McNally's Chance by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online Page B

you suppose that means, Archy?”
    “For someone so eager to cohabit ate Binky, you have a lot to learn.”
    “I’m not a virgin, Archy.”
    Give unto me a break.
    The McNally clan meets every evening at seven for cocktails in Father’s den where he mixes our martinis in a perfect silver shaker filled with perfect little ice cubes, pouring the result into perfect baccarat crystal glasses and garnished with perfect green olives. The only thing not perfect is the brew itself, thanks to the seigneur’s heavy hand with the vermouth. In this, as in all things, father is consistent when he measures out the ingredients including, so help me, the exact number of ice cubes.
    Topics of conversation at this family gathering are limited to who did what that day. If I’m on a case, I will give Father a progress report.
    He, in turn, will nod his approval or vocalize his disapproval after which he will keep us abreast of the antics of his more prestigious clients or drop a few of the names he rubbed shoulders with at last season’s Glitz at the Ritz Ball.
    Mother, if she’s had a letter from my sister, Dora, in Arizona, will report on the family there with emphasis on the grandchildren, Rebecca, Rowena, and my godson, little Darcy. Or, after hearing a guest speaker at the C.A.S. (Current Affairs Society) she will tell us, in detail, what the lecturer had to impart. Mother joined the group out of concern for the ozone layer without quite knowing what ozone is.
    I recall one guest speaker, a Ms Glynis Ives, self-proclaimed authority on the British royal family,
    reporting that when King George VI and his queen, Elizabeth, visited the United States in 1939, they brought with them gallons of British water to be used for brewing their tea and had insisted on hot-water bottles for their beds in Washington, D.C.” in the springtime.
    What this has to do with current affairs I do not know, nor would I dream of asking. But I record such information in my journal under the heading “Incidental Intelligence.”
    As you can see, we lead a privileged lifestyle due not to my father’s flourishing law practice but to the man who greased the way to father’s success -his sire, Freddy McNally. Freddy was a bulb-nosed, prat falling burlesque comic on the Minsky circuit who worked with such headliners as the exotic dancer Trixie Forganza and Her Little Bag of Tricks. Grandpa Freddy invested not in the stock market but, on his many visits to Florida in the Roaring Twenties, put his money into Gold Coast real estate at a dime an acre. When Wall Street laid that egg, Freddy’s act soared.
    While father is not ungrateful for Freddy’s foresight, he is not exactly joyous over Freddy’s chosen profession. The lord of the manor would prefer to have it believed that the McNally dynasty began with him and, based on my expectations, will no doubt end with him.
     
    With two-thirds of the family not at home, our household was a microcosm of Palm Beach in the summer months when the population drops to nine thousand, from a winter high reputed to be close to thirty thousand. Since the pater and mater had gone to sea I had been taking my evening libation at the Pelican where the bar is presided over by Mr. Simon Pettibone, the club’s general manager, factotum, and, on numerous occasions, father confessor.
    Simon Pettibone is a dignified African-American who, along with his wife and children, keeps the Pelican in tip-top shape and solvent, and accounts for the length of our membership waiting list. At this early hour I was Mr. Pettibone’s only customer. Priscilla Pettibone, Simon’s beautiful and sassy daughter, was busy setting tables in the bar and dining room and the Pettibone son, Leroy, who wears the toque blanche, was in the kitchen whipping up delights, This left Mrs.
    Pettibone, our den mother, who I assumed was upstairs in their apartment over the shop getting dolled up to greet the evening diners.
    Simon was watching the television screen