Lawrence Sanders - McNally's chance

Exit Hermioni Rutherford, and not a moment too soon.

After a brief silence that had Binky looking as if he wanted to change his mind, I said, “Congratulations, Bink. You are a man with a pad to call his own. Be it ever so humble and all that jazz.”

“Did you see the girl next door, Archy?” Here, any trace of second thoughts vanished.

“I saw a woman leave the trailer next door, Binky, but that does not mean she is your neighbor. Many people enter and leave the White House, but not all of them are the President.” Giving that a moment’s thought, I added, “But coming from Palm Beach County, one never knows, do one?”

Undaunted, as is Binky’s wont when it comes to speculating about the opposite sex, he went on, “She was some looker, eh?”

“Where you should be looking,” I admonished, ‘is into your wallet. Have you got the loot for the two-months’ security?”

“The duchess said she would help me,” was Binky’s not surprising answer. Having invested over twenty years in Binky, a few more bucks, with the promise of the end in sight, wouldn’t break the bank.

“Well, Binky, if you can tear yourself away from your castle, I think it’s time to call it quits.”

I’ll drive you back to the McNally Building, Archy, and thanks for your help.”

“Help? I did nothing but hang around,” I assured him.

“He who waits also serves,” Binky informed me. This keen observation can be found framed and hanging on the walls of courthouses where prospective jurors wait, endlessly, to be called to judge their peers.

Juror was one of Binky’s periodic gigs.

Murphy’s law anything that can go wrong, will — prevailed as we stepped out of Binky’s incipient love nest and almost collided with Al Rogoff, chomping on a stogie and toting a plastic garbage bag. Al is a big guy. Beefy, in the vernacular, and seeing him in his leisure togs is like coming upon Smokey the Bear decked out in Bermuda shorts and tank top. Astonishing, I believe, is the most fitting adjective, and Al was just as astonished to see Binky Watrous and Archy McNally on the street where he lives.

Removing the stogie from his mouth, Al gaped. After ogling Binky as if he were breaking parole simply by being at the Palm Court, Al turned his attention to me and exclaimed, “Don’t tell me Bianca hired you.”

“Bianca? No, we came to see Hermioni Rutherford. Who’s Bianca and why should she hire me?” I asked.

“Bianca Courtney,” Al answered, the stogie back in his mouth. “She’s the dame who lives there.” He gestured with the garbage bag toward the trailer from which we had seen the young lady surface earlier.

Al Rogoff has several colorful epithets to denote the female gender, none of which will earn him points with the more politically correct denizens of our democracy. However, before you label Al Rogoff crass, let me state that he is a closet balletomane and an aficionado of classical music and the performing arts more associated with the erudite than with a police sergeant who resides in a trailer court and subsists on a diet of hamburgers, beer, and chocolate pudding.

Al enjoys playing the uncouth slob in public, allowing only a select few, myself included, to get to know his Dr. Jekyll alter ego.

Furthermore, I’m reasonably certain that I’m his only friend who knows his middle name is Irving.

“Why would Bianca Courtney hire me?” I asked.

“She’s got some crazy idea that a murder has been committed and the perp is getting away with it.”

“Is she in danger?” Binky asked Al. Binky has a recurring Walter Mitty fantasy of turning into a masked crusader at the behest of a damsel in distress.

“Only of making a pest of herself,” Al told him.

“What’s the story, Al?” I asked.

“You looking for work, Archy?”

“No. Just an interested citizen.”

Al again removed the stogie from his mouth, shrugged, and explained,

“Bianca worked for a rich broad who married a guy twenty years her junior and drowned a few months after the marriage. Bianca thinks the guy did her in.”

“What do the police think?”

“Granted, the circumstances looked a little queer, but we checked it out and ruled it an accident. When she moved in next door and learned I was a cop she started hounding me to reopen the case.”

“On what grounds?” I questioned.

“Female intuition,” Al barked. “There’s no reason to reopen the case because there never was a case to begin with.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Motive,” Al stated. “The guy had no reason to murder his bride unless you think having twenty years on him was just cause.”

I was beginning to enjoy this. There is nothing like a little bit of intrigue to stir the creative juices. I wondered if I could interest Sabrina Wright in this plot with a few variations, to be sure. The young He would become a young She and the old She would become an old He. But I had the feeling the new transgender heroine would not end up with her heart’s desire, namely, the spoils of marriage to the old and the wealthy. And I was right.

“He doesn’t benefit from her will?” I guessed.

“You got it. She made a will leaving everything, which is plenty, to the children’s wing of St. Mary’s hospital and didn’t change it after her marriage. He gets to keep the Jag she gave him for a wedding present.”

“So what’s Bianca’s gripe?”

“Revenge, that’s what. The marriage cost her a cushy job. Companion to the rich dame. Nice digs, three squares a day, and a regular paycheck every week. She rented the trailer when her lady boss got herself a new companion of the opposite sex.”

As interested as I was in Bianca Courtney’s plight, I was more interested in escaping the Palm before Al began to wonder what we were doing there if not to speak with his neighbor. If I wanted to hear more I could always invite Al to lunch at the Pelican and get him to talk while he devoured a hamburger, fries, and Bass ale, at my expense.

“Well, I.. ” Binky began before I nudged him toward the car and away from Al Rogoff.

“Good seeing you, Al.” I cut Binky off. “Call me and we’ll get together for lunch.”

Poor Binky was bursting to tell his news but with a gentle pressure on his arm, I kept increasing the distance between him and Al Rogoff.

“See you,” Al said, hoisting his garbage bag and heading for the disposal area.

Just as we got the car doors opened I heard Al shout, “Hermioni Rutherford? She’s with the real estate outfit that runs this place.”

I waved at Al and tried to get into the car, but it was too late. He retraced his steps, garbage and all, demanding to know why we were talking to Hermioni Rutherford.

The moment of truth had arrived and there was no place to hide. “Binky has taken a lease on this trailer,” I said. “Number eleven-seventy, just like the Bath and Tennis.”

“Oh no,” Al moaned.

“Love thy neighbor as thyself,” I reminded Al before he vented his wrath.

“Yes,” Binky agreed, thinking no doubt of Bianca Courtney.

With Binky safely in the car I walked up to Al and whispered, “There are worse things in life than having Binky Watrous for a neighbor.”

“Name two,” Al challenged, waving the shopworn stogie in my face.

Looking at my watch I said I didn’t have time at the moment but would think of a few, perhaps even three, before hell froze over. Moving purposefully past me and coming up to the car window, Al looked in and advised Binky, “We have a rule around here, buddy. Don’t come knocking when the trailer is rocking.”

Exit Al Rogoff, and not a moment too soon.

As he drove out of the Palm Court, Binky wondered aloud, “Don’t come knocking when the trailer is rocking? What do you suppose that means, Archy?”