McNally's Risk (4 page)

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.

T
HE 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.”

“All right,” he said faintly.

I dropped my letter off in Mrs. Trelawney’s office, asked her to fax it out, and went down to the garage. After that goofy exchange with CW, I was far from being gruntled, so I merely waved at Herb, our security guard, and lighted my second cigarette of the day. I leaned against a concrete pillar, puffed away, and awaited the arrival of the Chinless Wonder.

About ten minutes later his black Mercedes came rolling slowly down the ramp. He pulled into an empty parking slot, and I went over and slid in next to him.