McNally's Alibi Page 4

  To fortify myself for the chore ahead and kill time, I had stopped at the Ambassador’s bar for a bourbon and branch water. The black cloud that had been hovering over me all day had grown to encompass most of southern Florida, threatening rain. It was pitch dark and the hotel’s small community parking area was lit by a single flood atop a ten-foot pole. I could just make out a few other cars parked in the convenience area. Meaning no disrespect to the management, I locked the Miata before trudging to number nine.

  I knocked and the door, still on its chain, was opened a crack. “Yeah?”

  “Archy McNally,” I announced.

  “You alone?”

  “The last time I looked, I was.”

  He had to close the door to unhook the chain. When he opened it again, I stepped into a room that was more shadow than substance owing to the one lamp aglow with the standard motel sixty-watt bulb. As expected, Matthew Harrigan was a good-looking guy who displayed his wares in a pair of tight jeans and tank top. If I wasn’t mistaken, his hair was beginning to thin, and were the light brighter I might detect the onset of wrinkles below his dark eyes.

  I could see why Matthew had chanced the blackmail scheme to pocket fifty thousand. He was nearing thirty, which is tantamount to death in his profession.

  He held out his hand, and I gave him the case.

  “Do I have to count it?” He had a pleasing voice with just a hint of a New England accent. Had he at one time aspired to be a crooner? I wouldn’t doubt it.

  “It’s all there. She won’t screw you.”

  “You don’t know how many times she’s screwed me,” he said, and laughed. On a small dining table was a package wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with a string. “And this is all here.” He undid the string and opened the package.

  It wasn’t a book bound in white velvet with a tiny clasp lock and engraved with the words MY DIARY. I was looking at a stack of perhaps three hundred eight-by-ten sheets of white typing paper. As he ruffled them for my inspection, I could see that some pages were typed and others written in longhand.

  As he rewrapped the package he said, “I would offer you a drink, but room service is experiencing delays and I know you want to be on your way.”

  For the second time this evening I was being given the boot by my inferiors. I took the package and headed for the door. Matthew and I had exchanged all the words we were ever going to say to each other. There is something about a seedy motel room that makes its occupants act like characters in a B gangster film, and I feared it was catching. I had taken the job because I was feeling sorry for myself, and now applauded the decision. My encounter with Matthew Harrigan reminded me of the corny platitude I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.

  I left the Crescent feeling a hell of a lot better about myself and ready to take on any and all who threatened to rock my boat. It just shows to go you, don’t it?

  I could hear Matthew bolt and chain the door behind me. It was a ritual he would be doing for the remainder of his life. Outside it had begun to drizzle. Holding the diary close to my chest, I took the crescent route to my car. I fumbled a few moments trying to unite key and lock in the semidark. When I finally got the door open I tossed the diary onto the passenger seat. As I bent to enter the car I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  I turned with a start, and that’s the last thing I remember.

  4

  I HAD ACCEPTED THIS assignment because I believed I had reached the nadir of existence and, my ego taking on the guise of a punching bag, had nothing to lose by showing up at the Ambassador at seven this evening. When I awoke sprawled across the seat of my Miata, legs dangling over the paved ground of the parking area and being rained on, I recalled the comforting maxim There’s always one step further down you can go.

  I had tripped over that step and, highlighted by the merciless glare of the parking area’s floodlight, found myself the centerpiece of what might very well be the tawdry cover art for a pulp fiction periodical. Life, as it were, imitating art. I also learned that a bruised head hurts more than a bruised ego. Rising slowly, I placed my right hand over my left breast. No, I wasn’t feeling for a heartbeat, but for my wallet. It was there. Next, I reached across to the passenger seat, feeling for the diary. It was not there.

  When I got to my feet I almost welcomed the rain, heavy now, cascading down on me and helping to clear my head, although it didn’t take much cogitating to know that I had been mugged and my client’s diary stolen. Rubbing the bump on my wet head, I leaned against the car until I was sure my legs would obey me before starting to walk the path back to number nine. Need I say that the Crescent Motel was as silent as a cemetery at midnight? Not a creature stirred behind the windows that showed a crack of light between the drawn blinds. The Crescent regulars minded their own business in the interest of self-preservation, but that’s not to imply that my faltering meanderings went unobserved.

