Lawrence Sanders - McNally's chance

Sure. But it proves that one can rationalize anything, crawl into bed, stroke your cheek good night and savor the restful sleep of the just.

“Mr. McNally? This is Robert Silvester. I believe you’re looking for me.”

Was I just lucky, or was I the plaything of an author in search of a plot? To appreciate the full impact of this morning call on my febrile brain, let me begin with enumerating on the roods I bore before the mountain came calling on Mohammed.

For breakfast Ursi presented me with eggs Benedict. For those who only know from scrambled to fried to hard boiled, this delight is a toasted English muffin, upon which is placed a succulent slice of frizzled Canadian bacon, over which we have a poached egg. The resulting composition is then doused with a delicate Hollandaise sauce. Once one of my favorite egg dishes, it now brings back memories I would rather forget. Other loving couples have their song. Connie and I have eggs Benedict.

One afternoon in the not too distant past, I was lunching at Testa’s with a charming young lady, unaware that Connie was also taking her midday meal there. Seeing us, Connie came directly to our table, toting her brunch plate. I thought she intended to join us uninvited, I might add. In the manner of civilized people, I rose to introduce her to my companion. What Connie did was open the waistband of my lime-green linen trousers and slip in two perfectly prepared eggs Benedict.

So much for breakfast and remembrance of things past, but not forgotten. I drove my Miata into the garage beneath the McNally building, exchanged a few words with Herb, our security guard, and took the elevator to the executive suite. Dear Mrs. Trelawney accepted my expense report with neither meticulous analysis nor sarcastic comment.

En garde, I thought, reaching for an imaginary epee. She signed it with a flourish and handed it back to me. Poised for battle, I waited for her first parry. My father’s private secretary has two passions in life: serving the master and giving me a hard time, not necessarily in that order.

I was loathe to turn my back on her and leave. Mrs. Trelawney wears a gray wig and, for all I know, packs heat. “Thank you,” I ventured, sadly. A day without sparring with Mrs. Trelawney is like a day without sunshine.

“I have you down for a microwave,” she stated.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Trelawney.”

“A microwave oven,” she expanded. If she thought this clarified her meaning, she was wrong.

“I seem to have come in in the middle of the movie, Mrs. Trelawney.

Could you go back to the opening scene?”

Looking over her glasses she said, “You didn’t come in in the middle of the movie, Archy. You came in in the middle of the workday.”

This was more like the Mrs. Trelawney I had come to love. My spirits rose as I geared for combat. “Does your spy in the garage below report the time of everyone’s arrival, or just mine?”

“Just you, Archy.” She spoke without a trace of shame.

“You missed your calling, Mrs. Trelawney. One of those alphabet organizations is where you would have risen to the top of the class.

FBI, CIA, KGB, G-E-S-T-A-P-O.”

She nodded knowingly, as if agreeing with me. Mrs. Trelawney has the irritating habit of defusing a barb with a smile. And you should have been a hairdresser,” she shot back. “Love your suit.”

She referred, no doubt, to my three-buttoned, pale pink linen ensemble of which I was particularly fond. Growing more conservative with the passing years, I no longer wore it with my lavender suede loafers but now opted for a pair of shiny black brogues with cooling perforations at the tips. I thought I looked smashing, but Mrs. Trelawney was the kind of gal who would gladly kick the crutch from Tiny Tim’s grip and tell him to walk like a man.

Round one. I declared it a tie and made to depart. “See you in court, Mrs. Trelawney.”

“Just make sure you bring the microwave with you.”

I froze. “Okay, I give up. Am I supposed to say, “What microwave?”

“Binky’s microwave.”

“Binky?” I echoed. “Do you mean…”

“I mean, we’re giving Binky a housewarming and I have you down for a microwave oven. Is that clear?”

Nothing could be clearer. I glanced at my watch. Mickey’s small hand was on the ten and his big hand was on the three. I was aghast.

Minutes after ten in the morning and everyone knew that Binky had rented living space last night and a housewarming was already being planned? “Did he distribute change of address notices this morning?” I complained.

“He told Evelyn Sharif in Records that he found a place last night, with your help. Evelyn told Sofia Richmond in the library, and Sofia passed it on to me. The housewarming was my idea,” she concluded, as if she had just invented the wheel.

From Sharif to Richmond to Trelawney, a perfect double play. Binky had a gaggle of middle-aged women vying to make him comfy, like doting mothers gussying up a dorm room for their little freshman. It was those Bambi eyes that evoked the mother instinct in older women and indifference in their daughters.

There are two things I detest in this vale of tears, and they are eggs Benedict over heather-gray briefs and office parties. Being the scion of the firm’s ruler, I am forced to contribute financially to the latter but reserve my right to be a no-show at the gala. There is something almost morbid about seeing those you toil with in their cups.

Bottoms are pinched, tops are ogled, and, on occasion, romance by misadventure follows. This differs from death by misadventure in that both parties can get up and walk away from the scene of the crime.

“Why should I give Binky Watrous a microwave oven?” I wanted to know.

We did not have such an appliance in our home, thank you. Mother would never force a begonia and Ursi would never force a baked potato. Like Julian, the last Roman emperor to defend the old gods against the Christian hordes, so we McNallys fought valiantly to keep the digital world from encroaching upon our doorstep.

No fax, no e-mail, no voice mail, no PC, no WP, no CD, and no DVD.

However, you might find the odd pair of BVD’s in father’s chiffonier.

“Remember, you’re Binky’s best friend,” she announced.

“Says who?”

“Says Binky,” she argued. Binky has diarrhea of the mouth and constipation of ideas. Not wanting to singe Mrs. Trelawney’s ears and, by propinquity, her darnel tresses, I toned it down to, “Binky speaks with a profusion of words and a paucity of facts.” “You’re still down for a microwave oven.” With this she ticked my name off her list of donors. “Your father is giving china. Service for four. A starter set, don’t you know.” “Father? You spoke to the boss?” “This morning at half-past nine, as usual. I told him I would give you his regards as soon as you come in.” “You are a national treasure, Mrs.

Trelawney, and will take your rightful place in history alongside Pearl Harbor, the Lusitania, and The Fall of the House of Usher,” I was losing my cool. “Flattery will get you wherever you want to go.”

“Right now I want to go to my office and cry.” “Fine. Then go for the microwave.” “Just how much does one cost?” I asked. “About a hundred, but it depends on the size. And go with a known manufacturer; you don’t want to go cheap on this. Remember, he’s your best friend.” “I don’t have a hundred to spare,” I pleaded like one being audited by the IRS. “You will when you cash in that swindle sheet. Have a nice day, love.” The phone was ringing when I entered my office.

“Mr. McNally? This is Robert Silvester. I believe you’re looking for me.”

I wanted to say I was looking for a microwave oven but refrained from doing so. After a significant pause I decided to play it with moxie and answered, “As a matter of fact, Mr. Silvester, I was just about to call you.”