Dick, too. I had nothing to lose but my life.

  “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Schuyler,” I told him, not without some misgivings.

  “I wish I could say that makes me feel better, but it doesn’t,” he said with a show of no confidence. “In my condition I guess I never will.”

  “I’m sorry about your poor health, sir.”

  “So am I,” he said standing. “Shall we go below? You look like you could use a drink.”

  We were both carrying empty cocktail glasses as we walked to the elevator. Mine and mine. Just before Schuyler put out the lights I thought I saw David wink at me. Cheeky guy.

  The party was in full swing. We deposited our empties on the bar, but before I could get a refill there was a stir of excitement in the crowded room at the arrival of two new guests.

  “Oh, it’s Dickey Cranston and Ginny,” Schuyler said. “He was at Saint Paul’s with Tommy and me. Good of him to come. He and Troy are not on the same team. Different parties, you know. Would you like to meet him?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. I’d rather scram before they pass the alms plate.”

  “Nonsense, it’ll only take a minute. Dickey is going to be an ambassador or something. Big deal.”

  Schuyler dragged me into the lion’s den, and at the sight of me Dickey Cranston almost keeled over. I hate having this effect on people; it bruises the ego. The crowd made way for Harry Schuyler as they must have all his life, and we had no trouble penetrating the groupies surrounding Cranston. Schuyler made the introduction, and Cranston shook my hand like I was Typhoid Mary. Suzanne was at the moment showing off her Chanel suit to Virginia Appleton.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Cranston lied. “Are you a political enthusiast, Mr. McNally?”

  “No, sir. My father was the invited guest and I’m here in his place.”

  “That’s right,” Schuyler mumbled. “Prescott McNally did some work for me awhile back and I may need his help again.”

  Unable to resist, Tom Appleton left his son, the Givenchy, and the Chanel to join us. “Good of you to come, Dickey,” he said to Cranston while looking at me. “I guess we can’t count on your vote. What’s your party affiliation, Mr. McNally?”

  My para-was so — noid I wanted only to run out of the room and into the ocean, never to return. I was at Casa Gran, surrounded by three social-register heavyweights, all giving me the fisheye like the motel clerk who knows damn well you’re not Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Looking at them side by side was like playing the old shell game. Which one contained the pea? These three fools all believed they did.

  “I’m an independent, sir,” I told him. “But I promised your son my vote and I will keep it.”

  “Mr. McNally is my guest, Tommy!” Schuyler explained. “Lawyer business.”

  “I didn’t know you were a lawyer, Mr. McNally,” Appleton said.

  “I’m not, but my father is,” I answered. This was followed by an oppressive pause. Appleton and Cranston glared at me. Schuyler looked wistfully at the passing trays of champagne. I smiled in search of sympathy and got skunked for my efforts. It was time for Archy to do the right thing and get out of these guys’ lives while I still had mine.

  “I must be going, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure. Best of luck to your son, Mr. Appleton, and to you, Mr. Cranston, on your appointment.” To Harry Schuyler I said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  None of them offered a parting hand.

  Nineteen

  I could feel their eyes boring into my back as I made my exit. These three not-so-wise guys had broken the cardinal rule of survival: When in doubt, keep your mouth shut. Upon reading that now infamous blind item in Lolly’s column they panicked and blabbed. Trouble was, they blabbed to me which made me as inconvenient as Sabrina and her daughter. Schuyler thought he was speaking metaphorically when he placed me in Sabrina’s camp, but the statement was more fact than fancy. That I had been shanghaied made no difference to the enemy.

  I rationalized that if any of these three former classmates were going to take drastic action to keep their secret a secret they would have to do it with their own hand. Out of necessity a hit man would have to go the way of his victim and then you’re dealing with a box of facial tissues pull out one and up pops another.

  Of the three, which would be the most likely to act foolishly? My vote went to Cranston. He had the most to lose and, like all ambitious men, I believed he could be ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted.