  The car that had been parked in the space reserved for number nine was gone. I tried the door and found it was locked. I knew I wouldn’t get any sympathy from the management—nor did I want to explain my presence in their hotel—so had no recourse but to go back to my car and flee while I still had the wherewithal to do so. Like many who live in close proximity to the ocean, I keep a beach towel in the trunk of my car and now used it to dry my hair, checking to see if the miscreant had drawn blood. He, or she, hadn’t. When finished, I laid the towel across the driver’s seat to protect it from my now soaking posterior. Without a pang of guilt, I went into the glove compartment and pulled out the English Ovals I keep there should the need arise, for the need had quite obviously arisen on this accursed night.

  For those who are counting, it was my third of the day. Breakfast, lunch and now, which should have come after dinner but thanks to Claudia Lester and her purple prose there was no telling when or if I would be able to take nourishment this evening. As scheduled, I had arrived at the motel at nine, and it was now a few minutes after ten. As it wasn’t a powder puff that had raised a welt on my noggin, this case had gone from a routine exchange of cash for merchandise to assault with a lethal weapon in one hour. Neither in appearance nor mindset was I now capable of marching into the Ambassador and demanding to see my client, so I headed out of the Crescent Motel and made for home, where I could both literally and figuratively lick my wounds.

  How ridiculous that this day was to end the way it began—with a headache.

  To keep my mind off the throbbing pain and vexing humiliation, I tried to figure out who was doing what to whom, and why, with Archy as the fall guy. My first thought was that Claudia’s “friends” had got wind of the missing diary and its contents and decided to apprehend it—not for ransom but for extinction. How did they know? Could be Matthew tried to hit them up before approaching Claudia. His type usually had more brawn than brain. But if they knew where to find the diary, why didn’t they just march into number nine and take if from Matthew? These guys weren’t in the least shy.

  If they had found out about the missing diary via Matthew, it was possible they also knew that Matthew was holding it in exchange for fifty thousand bucks and that one Archy McNally was the go-between. Perhaps the “friends” told their hired hands that if they got to the Crescent after me they could keep the loot in payment for their trouble and pick up the diary from the departing courier. In fact, such a scheme would be nothing more than business-as-usual for Claudia Lester’s wheelers and dealers.

  Next I focused in on Matthew Harrigan. Had he followed me out of the motel room, clobbered me and repossessed the diary? Reason? He now had the fifty thousand and was looking to sell it again for another fifty to either Claudia or her “friends.” Why not do it in the motel room? Because he didn’t have the mettle to attack me one-on-one and because he didn’t want to take the chance of me being found in his room, thus linking him to the crime.

  Last, cherchez la femme. Was everything Claudia Lester told me pure blather? If so, what was the truth? She h
ad no reason to attack me in the parking lot, because I was about to deliver what she would have taken from the seat of my car. Was it absurd to think she did it to avoid paying my fee? That last supposition told me I had run out of viable ideas. With an aching head full of foolish thoughts and a belly void of sustenance, I drove through the pouring rain to my sanctuary.

  My parents retire early, so I was certain they would be abed by the time I arrived home, saving me the indignity of having to explain my appearance, which would only worry mother and cause father to look at me askance. With luck, both Ursi and Jamie would be in their quarters over the garage watching the telly, as they did most nights. Our sentry, Hobo, would be in dog dreamland—besides which, he never comes out in the rain. My intent was to enter unseen, raid Ursi’s well-stocked refrigerator and carry the pickings to my penthouse suite, where I could munch in peace.

  All went as anticipated, which was a pleasant change on an evening full of surprises, including the one that had me prowling around my own home like a mouse in search of a crumb of bread. The crumb I selected was attached to half a loaf of French baguette, which I filled with thick slices of roast ham and a Brie Ursi has the good sense never to refrigerate. I also found a pair of kosher dills, ripe olives void of pits (they leave no trace) and a bottle of chilled St. Pauli Girl. For dessert, a brownie made from scratch.

