McNally's Chance (16 page)

A very rich man once told me that the wealthy are often accused of milking their employees dry. That is, having them perform chores other than the ones for which they were hired. He claimed that this penurious behavior has less to do with saving a buck than in limiting the number of people surrounding them. The more sparse the court, the less worry about tattling, tell-all books, and the threat of blackmail.

Hence, I could understand Cranston’s fear, but that didn’t mean I had to like his blunt assertion regarding the vulnerability of my insider status.

I didn’t want to refuse him out of hand as my father would never forgive me, so I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse because he had no choice. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground, and I do have my sources. If I run into Sabrina or any of her group, I’ll feel them out and pass on what I learn. That’s the best I can offer you.”

He nodded, reluctantly. “Do you think I should meet with her, Archy?”

Better make an appointment, was what I thought. “That’s up to you, but I would let sleeping dogs lie. Gillian hasn’t got a clue and Sabrina is not cooperating. Get some rest and this, too, shall pass.”

“Thanks, Archy. I’m sorry I tried to pressure you.” He offered me his hand. “Friends?”

I accepted the olive branch. “I’ll keep you posted when and if I can,”

I promised.

Still clutching my hand, he said, “The Court of Saint James. It means everything to me, Archy, and nothing is going to stop me from presenting my credentials to Her Majesty. Nothing.”

Thirteen

The limo made for the disposal area at the end of the block before executing a three-point U-turn and heading out of the Palm Court. As it passed me, Bianca appeared at her door and called, “Who was it, Archy?”

“Only a couple interested in renting number eleven-seventy. They didn’t know it had been taken.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

Not wishing to get into a discussion on the subject I shrugged my regrets and waved a good-bye as I got into the Miata. When I drove out of the Palm Court the limo was nowhere to be seen. Gone, I thought, but not forgotten. I motored aimlessly until I spotted a coffee shop.

I parked and went in. The place was between breakfast and lunch, therefore just about empty. I sat in a booth, ordered a coffee and toasted English, and tried to figure out my next move.

When I had called Sabrina to tell her she was going to hear from Gillian’s father, the woman had no idea who that might be Appleton or Cranston. But, like the pro she is, she had aced my volleys and sent me packing with a sharp “Good day.” When she tried to learn why Gillian’s father had contacted me, was she hoping the lead would tell her which of the men she was likely to hear from?

It was only later that I realized the name Thomas Appleton had never come up in our conversation. But with Silvester present and a switchboard operator with easy access to the line, I had to assume she was loathe to name names and that made sense.

When Sabrina told Gillian she was her natural mother, I had to also assume that she, Sabrina, couldn’t resist bragging about her pedigreed conquest and life, however fleeting, in posh Palm Beach. No doubt she had reminded Gillian that although she may have been born on the wrong side of the blanket, the comforter was spun from threads of pure gold.

And, thanks to mama’s business savvy, Gillian had been given all the advantages due her heritage. Did Sabrina also name all the royal bastards who had risen above the happenstance of their birth? She was, after all, a writer of romances.

A few days later, Gillian demanded to know who her father was. Here, Sabrina must have regretted her boasting. She refused to answer Gillian, not only to honor her bargain but also because she didn’t know the answer. When Gillian announced that she was going in search of him Sabrina must have been beside herself with fear. It was a wonder she sat still long enough for Silvester to come down here and try to talk the girl and Zack into returning home.

The waitress brought me my elevenses and it was just what I needed. One cannot think properly on an empty stomach. What I was thinking was that Sabrina should have sat still a little longer before chasing after Silvester. Her meeting with me had precipitated a chain reaction that was taking on all the characteristics of a bedroom farce.

But given the agendas of the concerned parties, this comedy was apt to revert to tragedy before the final curtain. Appleton had the countenance of Santa and Cranston the tolerance of Scrooge, but even Santa was known to deposit coal in a dissident’s stocking, and what wouldn’t Ebenezer do if he learned he had been bamboozled out of a small fortune? Small? Appleton had hinted at how generous he had been. Double it and you’re talking a king’s ransom. But both men would gladly absorb a financial loss if only Sabrina and Co. would go away. And both were hell-bent on not being named father of the year.

