Lawrence Sanders - McNally's chance

‘ “Kitchen,” he continued,” “dining area, parlor, bedroom, and bath, partially furnished. Contact Hermioni Rutherford at the Palm Court.””

Like I always say, expect the worst and you’re seldom disappointed.

Sergeant Al Rogoff of the PBPD, my friend and sometimes partner in crime busting, resides at the Palm. Was I to be spared nothing this dastardly day?

Culottes. I had not seen a pair in ages and often prayed that I never would again but, like all my petitions for divine intervention, this, too, had gone unheeded. If more tears are indeed shed over answered prayers, my eyes are as arid as the Gobi in August.

Along with the navy-blue culottes came a white middy that lacked only a whistle on a string. Inside this remarkable outfit was Hermioni Rutherford, hope of the homeless. Red hair, the shade of which did not appear on Mother Nature’s palette, and tortoiseshell glasses completed the picture of a Palm Beach realtor of the lower echelons. In a town where eighty-seven percent of the inhabitants are millionaires and where a good number of them run up a four-digit utility bill each month to keep the beach house cool, Hermioni’s clientele content themselves with an electric fan oscillating over a bucket of ice cubes.

Binky pulled into the allotted carport of the mobile home one remove from the stationary trailer Al Rogoff called home. As we emerged, Hermioni charged me with all the grace of a smiling linebacker. “Mr.

Watrous,” she stated.

“I am Mr. McNally,” I replied. “This is Mr. Watrous.”

Eyeing Binky, she asked, “Are you two considering this as a couple?”

That went a long way in confirming my initial opinion of Hermioni Rutherford. “Mr. Watrous is contemplating making the Palm Court his bachelor digs’ weighty pause ‘if what is being offered meets his needs.”

“I see.” Turning to Binky she continued her interrogation. “May I know your occupation, Mr. Watrous?”

Before Binky began his litany of jobs held and lost, I answered, “Mr.

Watrous is in pneumatic tubing.”

“Who are you?” Hermioni questioned. “His spokesperson?” Did I detect a note of hostility in her query? Well, if I was ruffling her feathers the feeling, I am sure, was mutual. However, she seemed pleased with showing the trailer to one in pneumatic tubing. Binky also looked happy with this job title. “Are you thinking of buying or renting, Mr.

Watrous?”

“Renting,” Binky told her, ‘but you never know.”

I kept a watchful eye on Al’s trailer as Hermioni and Binky got acquainted. I had purposely left my Miata in the garage at the McNally Building and had come in Binky’s car, hoping to get in and out of the Palm Court without being seen by Sgt Rogoff should he happen to be off duty and at home. If Binky did take up residence here I did not want it to appear as if I

had encouraged the move. Binky, I fear, is not one of Al’s favorite people.

Into my line of vision came a rather attractive young lady just leaving the trailer that separated Al Rogoff’s from the one up for grabs. She acknowledged our presence with a discreet nod before getting into a black Mercedes 190, modest but tasteful, and driving off. Binky had seen her, too, and I hoped her appearance would not cause him to sign a lease before investigating the premises.

“Shall we go in?” Hermioni suggested.

Three steps led to a concrete front porch that could hold one chair and little else. This was girdled by a wrought-iron fence painted a hideous green. Hermioni pointed to the trailer’s number painted over the front door in gold-flecked fluorescent white. “Eleven-seventy, just like the Bath and Tennis Club,” she announced. Here all resemblance to that posh establishment ended.

A mobile home, or trailer, is in essence a railroad car divided into diner, parlor, and sleeper. The kitchen of number 1170 contained a card table, one place mat, and one chair. A look in the cabinets and drawers revealed one cup and saucer, one dinner plate, one soup plate, one bread-and-butter plate, one water glass, one fork, one knife, one soup spoon, one tea spoon, an egg beater, and a timer.

The parlor was furnished with one club chair, one end table, one lamp, and one television stand minus the telly. The bedroom held one twin-size bed and beneath its counterpane, one fitted sheet, one top sheet, one blanket,

and one pillow with pillow slip. There was also one chest of drawers and one wardrobe in the sleeper.

“It was a divorce,” hermioni explained, ‘and everything was divided equally.”

Binky looked a tad crestfallen, so I encouraged him with the promise,

“Never fear, Binky. We will go to the Wal-Mart and furnish you with everything from stemware to bedding to Jockey shorts, and come January we will scour the white sales. The rest of your life is before you, young man.”

“Who are you?” Hermioni wanted to know. “His decorator?”

Looking out the parlor window, Binky asked, “What do you think of the view, Archy?”

Trailer courts are usually laid out in a grid with a disposal area unsuccessfully hidden behind a stockade fence at the far end of the vertical avenues. Each cement-block-mounted home has a carport and a patch of lawn the size of a handkerchief. Binky’s parlor windows provided a marvelous view across the avenue of trailer number 1171.

“There is nothing wrong with this vista that good curtains can’t enhance,” I assured him.

Hermioni had very little to say as we paced the boxcar, mostly because there was very little to say. What you saw is what you got. “We will need references, of course,” she cautioned, ‘from local residents as well as proof of employment and two months security on signing a lease.

Do I understand that this will be a single-occupancy lease?”

“For the time being,” Binky answered. For Binky, hope springs eternal.

The Palm Court is a respectable community,” hermioni told us lest we didn’t know, ‘catering to retirees and professionals. While we don’t exclude young families with children, neither do we encourage them.”

“What do you think, Archy?” Binky asked.

“What I think, Binky, doesn’t matter. What do you think?”

Hermioni and I stood our ground as Binky make a quick tour of the trailer, pausing only to scan the place mat on the card table depicting a map of Palm Beach Island. His brown eyes glassy, his limp blond hair fringing his now perspiring forehead, Binky looked more like a frightened child than a prospective tenant, and Hermioni, I was sure, fought the urge to take Binky into her arms and cradle him against her ample bosom.

I’ll take it,” Binky finally blurted to the place mat.

“Oh, good,” hermioni cried, like a proud mother. “I will give you my card and you can come to the office to complete a formal application and leave a deposit whenever it’s convenient.”

Having earned her commission, she was more than ready to abandon us in pursuit of her next ten-per center Looking at me she said, “I will leave you two alone as I’m sure you’ll want to go over everything without me looking over your shoulders.” Hermioni was now playing Goody Two-shoes with as much sincerity as a baby-kissing politician.

“Just close the door when you leave and the spring lock will fall into place not that there’s anything much to take. Hee, hee.”

No sooner had she gone out the door, then she popped back in again and called out, “Did I tell you that I also represent a cleaning service that will do for you once a week or more often if requested? Our domestic engineers are all bonded, of course.”

“Mr. Watrous can do for himself, thank you,” I called back.

“Who are you?” Hermioni demanded. “His father?”