McNally's Luck

by Lawrence Sanders

  Let me tell you something about Silas Hawkin. He suffered from what I called the Hemingway Syndrome—very prevalent in South Florida and particularly in the Keys. Bulky, middle-aged men cultivate a grizzled beard, wear a long-billed fishing cap, and drink nothing but Myers’s Dark rum. Some go so far as to sport a small gold ring in one ear or even a ponytail. None wear bifocals or a hearing aid in public.

  Hawkin was a charter member of this macho cult. I didn’t know whether or not he was an obsessed fisherman, but I would have bet a farthing that he had the cap and drank rum. I could see he had the requisite pepper-and-salt beard, for at the moment he was combing it with his fingers and regarding me with a mixture of hostility and suspicion.

  “Hector Johnson,” he repeated. “Theo’s father. I’ve only met the guy a couple of times. He seems okay. Knows a lot about art. Good taste.”

  Which meant, I presumed, that Hector said he admired Hawkin’s work.

  “Seems to have bucks, does he?” I asked.

  The artist shrugged. “I get the feeling he ain’t hurting.”

  “Paid your bill on time?” I pressed.

  He took that badly. “None of your damned business,” he snapped angrily. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t sent in my bill yet.”

  “I have no desire to pry unnecessarily,” I hastily assured him. “I’m just trying to get a handle on the man. Do you know anything about his background? What he did before he and his daughter moved to South Florida?”

  “I don’t really know. I think he said he was a professor.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Biology?”

  “Biology?” He was puzzled. “Why do you say that?”

  “I heard he was an expert on orchids.”

  “Nah,” the artist said. “Maybe he knows orchids, but I think he taught electronics or computer stuff—something like that. Look, I’ve really got to get back to work.”

  “Of course,” I said, rising. “Before I go I must tell you again that I think your portrait of Theodosia Johnson is the best thing you’ve ever done.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, “but I couldn’t miss with a model like that. Beautifully proportioned. Classic. Incredible skin tone. That hair! And carries herself like a duchess. A complete woman. I’ll never find another like her.”

  I was somewhat surprised by his excessive praise but made no comment—mostly because I concurred with everything he had said. Before I departed I proffered my business card.

  “If you come across anything that might help my inquiry,” I said, “pro or con, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”

  “Sure,” he said, tossing my card into the litter on his desk.

  And that was that. I tramped downstairs wondering what I had learned. Not much. I reached the ground level, glanced in, and there was Mrs. Louise Hawkin, a winsome lady, seated on one of the couches in the conversation pit. She beckoned, and I obeyed. Good boy! Now heel.

  “I’m having a vodka gimlet,” she said. “There’s a pitcher in the fridge. Would you like one?”

  I considered this invitation for a long time—possibly three seconds. “Yes,” I said, “thank you.”

  It was an excellent gimlet, not so tart that it puckered one’s lips but sharp and energizing. Mrs. Hawkin patted the cushion beside her and I obediently took my place. Good boy! Now sit up and beg.

  “How did you make out with Si?” she inquired lazily, her drawl obviously an attempt to conceal a real curiosity.

  “Fine,” I said. “I only had a few questions. Your husband was very cooperative.”

  “He was?” she said, mildly astonished. “Questions about what?”

  “Whom,” I said. “A mutual acquaintance.” I hoped she wouldn’t push it. She didn’t.

  “You’re a lawyer?” she asked suddenly.

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “My father is an attorney but I am not.”

  “Does he do divorce work? A friend of mine is looking for a good divorce lawyer and asked if I could recommend someone.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “McNally and Son doesn’t handle divorces. But if you like, I can ask my father. I’m sure he can suggest someone who would be willing to talk to your friend. Shall I do that?”

  “Yes. Let me know as soon as possible.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  She sipped her gimlet, stared at the high ceiling, and ignored me. Good boy! Now lie down and play dead.

  She was a heavy-bodied woman with an attractive mastiff face: very strong, very determined. I decided I would rather have her for a friend than an enemy. That may sound simple, but there are some people, men and women, of whom you are instinctively wary, knowing they could be trouble.