  That day in his limo he had referred to Sabrina being as reliable as a campaign promise. This told you something about his political integrity. And he had a temper. “Don’t ever get wise with me. You tell me what I want to know or…” I never did hear the end of that threat but I have a lively imagination.

  Then we have Schuyler, sickly but determined to go to his grave as pure as when he came into this world. He was the only one to openly declare he would kill to keep the secret. Kill me, that is. And by his own admission he had nothing to lose if pushed to the limit. “All I could get is life or the chair. Ain’t that a laugh?”

  Appleton was the mildest mannered of the three but I could hear him telling me, “I will go to any length to protect myself and my family from scandal.” Nor could I forget the look he gave me when I horned in on his son’s fifteen minutes. Like they say, If looks could kill.. ”

  Due to all of the above I had completely forgotten that Binky and Bianca were dining at the Pelican that evening. Imagine my surprise when I walked in and saw the pair seated at my corner table. It being the start of the weekend, the Pelican was crowded and noisy, but Binky spotted me the moment I walked into the bar area. Too late to run. He and Bianca waved. I waved back and skirted their table in favor of the bar. “Good evening, Mr. Pettibone. What can you give me to make me forget there’s got to be a morning after?”

  “They say a good martini can do the trick.”

  “Very perceptive, Mr. Pettibone. It’s what I’ve been drinking and father told me never to change intoxicants in midstream. I’ll have the vodka variety, straight up with a twist.”

  “You look like you’ve had a tough night, Archy,” Simon Pettibone observed.

  “I’ve had better, Mr. Pettibone. I’ve had better.”

  Priscilla came up to the bar to place an order and couldn’t wait to tell me, “Binky is here with his new girl. She’s a doll.”

  “So I noticed. What are they drinking?”

  “Binky is on beer, as usual, and Bianca is drinking rum and Coke.”

  My stomach lurched. “What are they eating?” I also had to know.

  “Special tonight is crab cakes, but Bianca said they tend to give her gas.”

  How infuriating. The girl was impudent. Tonight she wore a lovely cream cashmere cardigan over a lilac blouse. Was she telling Binky about our visit with Tony Gilbert? Pray she doesn’t describe Babette.

  Binky has a weak heart.

  “They’re having the braised veal chops,” Priscilla said.

  My st
omach mellowed. “Do you think Leroy could put a little something together for me to nibble right here?” I asked.

  “We discourage eating at the bar,” she told me.

  “Says who?”

  “The Board, that’s who,” Priscilla snapped.

  Let me say here that I am not on the Pelican’s Board. I am a member of the more prestigious Founders’ Committee. As the Pelican Club was established as a gentlemen’s lodge, the Founders are all hart pun intended. Later, we made the mistake of admitting women. Connie, like Eve, was the first on the scene. Thereafter I could no longer escort whom I pleased to the club without chancing running into Connie.

  Please note: Were it not for that unfortunate decision I would be sharing the braised veal chops with Bianca and a robust Bordeaux from the Medoc region not Binky Watrous. Gas? The nerve of that child.

  When Mr. Pettibone placed my drink before me, I complained, Triscilla refuses to serve this starving gentleman at the bar, Mr. Pettibone.”

  “Oh, we can make an exception, Pris,” he kindly said to his daughter.

  “Archy is tucked away in the corner here and no one will notice.”

  “No one will notice?” Priscilla echoed. “That tie-and-hankie combo makes him look like a traffic light. And that’s the biggest pocket square I have ever seen you could have a picnic on it.” Having critiqued my attire, Priscilla picked up her tray and departed.

  Reggie Winetroub took up the slack. “Glad I caught you, Archy.” Reggie looked a bit under the weather. He has been known to go from lunch tails to cocktails without taking a work break. “Founders’ meeting next week. Very important that you be there. We’re considering establishing a new charity under the auspices of our “Just Say Yes”

  reserve fund.”

  “Interesting, Reggie. What do you have in mind?”

