McNally's Puzzle (27 page)

I had given up hope of competing with his Armani elegance and wore my silver-gray Ultrasuede sport jacket with black gabardine slacks. I was happy to see he was just as informally attired, although his terra-cotta jacket and taupe trousers were both in a nubby raw silk. But the man was without a single wrinkle. I had a mad fancy he had his clothes pressed daily—with him in them.

“Glad you could make it, Archy,” he said, and made it sound sincere. “Now you must try a margarita—the house specialty.”

“I’m willing.”

He ordered from a mustachioed bartender and turned back to me. “How was your day?” he asked. He was trying hard to be genial and I appreciated the effort. But I sensed it was exactly that—an effort.

“My day?” I said, and flipped a hand back and forth. “Half and half. Rough and rugged until you called. Then I decided to pack it in. Went home, had a swim in the ocean, took a short and delightful nap, shared a cocktail with my parents, and here I am. Things are looking up.”

“This will help,” he said as our margaritas were served in glasses large enough to hold a baby coelacanth. I took a sip and he looked at me expectantly.

“Marvelous,” I said. “Absolutely top-notch.”

He glowed as if he had mixed them himself. Actually they were excellent drinks but couldn’t equal Simon Pettibone’s margaritas, which were ne plus ultra. I think Mr. Pettibone’s secret was the sea salt he used to rim the glass but I may be mistaken. I am occasionally incorrect, you know. As when I persuaded Binky Watrous he could easily consume a platter of fried rattlesnake meat without suffering a gastric disaster. Wrong!

“What do you think of the place?” Ricardo asked.

I looked into the dining area. Definitely small. As he had said, no more than ten tables. It was a stark room with minimal decoration. There was a single bullfight poster on a whitewashed wall. The matador pictured, Belmonte, bore a striking resemblance to Chrisling: haughty, elegant, severe. Both man and poster gave the impression of repressed passion.

“It’s a bit spartan,” I admitted, recalling the soft luxury of his apartment. “But I like the way the tables are dressed. Fresh flowers are always welcome.”

“We may be eating them later,” he said. “Served with cilantro.”

His wit wasn’t dry; it was desiccated.

I shan’t attempt to describe our meal in detail since my palate is not discerning enough to identify subtle flavorings. I know we had a remarkable avocado salad with lime juice; mussels with scallions, white wine, and cream; and a main dish of salmon fillets with garlic and chilies. We agreed to skip dessert since we were both surfeited after more than ample portions of those luscious vittles.

Our choices had been spicy but not too hot and the service was admirable. I told Ricardo how much I had enjoyed it and I hoped we might return to try other examples of Mexican haute cuisine. “Next time you’ll be my guest,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “But if I can’t make it and you want to ask someone else, just mention my name to get a table. The Alcazar has become an
in
spot.”

I didn’t doubt it for by the time we finished, every table was taken and several patrons were waiting at the bar, each gripping one of those huge margaritas. Ricardo and I were draining final glasses of a flinty Mexican sauvignon blanc when he glanced at his Rolex.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I’ve got to run. Listen, Archy, if you’d care to stay and have a brandy at the bar, by all means do. I have an account here and I’ll tell the maître d’ to put it on my tab.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but I think I’ll leave as well. Thank you for a most enjoyable feast.”

We both rose to depart and it was then the tenor of the evening changed. Later it seemed to me to consist of two distinct acts: the dinner and what followed. I had the notion of a curtain being lowered and being raised again on a totally different scene.

A young woman pushed through the throng at the bar and came hurrying to confront us.

“Hi, Dick,” she said breathlessly. “You haven’t seen Paul tonight, have you?”

I glanced at Ricardo and saw him wince. You may adjudge me a simpleton but at the moment I thought his discomfort came from being addressed as Dick. But why should he be dismayed? Ricardo is another form of Richard, and Dick is a generally accepted diminutive. My name is Archibald but I have no objection to Archy. However I do have an aversion to Arch, which I feel is more adjective than name.

But then his obvious disconcertment may have been due to the lady’s physical appearance. She was attractive enough in a Betty Boopish kind of way, but it was more her costume than her looks or manner which might have caused Ricardo’s distress. She was clad in a tarty outfit of flaming red leather, jacket and skirt, the latter so short her bare knees were completely revealed, each a perfect image of Herbert Hoover.

