McNally's chance (mcnally) Read online

  McNally's chance

  ( McNally )

  Lawrence Sanders

  Lawrence Sanders

  McNally's Chance

  One

  Sabrina Wright.

  She was perched on a faux leather stool at Bar Anticipation looking exactly as she did in her author photo on the jacket of her latest bestseller, Desperate Desire. Her ebony hair was drawn back so severely from her scalp as to render her startled at what e’er she looked upon and, I suspect, served as a do-it-yourself face-lift. Her eyes were like two shiny, black olives; her complexion was one that had never felt the sun’s warmth, and her lips, painted the color of a fine Bordeaux, were pursed in an elongated moue reminiscent of the late actress Joan Crawford. She wore a smart white linen suit and black-and-white sling-back pumps that drew just enough attention to her well-turned ankles and calves. Before her was a frothy concoction in a stemmed glass known, I believe, as a Pink Lady.

  Sabrina Wright’s novels are bodice-rippers par excellence. Her first, Darling Desire (Darling being the heroine’s given name), enjoyed fifty-two weeks on the New York Times bestseller list, usurped, finally, by her second blockbuster, Dangerous Desire. She subsequently penned such memorable classics as Deceptive Desire, Dark Desire, Demanding Desire, Devious Desire, and Delicious Desire, as well as this year’s sensation, Desperate Desire. Collectively known as the Books of Desire, they had been released as a Moroccan-leather boxed set, illustrated in full color, and translated into thirty languages, including Swahili. For the visually challenged they were available in large print as well as Braille. Sabrina Wright’s oeuvre had spawned films, miniseries and a long-running evening soap. Needless to say, I approached with caution. “Ms Wright, I presume.” She turned, startled. “Mr. McNally. How good of you to come.” The voice was deep if she sang she would be an alto and pure New York. The delivery announced her point of origin with neither pride nor shame, but as a matter of fact. I moved in closer but avoided mounting the empty stool next to her. “Are you aware, Ms Wright, that you are sitting in the most infamous bar in south Florida?” Her dark eyes scanned me, from head to size-eleven white bucks, as her claret lips curved into a condescending smile. “My readers wouldn’t have it any other way, Mr.

  McNally. In Chapter One, my heroine is hustling drinks in a dive like this. In Chapter Five, she owns the joint, and by the final page she’s waltzing down the aisle with a title, be it corporate or of the blood.”

  So the lady had not only borrowed Joan Crawford’s lips, she had also borrowed Joan’s film plots. As B. Brecht had so aptly put it, “From new transmitters come the old stupidities.” Pointing to the empty stool, she invited me to sit. Gray sharkskin merged with Naugahyde as I accepted the offer, saying, “Have you ever considered altering the plots?” “If it’s not broke, Mr. McNally, why fix it?” Why indeed?

  “May I ask how you got my name, Ms Wright?” “From the Yellow Pages.”

  “I’m not in the Yellow Pages.” “Precisely. If you were, I would not have called. One cannot be discreet and in the Yellow Pages. That would be an oxymoron.” She referred, no doubt, to my position as sole employee of a section of the law firm McNally amp; Son, Attorney-at-Law, yclept Discreet Inquiries. My father is the attorney, I am the Son, who left New Haven after being expelled from Yale Law. Upon my return in disgrace to Palm Beach, my father provided me with gainful employment as a Discreet Inquirer. If our rich clients should find themselves in a compromising position, they may come to me rather than seek help from law enforcement agencies because they do not wish to see their problems headlined in tabloids for their housekeepers to peruse while waiting in the checkout line at Publix.

  I tell people I was tossed out of Yale Law for streaking across the stage, naked except for a Richard Nixon mask, during a performance by the New York Philharmonic of Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 9 in E-flat major. If you choose to believe that, fine. If not, I will give you a hint that is closer to the truth. It wasn’t a Richard Nixon mask and it wasn’t Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 9.

  I was in my office, located in the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way, when Sabrina Wright’s call came through. My office is a windowless affair originally intended, I believe, to be a storage closet, albeit a very small storage closet. My father, the venerable Prescott McNally, took pity on me one sweltering August several years back and ordered our maintenance crew to install an air-conditioning duct. This act of kindness made the room’s ambiance more amiable not only for me, but for penguins, should they care to stop by. If you think mon pere is chagrined over my misunderstanding with the authorities at Yale, you are correct.

