McNally's Gamble
McNally’s Gamble
An Archy McNally Novel
By Vincent Lardo
CHAPTER 1
H
ERE’S AN ANECDOTE YOU
may find difficult to believe. Even I can scarcely give it credence although I was witness to what occurred.
Early in December two Boston villains decided to jaunt to south Florida to escape the rigors of winter and enjoy the sunshine and thong bikinis of Miami Beach. It wasn’t long before they were tapped out, a rapid decline of their operating funds accelerated by a visit to the casinos in the Bahamas.
Determined to avoid an ignominious and cash-poor return to their hometown, they decided a criminal enterprise in Florida was the answer to their financial problems. The two wetbrains resolved to kidnap the young child of a wealthy Palm Beach resident, hold him or her just long enough to collect a sizable ransom, and then skedaddle northward.
With no more planning they immediately launched their caper. They slowly toured the boulevards and back roads of the Town of Palm Beach, marveling at the endless rows of mansions they passed. I’m sure visions of sugarplums danced through their tiny, tiny minds, each sweetmeat printed with a dollar sign.
On the second day of exploration they espied a young lad trudging along by himself on the verge of South County Road. No cars or witnesses being nearby, the two improper Bostonians brought their rental car to a screeching halt, grabbed the startled kid, and hustled him into the back seat, where he was threatened with instant annihilation if he uttered a single word or attempted to attract the attention of anyone to his plight.
I imagine the moronic thugs figured if the boy lived in Palm Beach his parents must have a gazillion bucks. Wrong! The boy’s father, Maurice Franklin, was moderately well-to-do but a Croesus he was not. He owned a medium-sized pest control business and earned a steady annual profit, but nothing to justify a front-page article in
The Wall Street Journal.
His wife had died of cancer the previous year. His son, the kidnapped Timmy, was his only child.
I knew these details because Maurice Franklin was a client of McNally & Son. When Timmy did not return from school, Franklin’s Haitian housekeeper called him at work. In turn he called Timmy’s school, his friends, and then, becoming increasingly worried, phoned the police and my father, Prescott McNally, sovereign of our law firm. The pater ordered me to liaise with the Palm Beach Police Department and keep him informed. I do not believe anyone was unduly concerned at that stage of the affair.
Things took a more somber turn the following morning. Timmy had not appeared. The case was assigned to Sgt. Al Rogoff of the PBPD, which heartened me since Al is an old confrere and I trust his professional expertise. I knew he would attempt to trace Timmy’s movements after the boy left school, check hospitals, accident reports, and shelters for runaway children. Finally, I learned later, the FBI was informed about noon that a possible kidnapping might be in progress.
I thought I better put in a personal appearance to show the McNally & Son flag, so to speak, and offer what help I could. I arrived at the Franklin home to find the Feds in command and I was allowed entry only after Sgt. Rogoff vouched for my bona fides.
FBI techs were busily installing a variety of electronic devices. One would amplify all telephone conversations so everyone could hear clearly both sides of a phoned dialogue. A voice-activated deck would make a taped record of all calls. A third dingus was designed to trace the source of incoming calls within minutes, obviating the need of searching phone company logs.
While this work was in progress I went over to a couch where our client, Maurice Franklin, was sitting upright, gripping his knees with white knuckles. I identified myself, expressed my sympathy and that of McNally & Son. I assured him we stood ready to offer whatever assistance we could.
He was a bulky man, massive through the neck and shoulders, with an indoor complexion made paler by stress. “If Timmy’s been kidnapped,” he said, his voice thick, “and I get to them, I’ll kill them. I swear it. Putting their hands on my son. I’ll destroy them. I don’t care what happens to me afterward.”
“Understandable, Mr. Franklin,” I said as soothingly as I could. “But we don’t yet know for certain he has been kidnapped.”
“They’ll probably want a lot of money,” he went on, not listening to me. “Maybe a million. Maybe more. How can I come up with that?”
“Don’t even think about it,” I urged. “If a ransom demand is made, believe me, sufficient funds will be available.”
I was still trying to comfort him and the technicians were still at work wiring their black boxes when the telephone rang. There must have been a dozen men in the room at that time and I think we all froze and stared at the shrilling phone. The FBI special agent in charge beckoned to Maurice Franklin.
“Answer it,” he commanded. “If it’s a ransom demand, keep them talking as long as possible. Follow the script we suggested.”
Our client nodded and staggered to his feet. I assisted him. The amplifier had been connected and we all heard the ensuing conversation.
Franklin: “Hello?”
Boston-accented masculine voice: “You Morry Franklin?”
“Maurice Franklin. Yes, I am Maurice Franklin.”
“You got a son named Timmy?”
“Yes.”
“We got him.”
“What!?”
“Let’s not play games, Morry. This is a snatch. You want to see your kid alive again? Home and happy?”
“How do I know what you’re saying is true?”
“Bosco, bring him over here. Timmy, say hello to your pop.”
“Hi, dad!”