Sabrina, for now obvious reasons, was poised to do what she must to keep either man from learning the truth. The situation was a scandal waiting to happen.

My first reaction after leaving Cranston’s mobile office was to call Sabrina and read her the riot act, but now a calmer head and a fuller stomach prevailed. Let the titans do battle while little Archy slipped quietly off into the sunset, body and soul intact. Only Sabrina and Archy knew that Sabrina had played Russian roulette with two loaded pistols, and not even she knew which had fired the blank. But she didn’t know

I knew and I had no intention of telling her I knew. With this crowd, ignorance was not only sublime, it was judicious.

Archy knew too much about these three and Cranston knew too much about Archy. Our government wasn’t the only one to operate on a system of checks and balances.

From this moment on I would be the man that got away and prayed they would never come looking for me. When father returned I would unload my burden; until then I would play the ostrich and bury my head in Bianca Courtney’s sandbox. I paid my check, left a generous tip, and headed for the Palace.

The Palm Beach police headquarters is housed in an edifice that would not be out of place in the hills overlooking the Cote d’Azur. Thus it had been dubbed the Palace by Sgt Rogoff, who labors within the castle walls. The twelve o’clock whistle was about to toot when I parked out front, hoping to catch Al on his way to lunch if he was on desk duty and not patrolling the streets.

Should he emerge with policewoman Tweeny Alvarez I would try to make myself invisible, which is not easy when you’re sitting in a red convertible in front of a police station. Tweeny Alvarez had a thing for Al which I believed was prompted by the fact that he was the only man on the force who could best Tweeny at arm wrestling. I couldn’t tell you if the feeling was mutual because Al wears only his sergeant stripes on his sleeve.

Tweeny is no Tallchief or Callas, but then Al Rogoff is no Nureyev or Domingo, so it was a standoff in the looks and talent department.

However, I didn’t know Tweeny well enough to say who her idols might be. Given Al’s physique and manner, I would take an educated guess that Tweeny’s favorite Hollywood dream boat was either Kong or Godzilla.

Al came out, blinked in the bright sunlight of a Palm Beach summer day, and approached the Miata as if he were about to ticket me for illegal parking. Actually, it’s the way Al approaches everything that gets in his path. “You waiting to be arrested?” he greeted.

“No, sir. It’s take-a-flatfoot-to-lunch day, compliments of the Pelican Club, and your name leaped out of the hopper.”

“That’s what I thought,” he groaned, getting into the car. Al Rogoff getting into my Miata brought to mind the fat lady at the circus squeezing into a girdle. Tell me something, Archy; doesn’t the Grill at the Ambassador Hotel ever have a take-a-cop-to-lunch day?”

“Heavens, no. Besides, you’d be out of place there,” I told him, putting the car into gear and moving off. The Palace and the Ambassador triggered the image of Richard Cranston presenting his credentials to Her Majesty.

“I feel unwanted at the Pelican,” Al complained. “I walk in wearing my uniform and half the guys in the room start looking for the nearest exit. Is the joint a front for a booking parlor?”

“It’s not the uniform, Al, it’s your demeanor. You come on like Eliot Ness entering a speakeasy. Relax. Give the boys a big smile and a friendly wave and see what happens.”

Al folded his arms across his chest and looked at me obliquely. “Screw you, Archy.”

Now the man was sounding more like himself and I took heart. “Tweeny off today?” I ventured cautiously.

“She’s at the range, qualifying,” Al said.

“Is she a good shot?”

“Tweeny? From fifty yards she can knock a flea off a dog’s ear without singeing his fur.”

“Tell me, Al, is there anything Tweeny Alvarez can’t do?”

“Yeah. The dame can’t sit through The Ring of the Nibelung in one take. She gets antsy halfway through Cotter diimmerung.” Al shook his head in disgust.

Poor Tweeny. She probably had been set for a romantic evening with Sinatra singing Mancini and she got Siegfried warbling Wagner. This romance did not bode well.

The Pride of the Pelican, Ms Priscilla, welcomed us with an armful of menus and, “Well, well, the fuzz and the shamus. Are you in hot pursuit or can you stay for lunch?”