  I finished my drink, rose, and expressed thanks for her hospitality. She gazed at me thoughtfully but made no reply. So I slunk away, grateful to be out of her presence. I can’t explain exactly why. Just that I was conscious of a very deep anger there with which I could not cope, and had no desire to.

  I retraced my route and entered the main house through the door to the Florida room. I could have circled around and reclaimed my Miata on the bricked driveway, but I wanted to learn the name of the pleasant, chirpy-voiced maid who had ushered me in.

  Instead, I found Marcia Hawkin wandering about, hugging her elbows. I was about to bid her a polite farewell when she accosted me—and accosted is a mild word for her attitude. She was in my face.

  “Did you go to daddy’s show last night?” she demanded.

  “Why, yes, Miss Hawkin,” I said as softly as I could. “I did attend the exhibit.”

  “It was a circus, wasn’t it?” she challenged. “A bloody circus.”

  “Not really,” I said cautiously. “Not much different from a hundred other similar affairs.”

  “And I suppose she was there,” she said bitterly.

  Complete confusion. Did she mean Mrs. Hawkin or the cynosure of the evening?

  “She?” I repeated. “Your stepmother or Theodosia Johnson?”

  “You know who I mean,” she said darkly. “The whore!”

  That was rough stuff that not only shocked but left me as flummoxed as before. To whom was she referring? All I could do at the moment was stare at her, utterly bewildered.

  I cannot say she was an unattractive woman. Quite young. Tall and attenuated. But there was a brittleness about her I found a mite off-putting. She seemed assembled of piano wire and glass, ready to snap or shatter at any moment.

  She stalked away from me and stood staring through an open window at her father’s studio. I judged it would be wise to make a quiet and unobtrusive exit. To tell you the truth, I had enough of naked human passions for one morning. I felt like I had been wrung out hard and hung up wet. I murmured a courteous goodbye and slipped away. I don’t believe she was even aware of my going.

  I loitered in the entrance hallway a moment, hoping to have a few words with the live-in domestic. I was rewarded when she came bustling forward to show me out.

  “You’ve been very kind,” I told her, “and I thank you for it. You know, I must confess that I don’t know your name. You know mine, and I don’t know yours. That’s not fair!”

  She gave me that radiant smile again. “Mrs. Jane Folsby,” she said.

  “Mrs. Folsby,” I said, reaching to shake her hand, “it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Have you been with the Hawkins long?”

  The smile faded. “Too long,” she said.

  I left that acorn academy and turned to see if there was a nameplate over the front door. Some Palm Beach mansions have cutesy titles such as “Last Resort” and “Wit’s End.” But the Hawkins’ manse boasted no legend. I thought “Villa Bile” might be fitting.

  But I’m a sunny-tempered johnny, and even the events of that gruesome morning didn’t drag me down for long. I wasn’t quite certain if what I had heard from the Hawkin family had anything at all to do with Theodosia Johnson, the intended bride of the Chinless Wonder.

  It was time, I concluded, to inject some joy
and innocent delight into my life. So as I drove northward I used my new cellular phone to call Consuela Garcia at Lady Cynthia Horowitz’s mansion.

  “Miss Garcia,” I said formally, “this is Archy McNally speaking. I wish to apologize for my recent behavior and beg your forgiveness. I also wish to invite you to lunch at twelve-thirty at the Pelican Club.”

  “Okay,” Connie said cheerfully.

  Divine woman! Why I continually fall in love with others of the female persuasion is beyond me. If it isn’t a genetic defect, it must be a compulsive-obsessive disorder. I really should read up on it, and I fully intend to—one of these days.

  Chapter 3

  THE PELICAN CLUB WAS cranking with the noonday crowd when I entered, but fortunately most of the Pelicanites were seated at tables in the bar area or dining room. I was able to find an unoccupied barstool, and Simon Pettibone came ambling over to ask my pleasure.

  Ordinarily, my favorite summer potion is a frozen daiquiri, but recently I had been browsing through a secondhand bookstore and had come across a bartender’s guide published in the mid-1930s, shortly after Prohibition was repealed. (Bless you, FDR!)