  “This is Sabrina Wright,” she announced in the manner of a grande dame on the intercom with her kitchen help. I confess, when I ran the name Sabrina Wright through my mental Rolodex I came up with zilch. However, I found it impossible to say no to a sultry female voice imploring me to meet her in a low-life hangout at high noon. Had I refused I would have had to turn in my Mickey Spillane decoding ring as well as my gumshoes.

  One of the resources of a good law firm is its library. At McNally amp; Son we are doubly blessed with our librarian, Sofia Richmond. Sofia is a superbly qualified librarian, a computer whiz and a researcher nonpareil. In addition, she not only keeps abreast of all the Palm Beach gossip but, with a little coaxing, will impart what she knows.

  Reluctantly, I sought Sofia’s help in identifying Sabrina Wright. I say ‘reluctantly’ because I am celebrating one year of almost being a nonsmoker. Sofia puffs away happily and will die, I am sure, at the age of one hundred and one with the healthiest pair of lungs in captivity. Leaving my English Ovals behind, I headed for the library.

  I found Sofia at her computer, surrounded by intimidating tomes, legal briefs, and an ashtray the size of a flying saucer. Looking at me through her horn-rimmed glasses she tossed out, along with a cloud of smoke, “You look cute.” In my dove-gray sharkskin suit, blue cambric shirt sans cravat, and white bucks left over from my preppy days, I must say I had to admire her keen perception and wished I could return the compliment. But, alas, with her thick spectacles, tight French braid, sturdy oxfords, and two-piece denim dress, I couldn’t bring myself to respond in kind. I have often imagined Sofia leaving work, arriving at her apartment, removing her glasses, letting down her hair, and donning a strapless sheath in shimmering ice-blue satin, after which she heads for a supper club in Boca where she is the headlined chanteuse. Her signature song?

  “Let’s See What the Boys in the Back Room Will Have.” Lest you think I am off my rocker, I give you the sage words of M. de Sade: “Imagination is the only reality.” “If you fed the name Sabrina Wright into that machine, what would it spew back?” I asked. “You’re kidding,” she responded. “No. Why should I be?” “You don’t know who Sabrina Wright is, Archy?” “If I did, I wouldn’t be here, ingesting secondhand smoke when I could be contracting pneumonia in my minuscule igloo. Who is she, Sofia?” “Don’t you read novels?” she prodded. “One a week, so help me Marcel Proust.” “And what was the last novel you read?” With those glasses and that hair I could swear I was being questioned by Miss Lowinstein, my tenth-grade English teacher. “All Quiet on the Western Front.” It’s what I would have reported to Miss Lowenstein, bringing tears to her eyes. All I got from Sofia Richmond was a shrug and a cheeky retort. “Well, Archy, times have changed since the Big War. Sabrina Wright’s been leading the charge on behalf of the sexual revolution.” An occidental Kama-sutra?” I ventured. Sofia trashed her cigarette in the flying saucer. “Archy, this lady makes The Kama-sutra read like the Girl Scouts’ handbook.” It was at this point that I was given a precis of the works of Sabrina Wright, from desire to desire. “How old is she?” I ask
ed Sofia when she had finished lecturing. Shaking her head from side to side as if counting the years, Sofia guessed, “Near fifty, I would say, but you couldn’t tell by looking at her.” She reached into her bottom desk drawer and brought out a copy of Desperate Desire. “See for yourself,” she said, handing me the book with Sabrina Wright’s photograph on the book’s back jacket.

  After viewing Sabrina, I took a quick glance at the cover art which depicted a blond Amazon being ravished by a young man in football garb, sporting a film of manly prespiration and a torn jersey that bared his torso. Looking deep into the blonde’s blue eyes, the jock appeared to be saying, “My chest is bigger than yours.” “You read this stuff?” I chided Sofia. “It’s my job, Archy,” she said, retrieving the novel.