  I reserved my feast until I had undressed, showered and examined my bump with a shaving mirror held over the back of my head as I peered into the bathroom mirror. It was the size of an egg, for which I swore revenge. For the present I medicated myself with aspirin, thinking I was far from finished with Ms. Claudia Lester. I had a score to settle with the woman, and as R. Kipling wrote, “Nothing is ever settled until it’s settled right.”

  I called the Ambassador and learned that Ms. Lester had checked out a few hours ago. I expected as much, but it was early days and I refused to plot my counterattack on an empty stomach. Wrapped in a comfy terry robe, I sat at my desk and dug into my cold victuals. On a scale of one to ten I would rate the meal a six. Not bad for leftovers. I decided to raise it to a seven by finishing the evening with a small marc savored with an English Oval—bringing my total for the day to the allotted four.

  Then to bed and perchance to dream—but of whom? Claudia Lester? That only brought back my headache. Connie? That only reminded me of the Cuban liberator who wanted to liberate me from my favorite girl. Did I, deep down in some dark crevice of my subconscious, want to be free of the lovely Connie? Of course not. Then all I had to do was pop the question, and bye-bye Alejandro and hello Mrs. Archibald McNally. The title sent tremors through my exhausted body, and I feared it would cause the bump on my head to erupt like Vesuvius.

  Did I or did I not love Consuela Garcia? There are those who live for love, those who die for love and, on numerous occasions, those who murder for love. I live for life, have no intention of dying before my time and will not murder Alejandro, drawing the wrath of the entire Cuban population of Miami. If I lost Connie, as Rudolfo had lost Mimi, would I lament in a flawless tenor, “Farewell to sweet mornings, waking up together”? Truth is, I seldom spent the night with Connie because I rather liked waking up alone. I am not at my best in the morning, and, so I’ve observed, neither is Connie. Familiarity breeds not only contempt, but divorce.

  Ergo, to save our relationship, Connie and I must avoid the M word at all costs and keep whatever quo is status. Now all I had to do was sell the proposal (wrong word, perhaps?) to Connie, banish Alejandro and track down Claudia Lester—then to bed and perchance to dream....

  I awoke with a head as clear as the September sky that hung over southern Florida like a canopy of shimmering lapis lazuli. I was not concussed by the sneaky pimpernel of last night’s adventure, or misadventure, and the only reminder of the evening was the bump on my head that caused me to wince when I combed my hair. I am not complaining, for to retain a full head of hair places me in a minority of American males for which I would gladly suffer a wince or two.

  Out of a sense of duty, or perhaps fear, I arranged the rest of me for breakfast with the lord of the manor and his lady fair. Being in a conciliatory mood, I had to select my wardrobe carefully if I wanted to avoid a scowl from father. Miracles being as rare in Palm Beach as bread lines, I knew nothing I chose would be rewarded with a nod of approval, so to thwart disappointment I strove for the least offensive rather than aspiring in vain to the most pleasing.

  Lightweight cord and seersucker are two of my favorite fabrics. However, up north, one must never wear either, or anything in white except a dress shirt or underwear, before Memorial Day or after Labor Day. In tropical climes like ours, one can be seen in full summer regalia every month of the year. Hence my love affair with Palm Beach.

  I avoided my post-preppie togs, fearing they would put father in an Eli frame of mind and remind him of my fall from grace. I finally selected a pair of summer-weight gray flannels, a lilac dress shirt with open collar, a somber navy blazer and black wing tips. But beneath was pure Archy—red briefs and blue T-shirt emblazoned with a capital S in yellow.

  The McNally establishment is rather pukka, giving the impression of old family wealth, but it’s more facade than fact. We usually breakfast in the family kitchen, where the housekeeper and her mate often sit down with the family for coffee and a sweet roll. All except Jamie were at the morning meal when I arrived. Father raised his face and patted his bushy guardsman mustache with a napkin at my entrance. “Well, Archy,” he remarked, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your company at this ungodly hour of the morning?”