“Timmy, are you all right? They haven’t hurt you?”
“I’m okay. They gave me a Twinkie.”
“Don’t be frightened, son.”
“I’m not scared but I do want to come home, dad.”
“Of course you do and I want you home. Put the man back on the phone.”
“See? We got the kid and he ain’t hurt. Satisfied?”
“How much do you want?”
“Whoa! Wait a minute. This is just the first call. You bring in the cops and your kid is gone. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be hearing from us again. About how much it will cost and how to deliver it. Meanwhile sweat a little.”
Click!
The phone went dead. It was then I believe we all became aware of incredible good fortune. Maurice Franklin had Caller ID. In Florida this is a small device attached to your personal phone which, on an illuminated screen, reveals the name and telephone number of the most recent caller. In this case the screen displayed the name and phone number of a well-known West Palm Beach motel, one of a national chain.
There was a great hoot of triumph and relieved laughter. Apparently the Beantown lamebrains were not aware of Caller ID and had made their threatening call from their current residence. I remember Sgt. Rogoff once told me ninety percent of successful law enforcement is not due to clever investigation but to the rank stupidity of the criminals. For every Professor Moriarty there are many galoots who rob a bank and attempt to make their getaway on a bicycle.
Within twenty minutes a plan was devised and all the officers, Feds and locals, rushed outside to their cars. I was ordered to stay with the father. We were assured we would be informed as soon as possible of the result of the rescue attempt.
I saw Maurice Franklin had a severe attack of the shakes and asked him if any strong spirits were available. He pointed to a sideboard, where I found a modest collection of bottles including a liter of Sterling vodka. Mother’s milk! I scouted about, discovered the kitchen, and poured two tumblers of iced vodka. I brought our distraught client his drink and he took a ferocious gulp, shuddered, drew a deep breath.
“They’ll find Timmy?” he asked me, pleading.
“Of course they shall,” I said firmly. “Tell me about the boy.”
For the next hour or so he talked nonstop, relating what a wonderful son he had, how fortunate he was to be blessed with a child like that, how teachers and friends adored him, how intelligent and talented he was, what a wonderful future lay in store for him. Meanwhile I sipped my drink and just listened, nodding and smiling, not speaking but praying silently this affair would end happily.
It did. The front door was flung open, Sgt. Rogoff entered. His beefy arm was about the shoulders of a handsome, fair-haired lad, and Al’s face was cracked in a grin from here to there.
“Timmy!” Maurice Franklin shouted, lurched to his feet, rushed to his son, weeping. He flopped to his knees, gathered the boy into his arms. They embraced tightly. Bliss on a stick.
“Are you all right?” the father asked, his voice choky.
“I’m hungry, dad,” I heard Timmy say.
I laughed and pulled Rogoff into the kitchen. I poured him a small vodka and another for myself. I deserved it; I had endured an hour without talking.
“Any problems?” I asked the sergeant.
“Nope,” he said. “We got the key from the manager and waltzed in. The kid was watching TV and the two master criminals were playing high-card for nickels.”
“Beautiful. Did they say anything?”
“Yeah. One of the imbeciles asked me, ‘How did you know where we was?’ I told him we employed a Gypsy fortune-teller who used a crystal ball. She saw everything, knew everything, told us everything.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He said, ‘No shit?’”
We finished our drinks. I left Sgt. Rogoff with the Franklins. Before I departed I phoned Mrs. Trelawney, my father’s private secretary, and asked her to inform the seignior Timmy had been rescued from his inept abductors and all was well.
I told you the entire incident was incredible and so it was. But it did happen and I know you have the utmost faith in my veracity. Thank you.
The thwarted offense reinforced my belief that kidnapping is one of the most despicable misdeeds in the sad gamut of human transgressions. But the events of the next few weeks were to prove there are more heinous crimes.
A
RE YOU FAMILIAR WITH
the name William Claude Dukenfield? No? Then perhaps you know him under the name of W.C. Fields, the author of almost as many bons mots as Oscar Wilde. During a period of dreadful inflation in the 1920s Fields remarked, “I can’t see how the human race is going to survive now that the cost of living has gone up two dollars a quart.”
I was reminded of Fields’s quip on the December afternoon after leaving the Franklin home. I was seeking a birthday gift for my father at a Palm Beach liquor store. Prescott McNally was not only
mein papa
but he was also ur boss of the legal firm of which I am a loyal if habitually tardy employee. I am the son, Archibald McNally.
Although I do not possess a degree, having been ejected from Yale Law for an escapade too outrageous to retell, I had been granted gainful employment and assigned the task of making Discreet Inquiries when our clients’ problems required investigation before their distress came to the attention of the gendarmes or a supermarket tabloid which might feature the matter next to an article entitled “Extraterrestrial Accused of Flashing!”
I finally chose a graceful decanter of XO Courvoisier cognac for the sire’s seventy-something year, consoling myself for the cost with the hope I might be granted a sip on special occasions.