“No, Sonia, I haven’t seen Paul,” Chrisling said stiffly. Then, remembering his manners, he uttered a swift introduction. “Sonia, this is Archy. Archy, Sonia.” No last names.

“Hi, Archy,” she said brightly.

“Hi, Sonia,” I said just as brightly. Did I have a choice?

“I’ve got to leave right now,” Ricardo said, “or I’ll never get to the Lauderdale airport in time to meet my friends. Archy, do me a favor, will you? Treat Sonia to a drink at the bar. And don’t forget to put it on my tab.”

He fled and I was left with Ms. Miniskirt. “Would you care for a drink?” I asked gamely.

“Why not?” she said. “I already et.”

Most of the waiting customers had now been seated and we were able to find room at the zinc-topped bar. Sonia ordered a margarita of course but I asked for a brandy. I was served a Presidente, the same brand Chrisling had given me.

“Have you known Ricardo long?” I asked casually.

“Dick?” she said. “Sure, we’re old friends. He’s the handsomest guy I’ve ever met. Don’t you think he’s handsome?”

“I do indeed,” I assured her. “But what about Paul? The man you’re looking for.” I meant it teasingly but she became suddenly morose.

“My ex,” she said darkly. “A real stinker. He’s a week late on the alimony check. That’s why I’m looking for him. I’ll clean his clock. It’s not he ain’t got the bucks.”

“Ah,” I said. “He’s gainfully employed?”

“Sure he is. A good job. He’s a naval architect.”

“He designs navels?”

She looked at me. “Boats,” she said. “He designs boats.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Listen, Archy, I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t you buy us a bottle of something somewhere and we’ll go back to my place, let down our hair, and tell each other the stories of our lives. Then we’ll see what happens. Okay?”

“Oh, I don’t think I could do that,” I said hastily.

“It doesn’t have to be a big bottle,” she told me. “A pint will do.”

Our conversation was beginning to take on a surreal quality, and if this tootsiesque young lady had suddenly launched into a dance routine from a Busby Berkeley musical I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.

“Sonia,” I said earnestly, “I do thank you for your kind invitation but I’m afraid it’s impossible tonight.”

“You don’t like me? I don’t turn you on?”

“I
do
like you,” I declared, “and you
do
turn me on. But I have an important errand of mercy to perform tonight. My dear old grandmother is in the hospital and she’s depending on me to stop by to read the latest financial report on her investment in pork belly futures.”

Look, I wasn’t going to let her outgoof me. I could be just as mentally anorexic as she.

“What’s wrong with your grandmother?”

“I’m afraid it’s a terminal case of flagrante delicto.”

“Oh lordy, that sounds awful.”

“It is. Endless suffering.”

“But listen, couldn’t you come over to my place after you visit your grandmother? I mean it’s just the shank of the evening. I’ll wait for you.”

She was being awfully persistent and I think it was at that moment I realized this was quite possibly more than a casual pickup. Despite her fey conversation she was intent on her purpose: to lure me to her lair.

“Sonia, I’d love to,” I said with what I hoped sounded like a sigh of ineffable regret. “But after I visit grandmama I’m so wrung out emotionally I’m not capable of fun and games. You understand, don’t you?”

“I guess,” she said.

“But I want to see you again,” I said eagerly. “Perhaps we could make it another night. May I ask for your telephone number?”

That seemed to enthuse her. “You betcha,” she said, fished in the pocket of her leather jacket, and came out with a tube of lipstick.

Before I was fully aware of what was happening she had grasped my left hand, turned it over, and scrawled her telephone number on my palm in virulent red lip gloss.

“There!” she said triumphantly. “How’s that? I have an answering machine. If I’m not in, leave a message.”

“I certainly shall,” I said feebly.

“Soon?”

“As possible,” I said, looking at the number smeared on my palm with loathing. I prayed Brillo and Ajax might do the trick.

She finished her margarita and leaned forward to give me a kiss and a wink. Then she was gone with a creaking of leather. I gulped my brandy hurriedly, fearing she might return.

“Mr. Chrisling has taken care of the bill, sir,” the mustachioed bartender said gravely.

I thanked him and handed over a sawbuck gratuity. He gave me a grateful smile I prayed was sincere. At the moment I was desperately in need of unambiguity.