  “I have to keep my finger on the pulse of the nation.” With that, she lit another cigarette. And if the nation were attempting to keep pace with the Amazon and the jock, we would be on the verge of a cardiac-arrest epidemic any moment. “The lady is in town,” Sofia was saying. Had Sofia, too, been invited to Bar Anticipation this afternoon? “How do you know that?” “There was a note in Lolly Spindrift’s column yesterday, and I quote: “That anticipated July heat wave hit town yesterday in the form of novelist extraordinaire Sabrina Wright. Here on a fact-finding mission for your next novel, Sabrina, or looking for the man that got away dot, dot, dot?” unquote.”

  Lolly Spindrift is the gossip columnist for our local gazette, who favors the dot, dot, dot school of journalism in memory of the school’s founding father, Walter Winchell. “What do you suppose that means?” I asked Sofia.

  “Beats me, Archy. Ask Lolly.”

  “I’ll do better than that, Sofia. I’ll ask Sabrina Wright.”

  I didn’t wait for the smoke to clear, so I have no idea of Sofia’s reaction to my parting shot.

  “Well,” I questioned the novelist extraordinaire, ‘who gave you my name?”

  A former client who wishes to remain anonymous.”

  Given the ana of my clientele, that did not narrow the field, but before I could insist on a more concrete reference the bartender was before us. He was a young man with a lot of attitude, the required demeanor for the adolescents who linger in Palm Beach after the close of the season wondering why they had failed to attract a rich patron of either sex in January. Hope sprung eternal in the less frenetic dog days of mid-July.

  A drink, Mr. McNally?” my hostess offered.

  My drink of choice in the summer months is a frozen daiquiri, but in this venue I thought it best to stick to the basics. “What brand vodka do you pour?” I inquired of the failed Lothario.

  “The brand that comes in a bottle and looks like water.” My companion found this amusing. I didn’t, but to take issue would only serve to validate the wisecrack. Besides, he was twenty years younger than yrs.

  truly and all muscled P amp;V. “I’ll have one with tonic and lemon, not lime.” “And I’ll have another Pink Lady,” Sabrina ordered, confirming my suspicions. Looking around I noted that the place was doing a lively business for so early in the day and assayed the crowd as a mixture of the haves, the have-nots, and wannabes heavy on the wannabes. The one cocktail waitress did not show promise of ever owning the joint or waltzing down the aisle with a guy boasting any title other than Mister. In a move that I assumed was meant to rile me, Sabrina whispered, “What do you think of the bartender, Mr.

  McNally?” “Not much. Why?” “He has a common face and a noble derriere. A lethal combination. I shall call him Chauncey and immortalize him in my next novel and remember, you heard it here first.” How could I forget it? Unaware that he had been short-listed for immortality, Chauncey served our drinks and treated us to a bowl of salted peanuts. “Cheers, Mr. McNally,” Sabrina Wright toasted. I gestured with my drink in the time-honored manner and continued to try to learn why I had been summoned into the presence. “If you won’t tell me who recommended me, Ms Wright, will you tell me why you invited me here?”

  Her dark eyes darted somewhat theatrically from left to right before she confided, “I want you to find my husband.”

  “I don’t take domestic cases, Ms Wright.”

  She reared her head and snapped, “This is not a domestic case.”

  “Your husband took a powder and you want me to find him. Where I come from, that constitutes a domestic case.”

  Her Joan Crawford lips smiled, or grimaced, I’m not sure which, and finally opened so she could intone, “He did not take a powder, Mr.

  McNally. My daughter ran off. I sent my husband to find her and now I seem to have lost him, too.”

  Lost both her daughter and husband? How careless, I thought, however it did enlighten me on the meaning of Lolly’s dot, dot, dot item. But if Sabrina Wright was speaking to me in confidence, as I assumed she was, how did Lolly know she had misplaced her husband? Of course I would ask him, and he would stoically refuse to name his source, claiming reporter informer confidentiality, but blab it fast enough over dinner at Cafe L’Europe, ordering Krug with his beluga, at my expense. Such are the priorities of gossip columnists.

  I sipped my vodka and tonic while trying to decide my next move. As Sofia had told me, Sabrina Wright was no spring chicken, despite her trim figure and porcelain complexion. Therefore it would be very unlikely that she had a daughter young enough to be considered a runaway. I munched a peanut as she observed Chauncey, though I’m not certain if it was his head or his tail that kept her captive. To rescue her from prurient thoughts, I asked, “How old is your daughter, Ms Wright?”