  “We want to support those we feel have been overlooked, badly neglected, and often maligned.”

  “Right on, Reggie. Who did you come up with?”

  “Unwed fathers.”

  I couldn’t think of a more overlooked, neglected, and maligned group in our United States. “Good choice,” I encouraged. “What services would we provide?”

  “A hideaway is what I have in mind,” Reggie said. You had to hand it to him. When he focused in on a project he left no stone unturned.

  “Someplace in the desert perhaps,” Reggie mused, ‘where the men can relax and get away from the haranguing of irate females and lawyers. I was thinking of Nevada where bordellos are legal. You know, for the boys’ night out.”

  “Reggie, you are a genius, but you might consider Algiers, too.”

  “Really, Archy? Why?”

  “I’ll tell you at the meeting.”

  “How boss,” Reggie chuckled. “See you later. I have to get back to my table, if I can find it.”

  “I hope he was kidding,” Mr. Pettibone offered in passing.

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Pettibone. You find the new charity unworthy?”

  “Heavens no, Archy. I’m opposed to Nevada. Too hot regardless of the amenities. I would suggest Arizona where one can go south of the border for rest and relaxation.”

  Mr. Pettibone has tarried too long at the Pelican Club.

  Priscilla returned. “Leroy can put together a burger with cottage fries and a tossed salad.”

  Tell Leroy I will marry him if he doesn’t forget the pickle spears.”

  I lowered my voice and dipped my head. Tell me, are the happy couple enjoying their date?”

  “I think so,” Priscilla said. “She keeps saying, “Oh, Binky, how you make me laugh.”

  This was worse than I had imagined. The girl was a menace. Poor Binky would forsake his Victoria’s Secret catalogues for reality’s lash. I should make a citizen’s arrest, drag her off to a hallowed shelter, and pray for the redemption of her soul. “Oh, Lord, make her a good girl but not immediately.”

  Why do I harbor such thoughts? My precarious position between Sabrina Wright and her three angry adversaries had me on edge and imminent danger activates the adrenal gland, unleashing the steroid al hormone known as adrenaline. In animals this remarkable substance triggers the fight or flight instinct. Perhaps due to a missing gene, in Archy it triggers only the flight half. That’s why I felt compelled to run off to the Kasbah with Bianca Courtney. Steroidal hormones will do it all the time. Clearly, I am a victim of genetic imbalance.

  “We gave Binky his gifts last night,” Priscilla announced as if I didn’t know. “Connie said she hopes her bridal shower is as successful as Binky’s housewarming, hint, hint.”

  “Tell Connie that Archy hopes his application for the priesthood is looked upon favorably, hint, hint.”

  With a nod toward my corner table, Priscilla predicted, “With the way things are progressing there, you may be giving Binky a bachelor party before the year is out. They ordered one chocolate mousse for dessert, with two spoons. Cozy, no?” Priscilla picked up her order and fled.

  With that my evening reached its nadir. Remembering that there was always one step further down you could go, I clung to the promise of one of Leroy’s hamburgers, which are a gourmand’s delight, proving that the best things in life are not free. At the Pelican Club they start at fourteen ninety-five and advance rapidly. I would have Mr.

  Pettibone pull a dark lager to go with the repast. Why, I was feeling better already.

  There were two couples at the bar waiting for tables and after seeing to their needs Mr. Pettibone approached me and asked, “Have you seen your policeman friend, Archy?”

  “Not since we lunched here the other day. Are you in need of the law?”

  “Thankfully, no, but Pris told us that you told him the Henry Peavey story and he said he would run the name through the police files. I was wondering if he’d turned up anything.”

  With all that had been going on since Sabrina, Bianca, and Babette had entered my life I had forgotten all about cousin Lyle and Henry Peavey.

  “If he had, I’m sure he would have called me,” I told Mr. Pettibone.

  “But I will check with Al and get back to you the soonest. I take it Mrs. Pettibone has heard nothing from California.”

