Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

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"There!" she cried. "See?"

I got out and before I could turn and close the door she had started up and pulled away with engine roar and a spurt of gravel. I stood there and watched the Cherokee make a wild turn onto Ocean Boulevard and speed away.

I went back upstairs to finish my marc and hear Jolson singing "Baby Face." I worked steadily on my journal until eleven-thirty. Then I closed up shop and, feeling brain dead, prepared for bed. But the aggravations of that wretched day had not yet ended.

My phone rang. Not buzzed but rang.

"Hi, luv," Connie Garcia said cheerily. "I'm home safe and sound. All locked up, bolted, and chained. I knew you'd want to know."

"Yes," I said.

"I hate to tell you this, Archy, but I had a wonderful time tonight."

"Why should you hate to tell me?" I said, gritting the old bicuspids. "I'm happy you enjoyed yourself."

"And Binky," she said, giggling. "I also enjoyed him."

It was too much.

"He's such good company," she prattled on. "Why didn't you tell me he can do birdcalls."

"Oh yes," I said. "His imitation of a loon is especially realistic."

"And tomorrow night it's Ferdy Attenborough," she went on blithely. "We're going to La Vieille Maison in Boca."

"How nice," I said stiffly. "Do try the quail with grapes."

"I intend to," she said. "It'll be a welcome change from cheeseburgers at the Pelican Club. Actually, I called to tell you that you were exactly right. You and I should become more socially active. Separately. I mean we should both date other people. Our relationship was becoming much too restrictive. Don't you agree?"

It was impossible to disagree since I had been warbling that tune for years. "As long as you're happy," I said.

"Oh, I am," she said. "Deliriously. I hope you don't mind, Archy."

"Mind?" I said loftily. "Of course not. Why on earth should I mind?"

"I'm glad to hear you say that. On Monday Wes Trumbaugh is taking me to a dinner-dance at his club."

"Wes Trumbaugh?" I screamed. "Connie, that man is the biggest lecher in Palm Beach!"

"Oooo," she said, "that does sound fascinating. Goodnight, Archy, and sleep well."

She hung up. Sleep well? Hah! I fiercely punched my pillows twice, once for Binky, once for Ferdy. Then I added a third for Wes Trumbaugh.

10

I would prefer not to write about that weekend. I would prefer it never happened. I would prefer the world went directly from Friday night to Monday morning.

But unfortunately it did occur: two ghastly days during which I made a complete ass of myself and am still apologizing for my abominable conduct.

I shall not detail all my disgraceful actions during those forty-eight hours. Suffice to say that I ate too much, drank too much, smoked too much, laughed too loudly, and told pointless jokes. My most shameful memory is standing on a table at the Pelican Club at two a.m. Sunday morning trying to recite "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" to a jeering audience as hammered as I.

I awoke on Monday wondering if it might be possible to commit hara-kiri with my Swiss Army knife. An ax-murderer, having dispatched wife, children, in-laws, and the family dog, always tells the police, "The devil made me do it." I would have liked to make that defense but my pride would not allow it. No, my beastly behavior was completely the fault of yrs. truly, Archibald McNally.

I usually scrape my jowls with a conventional single-edged razor but that morning, being somewhat unsteady, I opted for an electric shaver, fearing I might nick the old jugular. It was only after drinking a quart of cold water and a pint of hot coffee that I started to regain a slight semblance of normality.

I arrived at the office before noon, determined that henceforth I would forswear cigarettes, strong drink, and ham hocks. I sat at my desk, absentmindedly lighted an English Oval, and jumpstarted my groggy cerebrum. The result of my lucubrations? The murder of Silas Hawkin was really none of my business. The murder of Shirley Feebling was really none of my business. My job was merely to investigate the bona fides of Theodosia Johnson.

Yet I could not ignore a conviction that the two homicides and my assignment were inextricably mixed. One loose end that might lead to untangling this snarl was Reuben Hagler, the self-styled investment adviser of Fort Lauderdale. Another was Marcia Hawkin's fury and implied threats. A third was the don't-give-a-damn attitude of Madam X. And the fourth was her father's patent attempt to cozy up to the Widow Hawkin.

This logical recap included all of my questions but provided none of the answers. So I decided to forgo logic, do a bit of improv riffing and see what happened. Hey, if you can't get a little fun from your job, seek employment elsewhere. Thus spaketh A. McNally.

Pinky Schatz. Do you remember the name?

She was the confidante of Shirley Feebling and had the misfortune of finding that poor woman's corpse. I was sure Pinky had been interrogated by the Fort Lauderdale police, but sometimes a material witness doesn't tell the cops everything he or she knows, not in an effort to impede the investigation but because of a personal motive. Or the witness doesn't fully comprehend what observations and/ or knowledge are germane. In any event, I reckoned it might help my own inquiry if I met Ms. Schatz and heard her story personally.

She was not listed in the Fort Lauderdale or Pompano Beach telephone directories. She and Shirl had been coworkers so I called the topless car wash. The man who answered had a growly voice, and I guessed him to be Jake, the woolly mammoth.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Could I speak to Pinky Schatz, please."

"She don't work here no more."

"Do you have her present home address?" I asked. "This is the McNally Insurance Company. We have a check for her in payment for damages her car suffered in a recent collision, but our letter was returned to us marked 'Not at this address.' I imagine she's moved and neglected to inform us."

"I don't know where she's living," he said. "Try the Leopard Club on Federal. She's dancing there."

He hung up before I could thank him.

I had heard of the Leopard Club. It was said to be an upscale and pricey nude dancing establishment where the performers mingled freely with the patrons, most of whom were suits carrying calfskin attache cases. I had never been tempted to visit since the idea of sipping an overpriced aperitif while a naked young woman gyrated on my table seemed to me a betrayal of Western Civilization.

However, I resolutely conquered my squeamishness and set out to find Pinky Schatz. But first I drove the Miata to my garage in West Palm Beach where I left it for a tune-up, eschewing new tires until my checking account was off life-support and breathing normally. I was given a loaner, a black three-year-old Buick LeSabre. It was rather sedate for my taste but certainly less noticeable and less likely to be remembered than my jazzy little chariot.

Two hours later I entered the Leopard Club, after passing a tenner to the muscular sentry at the door. A score of men, mostly middle-aged and solemn of mien, sat at small tables and watched nude dancers on a brightly lighted stage oscillating more or less in rhythm to music from overhead loudspeakers.

There were a half-dozen dancers, each au naturel except for a single garter about one thigh. Tucked into the elastic strip were folded bills: ones, fives, tens, a few twenties: tips from appreciative customers. When the music ended, the dancers left the stage and came down to cajole patrons into paying an added fee for a solo dance atop their table. Meanwhile the music started again, and a new set of dancers pranced onto the stage and began to demonstrate their flexibility.

I had been approached by a surly waitress, fully clothed, who took my order for a bottle of Heineken. She brought it almost immediately along with a tab for ten dollars I was apparently expected to pay instanter. But before I did, I asked if Pinky Schatz was present.

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