  She turned her attention to me, more startled than ever, and answered,

  “Nearing thirty.”

  My mind shouted, “How near?” but what came out of my mouth was, “A woman nearing thirty cannot be said to have run off in the manner of a minor child…”

  “Gillian did,” she cut me off.

  “She has the right to come and go as she pleases,” I continued. “If you suspect foul play, I suggest you contact the police. And husbands have been known to run out for a pack of cigarettes, never to return

  — however, I believe he has more of a legal obligation to you than does your daughter.” Here it occurred to me that the husband could be in cahoots with Gillian, both harboring a desire to flee the dubious family blessing of fame and fortune. Sabrina Wright wouldn’t be the first successful woman to rule her roost with an iron hand and a short leash.

  But was Sabrina’s husband Gillian’s father? Here comes the plot twist worthy of a Sabrina Wright novel. A stepfather with a roving eye and his stepdaughter living in the shadow of a successful and, perhaps, overbearing mother. Daughter flees and step daddy goes in hot pursuit, literally as well as figuratively. Either the escapade was planned or the daughter, having taken the first step, enjoined stepfather to hop aboard the liberation train when he caught up with her. Had he, or Gillian, made a dent in Sabrina’s bank account recently? Doubtful, as I imagine Sabrina Wright kept the exchequer under lock and key, penuriously doling out the walking-around cash. Gently, I probed, “Is your husband Gillian’s father?” Again the smile, or grimace, and, “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. McNally, and how delightfully naughty of you. Do you write?”

  “I keep a journal and am told my expense account shows promise of a creative genius reminiscent of Fitzgerald in his youth.”

  She flashed me a genuine smile this time and almost, but not quite, let down her guard. “Very cleverly put. We’re going to get along just fine, Mr. McNally.” “I told you, I don’t take domestic cases.” “And I told you, this is not a domestic case.” I had finished my drink but refrained from signaling Chauncey. I thought a quick retreat rather than involvement in a family squabble the better part of valor. But, like a good mystery you hate to abandon without knowing who done it, I wanted an answer to my question.

  “Is Gillian your husband’s daughter?” I repeated. This time I got the phony smile, which was wearing thin. “He is not, Mr. McNally, but unlike a Sabrina Wright novel,
Gillian and Robert, my husband, did not flee in tandem, so to speak. She ran off with a young man of her own of whom I do not approve.”

  And there was the case, a domestic one to be sure, in the proverbial nutshell. “She eloped,” I stated.

  “She did not,” the lady insisted.

  “Then why did she leave home?”

  “Why?” Sabrina Wright echoed. “Because I told her I was her mother.

  That’s why.”

  Two

  The explanation, direct and to the point as was the lady’s style, prompted not only another question but another drink with which to wash it down. As I awaited both, I became uncomfortably aware that Sabrina and I were being observed by the patrons of Bar Anticipation, like a couple of germs on the stage of a mad scientist’s microscope. Someone had obviously recognized Sabrina Wright and the gallery was abuzz with sibilant whispers. The fact that these early-afternoon imbibers were bending elbows with a bona fide celebrity had them pickled pink.

  Chauncey, who had been paying more attention to his manicure than to Sabrina and me, was suddenly all over us like a cheap suit. When he replenished my drink he also whisked away our dish of peanuts and replaced it with one of macadamias and shelled pistachios. Such are the rewards of celebrity hood

  Picking up the scent but lacking a tail full of colorful feathers to unfurl for her audience, Sabrina reached into her purse and pulled out an onyx cigarette holder into which she fitted a black-tipped, king-size cigarette. The result was a pipe slightly shorter than the span of the Golden Gate Bridge. The ever-hovering Chauncey struck a match for Sabrina and as the pair made eye contact over the flickering flame, I fought the temptation of lighting an English Oval and lost.

  As Sabrina basked in the glow of recognition I recalled that my only previous encounter with the literary set was with the poet Roderick Gillsworth whose book, The Joy of Flatulence, was ignored by the reading public and therefore lauded by the critics. Our relationship was cut short when Mrs. Gillsworth was murdered and I fingered Roderick for the crime.