  “Not a word, Archy, and it’s on her mind constantly. She’s running up a phone bill with Lyle’s daughter and giving me no rest. Probably all nonsense, anyway. Lyle never did have much on the ball, as I recall.

  The man is a modern-day alchemist, his tools being lottery tickets and football pools. He doesn’t have an Oval Office so he works around an oval track.”

  “Don’t count him out, Mr. P; he may be on to something this time.”

  A couple of new arrivals stepped up to the bar and Mr. Pettibone hastened to greet them. In parting, he called over his shoulder, All I want from him is the cost of the long-distance calls. Keep in touch, Archy.”

  “I will, Mr. Pettibone,” I promised.

  Now Binky and his date were departing and although I avoided looking their way, they came bounding up to me on their way out. “Pleasant meal?” I inquired civilly.

  “Great,” Bianca said. “I can’t wait to come back.”

  “No need for an antacid, I assume.”

  “Not tonight,” she beamed. “We’re going home to catalogue Binky’s gifts.”

  “That’s right, Archy; remember you told me to keep a detailed list for reciprocation. Bianca is going to help me. I got fourteen in all.”

  “Sixteen, if you count Priscilla’s and Connie’s,” Bianca reminded him.

  “Where is Connie tonight, Archy?”

  Oh, she was a piece of work, little Ms Buttons and Bows. “I am not Connie’s keeper,” I answered, ‘and here comes my humble meal so if you will excuse me I will bid you both happy cataloguing.”

  “We’re having waffles for breakfast,” Binky said loud enough for everyone at the bar to hear. “Bianca is going to show me how to use my new waffle iron.” He was besotted. If, at that very moment, Mr.

  Pettibone had not put my meal b
efore me I would have made my citizen’s arrest to save the boy from both debauchery and indigestion. This is what comes of getting your own pad while still a youth. Why, Binky was just ten years past his teens. Bianca said she was twenty-two, but with witches who knows?

  “Night, Archy!” Bianca called and toddled off.

  The moment she was out of earshot, Binky poked me in the ribs and whispered, “Don’t come knocking when the trailer is rocking.”

  Oh, please.

  Dies Saturni, or Saturn’s day, but there was no rest for Archy. I awoke to the sound of a drip, drip, drip, and knew it was a rainy Saturday morn. Good for the merchants on Worth Avenue, bad for the bikini watchers on the beach. I showered vigorously, hot, cold, hot, cold; shampooed my hair and wrapped myself in my hooded white terry robe. Last night, after returning from the Pelican Club, I added an addendum to the last two addenda in my journal, bringing it up to date.

  First, “The Man That Got Away,”

  second, “The Man That Wouldn’t Go Away third, “And Baby Makes Five.”

  After recording in detail my visit to Casa Gran, I had written that Appleton, Cranston, and Schuyler would not rest easy until Sabrina and her daughter departed Palm Beach and disappeared from their lives. In the gray light of a rainy morning I added that this would be only a temporary reprieve, at best. When Sabrina had confided to Gillian the circumstances of her birth she had opened the closet door, exposing the skeleton. It was only a matter of time before someone fleshed out the bones and added a face.

  The men would never rest easy until those who could identify Mr. Bones were silenced. Namely, Sabrina and Archy. The kooky part was that neither one of us could make a positive ID. Was it time the men knew this?

  I went down to breakfast in shorts and polo shirt. “Do we own a waffle iron?” I asked Ursi.

  “I know there’s one someplace, but if that’s what you’re craving this morning, Archy, I don’t have the batter.”

  “No, Ursi. I was just wondering. For some reason I woke up with waffles on my mind. Must have been something I ate last night.”

  Seeing as the mater and pater were due to dock tomorrow I thought it politic not to mention the number of martinis I had also ingested last night followed by several dark lagers. Before getting into my chariot I had tested my driving capabilities by reciting aloud: Amidst the mists and coldest frosts, with stoutest wrists and loudest boasts, he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghost.