McNally's Gamble by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online Page A

We’d probably be drinking Chianti Classico shortly and I am aware of the perils of mixing grain and the grape.
    Connie came bustling in about ten minutes later and if she was exhausted one would never have known it from her manner. She gave me a bright smile and a warm abrazo. Also, she smelled nice.
    “Wine me and dine me,” she commanded.
    “At once, m’lady,” I said, and found us a corner banquette backed by a garish oil painting of Vesuvius erupting. An apron-clad waiter hustled over to take our order, starting with a bottle of vino. It turned out to be softer and fruitier than I had anticipated but I had no objection and neither did Connie.
    In case you have unaccountably missed my previous encomiums, let me tell you about Connie Garcia. She is a Latin femme fatale. She is a Marielita and I think her a maze of contradictions, at once soft, loving, blithe-spirited and jealous, distrustful, vengeful.
    The latter three characteristics are much in evidence when she suspects or has evidence of my infidelity. More than once she has launched a physical assault upon the McNally carcass when my perfidiousness became obvious. How well I recall inviting a young centerfold to a Friday night dinner at an obscure English pub in Boca Raton. I was certain I would be safe from Connie’s intrusion or observation by one of the many spies who delight in informing her of my shenanigans.
    But fate was unkind. Ms. Garcia entered with a female friend and immediately spotted me with my nubile dining companion. She marched over to our table and dumped in my lap the entire contents of my bowl of cock-a-leekie. Then she and her pal stalked out. I wasn’t scalded but my plan for a lubricious evening had been effectively dampened.
    Connie had said all she wanted at Rinaldo’s was pasta and a salad. But when the antipasto trolley was wheeled up she could not resist and neither could I. We heaped our plates high with Tuscan hors d’oeuvres but had the strength of character to decline second helpings.
    Connie began telling me of her current tribulations in organizing Lady Horowitz’s sit-down dinner.
    “Everyone in town has been phoning. The word has spread and you know how rumors are exaggerated. People think she’s having a banquet for hundreds instead of an intimate dinner for a dozen pols.”
    “Surely the callers aren’t so gauche as to ask to be invited.”
    “Not in so many words, but very casually they remind me they’re in residence, they haven’t seen Lady C. in ages and would love to visit her again. What a mob of social climbers!”
    “Ever get a call from Mrs. Edythe Westmore?” I inquired offhandedly, not really expecting to learn anything.
    “Do I ever!” Connie said. “She’s absolutely the worst! Three calls at least. She’s so pushy. The woman is in a sweat to mix with the upper echelons of Palm Beach society. Why do you ask, Archy?”
    “She’s a client and I have to deliver some legal documents to her oh Monday. I wondered what to expect since I’ve never met the lady.” I lied just to keep in practice.
    “She’s a battleship,” Connie said, finishing the baby shrimp in garlic and olive oil. “Very hefty.”
    “Fat?”
    “Not so much fat as just big. Tall, wide shoulders, wider hips. Makes her daughter look anorexic.”
    “She has a daughter?”
    “And a son. He’s married but not Natalie.”
    “Natalie?” I said. “Do you know her then?”
    “Not really. Just talked to her a few times. She joined my aerobics class for a while but dropped out after three or four sessions. A strange gal.”
    We were silent a few moments while our fettuccine Alfredo was served and the Caesar salad mixed alongside our table in a wooden bowl large enough to hold a medicine ball. The salad was divided into two enormous portions and we dug into our high-calorie feast. If you wish to subsist on tofu, bran, and bean sprouts you are shunning one of life’s greatest pleasures: delicious, aromatic, and fattening