I drove home slowly, thoughts awhirl as usual, and pulled into my slot in our three-car garage. I switched off engine, lights, and just sat there in the darkness. After a moment I heard a gentle scratching, leaned to open the door, and Hobo leaped into the passenger bucket. I think he wanted to lick my schnozz but I wouldn’t let him; I’d had enough unsolicited affection for one night. But I did pet him, stroking his head and back. A few minutes later he curled up on the leather seat and closed his eyes. Lucky dog.

I wished I could sleep as easily and instantly as he, but I could not. All the rusty McNally neurons were in overdrive and the ferment was almost painful as I tried to figure out exactly what had happened that night. I strove to think logically—which you may feel is similar to my attempting a fifty-foot pole vault.

I started by assuming Ricardo Chrisling’s invitation to dinner was not simply to have a sociable get-together; the man had an ulterior motive. And it had appeared in red leather. I refused to believe Sonia’s intrusion was merely a chance encounter. He had arranged it.

Perhaps it was one of those macho things. Here’s a willing chick you should meet and you’ll have a great time. But I did not think Ricardo capable of such crassness. He was wilier than that.

Putting aside his scheming for the nonce, I concentrated on the conduct of Sonia.

It would be understandable if she, a not so gay divorcée, was lonely and yearned for companionship, even if it lasted no more than one night. Possible but not probable.

Or was she engaged in Murphy’s game, one of the oldest cons in the history of scams. A chippie, real or faux, entices a john to her digs with the promise of instant gratification. Once inside her door the victim is confronted by her alleged husband, boyfriend, pimp, or perhaps an armed plug-ugly hired for the occasion. The mark is robbed and forcibly ejected from the premises. Was that Sonia’s script? Possible but not probable.

Which brought me back to Ricardo’s role in this farrago. If he had written the scenario, planned I was to meet the available lady with the bees’ knees, what in the name of Jehoshaphat could be his reason?

I left Hobo snoozing in the Miata and went into the house, up to my hideaway, still puzzled by Ricardo’s behavior and wondering if I was not being paranoid. The man had really done nothing suspicious. He had invited me to a splendid dinner. An acquaintance had unexpectedly appeared. So why was I impugning his motives, searching for any evidence of deception?

I was disrobing, preparing to spend an hour or two bringing my journal up to date, when I stopped suddenly. I think I may have grinned. Because a short memory loss was restored and I recalled something Ricardo had said during the evening. I shall not dignify it by calling it a “clue,” but I thought it significant.

Surely you know what I’m writing about, don’t you? You picked up on it before I did—not so? If not, you must be patient and be assured your temporarily prideful scribe will reveal Ricardo’s slip at the proper time.

Stay in touch.

B
EFORE I RETIRED ON THURSDAY
night I laboriously expunged Sonia’s lipsticked telephone number from my palm. A bit of scouring powder helped. But first I copied the number into my daybook. As an amateur sleuth I had learned God is in the details. Or is it the Devil who is in the details? I can never remember which.

Regarding the next morning...

There is an anecdote about W. C. Fields—or perhaps it was Jimmy Durante—who was called upon to make a daybreak appearance at his movie studio. As he staggered through the dawn’s early light he came upon a lofty tree laden with sleeping and nesting birds. Immediately he began kicking the tree and whacking it with his walking stick.

“When I’m up,” he shouted, “everybody up!”

I recalled the story after Sgt. Al Rogoff shattered my deep slumber with a phone call at eight o’clock on Friday morning. Ungodly hour.

“When you’re up,” I grumbled, “everybody up. Have you no mercy?”

“Not me,” he said curtly. “I’m working my tail off and I expect the same from you. Listen, I showed a color photo of a white Ford Explorer to the gooney lady who claims she saw Tony Sutcliffe and Emma Gompertz being hustled away. She says yes, she thinks that was the vehicle used. She
thinks
it was but she isn’t certain. A defense attorney could easily demolish her testimony but it’s good enough for me. Like I told you, I got nothing else. So what was Ricardo Chrisling’s car doing there when the ex-employees of Parrots Unlimited were abducted?”

It staggered me for a sec. “I didn’t tell you it belonged to Chrisling.”

He was indignant. “You think I’m a mutt? After the loopy dame made a tentative identification I checked the cars of everyone connected with this mishmash and came up with Chrisling. You think he’s our hero?”