“We’ll take the corner table, young lady, and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“Oh, cool it, bub, don’t get your Jockeys in a knot. Two malts, as usual?”

“You can.” Sitting, I said to Al, “That girl is a piece of work.”

“You can say that again. I saw the young Lena Home on the tube the other night and she had it all, but you know what? Pris is prettier than Lena.”

“And more sassy.” I picked up one of the menus Priscilla had dropped on our table. “What are you having, Al?”

“I won’t know how much of your money to spend until I know why you got me here.”

I tried to raise one eyebrow as does my august papa and failed.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Archy, we’ve been friends for years and you’ve never invited me to lunch without having me sing for my supper. So what is it you want to know?”

“You really know how to hurt a guy, Al.”

“I hope so.” Al slapped his forehead with the palm of his huge hand.

“Hell’s bells, I forgot to smile and wave. Should I go out and come in again?”

Priscilla arrived with our froth-topped beers in chilled pilsner glasses, perfectly drawn by Mr. Pettibone. With a nod, Al knocked back half the glass, leaving a white mustache on his upper lip, which he carefully shaved off with his tongue. But remember, he can sit through The Ring tetra logy and hum along. How do you figure a guy like this?

“Hamburgers and fries?” Priscilla guessed.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Why not?” Al questioned with indignation.

“Since I all but gave up the weed, I’ve been putting on weight and I have to watch my waistline. Besides, we should be cutting down on red meat. We’re not getting any younger,” I lectured with feeling.

Priscilla let out a chuckle. Take it from me, gentlemen, the bloom is off the rose.”

“That’s not funny,” I told her.

“It wasn’t meant to be.” Remembering her job she recited the afternoon’s special. “Grilled salmon. Very healthy, especially with a tossed green salad.”

I looked across the table at Al who was shaking his head. Man does not live long on hamburgers and fries washed down with a few pilsner glasses full of suds. In the interest of keeping Al alive long enough to tell me what I wanted to know I ordered for both of us. Two grilled salmons, Priscilla, and the tossed green.”

“Okay,” Al relented unwillingly, ‘but bring me an order of fries on the side.”

As Priscilla was withdrawing I called, “Make that two orders of fries.”

“What about your waistline?” she challenged.

“I’m not going to eat them. I just want to look at them and remember when I could.”

Al watched Priscilla’s departing form, which was done up in a Pucci - a print wrap dress in light blue, black, and mocha and sighed. Watching Priscilla in retreat after taking an order had become the fastest growing non contact sport at the Pelican, an honor formerly held by our annual Running of the Lambs in the parking lot.

We were a bit early for a lazy Palm Beach summer lunch and were the only ones occupying a table in the bar area. There were a few men seated on stools watching market quotes on the TV and picking Mr.

Pettibone’s brain for tips. The dining room was nearly empty when we entered, but a steady flow of singles and doubles trickled in as we awaited our food.

While his mind was otherwise occupied, I inquired with a bored air,

“What can you tell me about Bianca Courtney, Al?”

“She and Binky had Chinese takeout last night. Chicken and snow peas with extra fried rice. They ain’t eating healthy like us.”

“Are you a peeping torn, Al?”

“No. Kevin Woo delivered my order before going next door.

Sweet-and-sour pork with two spring rolls.”

“Kevin Woo? From what part of China does he hail, Belfast?”

Al finished his beer and looked about for Priscilla. “He’s third-generation Floridian. His father is Tyrone Woo. He owns the Pagoda.”

I was getting more information than I cared to know. “So Kevin Woo delivers the orders and rats on his customers. Did you ever think of moving into a fishbowl?”

“It’s not like that,” Al said. “We’re a friendly group and we watch out for each other. We ain’t no different from your gang. You got Lolly Spindrift we got Mrs. Brewster.”

Here, Priscilla breezed by and deposited a plate of crudites on our table. “It comes with the salmon,” she informed us.

Staring at the raw vegetables, Al ordered two more beers and a platter of onion rings. “And a few dill spears while you’re at it.”

And some of Leroy’s fried mozzarella sticks,” I added.

“Should I have Leroy fry the crudites?” Priscilla asked before wandering off.

“Where were we?” I said to Al when she was gone.

“On a diet, remember?”