McNally's Gamble by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online

said. “And leaking. I caulked yesterday.”
    “On behalf of Hobo,” I said, “I thank you. Jamie, you know anyone who labors for Mrs. Edythe Westmore?”
    It was not an idle question. There is an informal network of butlers, maids, housemen, cooks, chauffeurs, and other servants of Palm Beach residents able to afford a domestic staff. These personal employees frequently exchange job tips and even more frequently exchange gossip about the habits and foibles of their employers, intimacies rarely revealed to the tabloids but so juicy they demand an appreciative audience. Everyone likes a good laugh.
    Olson was my source of backstairs rumors and occasionally his inside skinny proved invaluable. I usually gave him a fin or two for his assistance—a practice that would infuriate my father if he learned of it.
    Jamie paused in his painting, set the brush atop the bucket, and removed the pipe from his mouth. “Mrs. Westmore?” he repeated. “Got a place south of here?”
    “Right.”
    “Two live-ins,” he reported. “Cook is Mary Stebbins. Skinny as a rail. Cooks mostly got heft but Mary don’t. Houseman is Al Canfield. Rightful name is Algernon but he likes Al better.”
    “I know exactly how he feels,” I said. “Who does the cleaning and donkeywork?”
    “Commercial crew. Comes in three times a week.”
    “About Al, the houseman... I spoke to him on the phone and he sounded down in the mouth.”
    “Got a lot on his mind. Looking for a new place.”
    “Oh? Do you know why?”
    “Can’t please the missus. Do this, do that, you’re not doing it right, what’s taking you so long. Like that. Al calls her Madam Nag.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said. “Understandable.”
    I slipped Jamie his usual pourboire, gave Hobo a final back pat, and started for North Palm Beach. I felt confident I would triumph and perhaps pick up a nice piece of change.

CHAPTER 7
    I LOST. I CANNOT BLAME it on bad luck although there was plenty of that. But I played like the duffiest of duffers, and the merry hoots of my opponents were crushing. I also managed to lose almost fifty simoleons and was thankful payday was less than a week away. Otherwise I’d have to hit mama for a small loan since my bank account was inching toward the panic level.
    The only thing that saved the afternoon from being a complete disaster was the bar and buffet provided by our generous host. A fine selection of cold meats and seafood was available and I partook of everything. But my maladroitness drove me to visit the do-it-yourself bar several times and I put quite a dent in the vodka supply. It didn’t improve my skill with a mallet but it deadened the pain of failure.
    I arrived back home late in the afternoon driving slowly and carefully. I was in no mood for an ocean swim, feeling a nap would be more beneficial. I was sleepy—all the fresh air, you know. So I shucked my duds, flopped into bed, woke about an hour later and, mirabile dictu, felt bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
    I phoned Connie Garcia at her office, figuring she’d probably still be at work. She was and in no mood for casual banter.
    “Lady C. is driving me right up the wall,” she complained. “I think I’m ready for Intensive Care.”
    “I can provide it,” I promised. “How about our dinner date tonight?”
    “It’s on,” she said. “But it’ll be latish and I won’t have time to go home and change.”
    “How late?”
    “About eight o’clock. Okay?”
    “Of course,” I said. “Where?”
    “Let’s go to Rinaldo’s. All I want is a small fettuccine Alfredo and a big Caesar salad.”
    “No wine?”
    “Silly boy!”
    “See you at Rinaldo’s at eight,” I said, and we disconnected.
    We shall now fast-forward to a small, comfortable, and garlicky Italian restaurant on South County Road. It is eight o’clock on the dot, and I am standing just inside the entrance awaiting Connie’s arrival. I am also stoutly resisting an urge to have a vodka rocks at Rinaldo’s little bar.