McNally's Chance by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online

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?”
    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