  “Good morning, Archy,” mother said, her greeting as sincere as father’s was acrimonious. For this I kissed her florid cheek before sitting.

  “I have a full day ahead, sir, and thought it best to get an early start.”

  “That’s very good of you, Archy,” mother quickly put in, “especially as you had to work so late last night.”

  Ursi had delivered my apology for missing cocktails and dinner last night, but it seemed only mother had remembered that I was away on business, not diversion.

  “What can I get you, Archy?” Ursi called from her position at the range.

  “A cheese omelet with a rasher of bacon would be nice,” I ordered.

  “It’ll have to be cheddar,” she answered. “My Brie seems to have melted overnight, and I’ll toast you an English muffin, as the baguette I was saving for breakfast went the way of the Brie.”

  “I missed dinner and helped myself when I came in,” I announced, looking for sympathy. I was beginning to wonder if I should tell them whom I intended to call upon this morning but decided to hold on to my trump card until father played his ace.

  Mother, bless her, responded with, “You should never miss meals, Archy. You must make this clear to your clients before you agree to help them.”

  Father, in blue serge and rep tie, looked the quintessence of a defender of the law, and it wasn’t all veneer. I think he truly believed that right makes might no matter how often history has proved the aphorism wrong. He was Judge Hardy of the old flicks, but, alas, he had sired Archy, not Andy. His tombstone could justifiably bear the inscription “He never jaywalked.”

  “You’re on a case, Archy?” he asked.

  “I am, sir.”

  “On behalf of Claudia Lester?” was his next question.

  Father’s clairvoyance comes by way of anchorwoman Trelawney. “Yes,” I told him. “I met with Claudia Lester last night and then represented her in a business transaction.” Ursi placed a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice before me—the nectar of the gods to my parched throat as well as the Sunshine State’s prime export. Next a cup of steaming coffee was placed to my left, and I could now smell the bacon sizzling in Ursi’s iron skillet—things were looking up, but not for long.

  “And the nature of her business?” father continued to interrogate.

  I could sense Ursi and mother pricking up their ears in anticipation of my answer and d
isappointed them with, “I’m afraid, sir, I’m not at liberty to reveal the nature of my work for Ms. Lester.”

  Father nodded thoughtfully, knowing that my answer was our code for stating that the case was not a fit topic for mother or for Ursi’s ears, where it would wend its way along the domestic grapevine that stretched the length and breadth of Ocean Boulevard.

  I was presented with my golden omelet and crisp rasher just as father inquired, “And how is Connie, Archy?”

  In all fairness, I think he did it more to divert the conversation from Claudia Lester to one he knew would pique mother’s interest. That it ruined my appetite was not noted.

  Mother looked at her favorite son as if I were the poet laureate of our dominion about to recite his “Ode on a Cheddar Cheese Omelet.” Ursi stopped puttering and turned, wielding a spatula in one hand with the other on her hip. Thanks to that never-wavering line of communication—Watrous to Trelawney to father—Alejandro Gomez y Zapata’s invasion of Palm Beach, and his intended target, was common knowledge. My love life is currently the most discussed soap opera in the McNally household.

  “She’s well,” I informed my audience.

  “Have you seen her recently?” I assumed father was the designated spokesperson for the household on the subject of Archy versus Alejandro. The squire reads only Dickens, and in his heart of hearts he hopes I will slap Alejandro’s face with a glove and challenge him to a duel on the Esplanade. With Binky as my second I would probably be handed an unloaded gun.

  But I was only fooling myself. What father wanted, what they all wanted, was a marriage. A ring would repel Alejandro much as garlic sends Dracula packing. All happily married couples think it their duty to recruit on behalf of the institution. This does not mean that my progenitors and Ursi and Jamie Olson exist in pure marital bliss. Ursi is verbose, Jamie as taciturn as a clam. Discourse between the two has all the vivacity of a Sunday sermon.