  Naturally I purchased this fascinating compendium and spent many enjoyable hours studying the recipes of cocktails now lost and forgotten. Of course it included such classics as Manhattan, Bronx, Rob Roy, and Sazerac. But it also listed the ingredients of such obscure mixed drinks as Sweet Patootie, Seventh Heaven, and Arise My Love. (I kid you not.)

  Much to my astonishment, I discovered our publican knew, he actually knew, how to mix many of these antique libations. It had become a game to test his expertise, and he succeeded more often than he failed.

  “Today, Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “I would like a Soul Kiss.” It was a request that drew a few startled glances from nearby bar patrons.

  “Soul Kiss,” he repeated thoughtfully, cast his eyes upward and reflected. “Ah, yes,” he said finally. “Orange juice, Dubonnet, dry vermouth, and bourbon.”

  “Bravo!” I cried. “You’ve got it—and I hope to get it as soon as possible.”

  He set to work.

  I was sipping my Soul Kiss, wondering how long it might take to work my way through the 1000-plus drinks listed in the guide, when Consuela Garcia came bouncing into the Club. She immediately looked toward the bar, spotted me, and waved. I stood up and beamed happily.

  Connie is as toothsome as a charlotte russe, but that is hardly the limit of her appeal. She has a sharp wit, is extremely clever at her job, and is just naturally a jolly lady. There are those who wonder why I don’t marry the girl. The answer is simple: cowardice. Not fear of Connie so much as fear of matrimony itself.

  I see wedded bliss as a kind of surrender—which I agree is an immature attitude. But I think of myself as an honorable chap, and if I were married it would mean that never again could I look at a dishy woman with lust in my heart. That is what scares me: that I would be incapable of resisting temptation, and so my self-esteem would evaporate, let alone the trust of my mate.

  You may possibly feel all that is blarney, and my sole reason for remaining a bachelor is that I relish the life of a rake. You may possibly be right.

  Connie and I had Leroy’s special hamburgers, a beef-veal-pork combination mixed with chilies. We shared a big side order of extra-thick potato chips and drank Buckler, which is a non-alcoholic beer that tastes swell but doesn’t do a thing for you except quench your thirst.

  Connie chattered on about a reception Lady Horowitz was planning for a visiting Russian ballerina and didn’t mention a word about L’Affaire d’Oeufs Benedict, for which I was thankful. She was excited about her arrangements for the party, and it showed in her features: snappy eyes, laughing mouth, squinched-up nose to express displeasure.

  Charming, no doubt about it. But different from Theodosia Johnson’s beauty. Not inferior or superior, just different. Connie was earthy, open, solid. Madam X was an unsolved riddle. So far.

  “Hey,” Connie said over coffee, “I’ve been yakking up a storm and haven’t asked about you. What mischief are you up to these days, Archy?”

  “Oh, this and that,” I said. “Nothing heavy. Right now I’m running a credit check on a man named Hector Johnson. Ever hear of him?”

  “Of course,” she said promptly. “He sent in a nice check for Lady Cynthia’s latest project, to install Art Nouveau pissoirs on Worth Avenue. Can you imagine? Anyway, the boss asked him over for cocktails. What a doll! He’s got charm coming out his ears.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Retired, is he?”

  “Semi, I guess. He said he used to work for the government. He didn’t say doing what, but I got the feeling it was the CIA.”

  “Connie, whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Because he was so mysterious about it. I suppose I could have asked straight out, but I didn’t want to pry. Who cares if he was a spy? He’s nice and that’s all that counts.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She looked at her Swatch. “Oh, lordy, I have to get my rear in gear. Sorry to eat and run, luv, but I’ve got a zillion things to do. Okay?”

  “Of course,” I said. “You go ahead. I think I’ll dawdle a bit.”

  She swooped to kiss my cheek, gathered up handbag and scarf, and sashayed out. I wasn’t the only man, or woman, in the dining room who watched her leave. Connie radiates a healthy vigor that even strangers admire. With her robust figure and long black hair flying, she could model for the hood ornament on a turbo-charged sports coupe.

  I finished a second cup of coffee, signed my tab at the bar, and wandered out. I was musing about Hector Johnson, a man who apparently was knowledgeable about orchids, had been a professor of electronics or computer stuff, and had worked for the U.S. of A., possibly as a spy. Curiouser and curiouser. I had been enlisted to investigate Theo Johnson, but now I found myself concentrating on daddy. Because, to paraphrase Willie Sutton, that’s where the money was, I supposed.

  I went back to my cubicle in the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. It is a squarish structure of glass and stainless steel, so stark and modern it makes you yearn to see a Chick Sales just once more before you die.

  My office was a joke: a tiny windowless room as confining as a Pullman berth. I am convinced my father banished me there to prove to other employees that there would be no nepotism at McNally & Son. But at least I had an air-conditioner vent, and I lighted my first English Oval of the day as I set to work gathering the financial skinny on Hector Johnson and his wondrous daughter.

  I phoned contacts at local banks, promising my pals a dinner at the Pelican if they would reveal whatever they had on the enigmatic Hector. Then I prepared a letter to be faxed to national credit agencies to which we subscribed. Those snoops could usually deliver everything from an individual’s date of birth and Social Security number to current Zip Code, hat size, and passionate preferences, such as an inordinate fondness for sun-dried tomatoes. Privacy? It doesn’t exist anymore. Not even if you’re lucky enough to be dead.

  I finished the letter and was about to take it upstairs to Mrs. Trelawney, my father’s private secretary, and have her fax it out, when my phone rang. That was such an unusual occurrence that I stared at it a moment before picking up. I was sure it would be an automatic marketing machine working through every possible telephone number in sequence and delivering a recorded spiel on the wonderful opportunity I had been granted to invest in a rhinestone mine.

  “H’lo?” I said cautiously.

  “Archy McNally?”

  I thought I recognized that whiny voice but hoped I was wrong.

  “Yes,” I said. “Speaking.”

  “This is Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth,” he said, reeling off the four names like a sergeant selecting a latrine detail.

  “Hello, CW,” I said, resolving to get rid of this world-class bore as fast as humanly possible.

  “Archy,” he said, and I thought I detected a note of desperation, “I’ve got to see you as soon as possible.
”

  “Oh?” I said. “Concerning what?”

  “Well...” he started, stopped, gave me a few “Uh’s” and “Um’s,” and finally said, “It’s a legal matter.”

  “Then you better speak to my father,” I told him. “As you know, I am not an attorney. Would you like me to set up an appointment?”

  “No!” he cried. “No, no, no! I know your father is an estimable man, but he scares me.”

  “Well... yes,” I conceded. “At times he can be rather daunting. But if you need legal advice, CW, I’m just not your man.”

  “It’s not really a legal thing,” he stammered on. “It is and it isn’t. And I’d rather talk about it to you. Please, Archy.”

  Now I was intrigued; the Chinless Wonder, with an ego as big as all outdoors, was pleading for help. And it just might have something to do with the trustworthiness of Theodosia Johnson.

  “All right, CW,” I said. “Would you like to pop over to the office?”

  “Oh no,” he said immediately. “I’d probably be seen, the word would get back to mother, and she’d demand to know why I was seeing our lawyer.”

  “Very well. Then how about the Pelican Club? Cafe L’Europe? Testa’s? Perhaps a Pizza Hut?”

  “Won’t do,” he said despairingly. “I can’t be seen huddling with you in public. You know how people talk.”

  “CW,” I said, more than a little miffed, “you ask to meet me to discuss what is apparently a personal matter of some importance, and then you reject all my suggestions for a rendezvous. Here is my final offer, and I do mean final: The McNally Building has an underground garage. If you will drive down there, I will be pleased to meet with you, and we will have a cozy tête-à-tête.”

  “Is that the best you can do?” he said, the whine becoming a drone.

  The McNally temper, though rarely displayed, is not totally nonexistent. “Not only the best,” I said with some asperity, “but the only. Either be there within fifteen minutes or forget about the whole thing.”