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

foods. And may I suggest a fitting epitaph to be engraved on your tombstone? “Remember me and all my ilk/And drink a toast—perhaps skimmed milk.”
    As we scarfed I made what I hoped would sound like an innocent query: “Connie, you said Natalie Westmore is a strange gal. Strange as in spooky or as in off-the-wall?”
    She paused briefly to consider. “A little of both,” she said finally. “For instance, at aerobics we all wore spandex leotards in neon colors. Except Natalie. She wore old-fashioned gym bloomers with a middy.”
    “Wild,” I said.
    “Kooky,” she said. “There was something else but I won’t tell you unless you promise never to repeat it. To anyone.”
    “Of course I promise. You know I’m the soul of discretion.”
    “You’re the soul of deception, that’s what you are. Well, I think Natalie is a thief!”
    “Aw, come on!”
    “No, really. Every time she came to a session someone lost something. Little things: a comb, a plastic compact, a headband—personal things of no great value. But after Natalie quit, things stopped disappearing. We think she was filching them.”
    “Whatever for?”
    Connie shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she’s a klepto. Or maybe she’s just a nut. Hey, this salad is super. Any left in the bowl?”
    I beckoned the waiter. I didn’t think it smart to pursue the subject of Natalie Westmore. If I did, my Consenting Other would undoubtedly demand to know why I was so interested in a young woman I had never met, particularly one who wore gym bloomers and a middy. I would be accused of possessing a hidden motive of unspeakable depravity. I counseled myself: Go into the roundhouse, Archy; she’ll never corner you there.
    So I limited my conversation to inconsequential chitchat about the weather, local politics, and the puzzle of why today’s tomatoes have lost tomatoey taste. We finished dinner with no further mention of the Westmore clan. We voted to forgo dessert and settled for espresso and ponies of grappa, which will numb your adenoids.
    “Want to make a night of it?” I asked Connie. “Dancing, perhaps, or finding a good jazz trio and just listening?”
    “Some other time,” she said. “All I want to do is go home and hit the sack. What do you want to do, sweetie?”
    “Go home and hit the sack.”
    “Whose home and whose sack?” she asked.
    I looked at her.
    “Oh, yes,” she said.
    Connie has long black hair and a lusty body that doesn’t end. She is surprisingly strong and a ferocious lover. Carnivorous one might even say. She does enjoy the horizontal mambo, and if our love-making that night had had an orchestral accompaniment, the musicians would have been playing with frenzied brio, I assure you.
    “Thank you, Escamillo,” Connie murmured before I left.
    “Thank you, Carmen,” I replied, but she was already asleep.
    I drove home full of haricots verts ( anyone can be full of plain beans), in such an exuberant mood I sang one of my favorite old-timey tunes: “I’m Sitting on Top of the World.” I have a tape of Jolson singing that and it’s a corker. My own rendition inspired me to wonder why an imaginative automaker couldn’t produce a luxury model called a Fettle. Then I could drive home in a fine Fettle. (Tell me, doctor, is my condition terminal?)
    When I was safely ensconced in my hideout I flopped in the creaky swivel chair behind the desk and made a lazy attempt to analyze the reasons for my bloomy spirits. The wine of course. And the grappa. And the satisfying grub.
    But most of all my ebullience was due to the joyous joust with Connie. What a marvelous woman she was! I resolved then and there never again to cast a covetous eye on any other person of the female faith. Why should I since Ms. Garcia was all women: complete and total?
    I worked on my journal a few moments, jotting notes on the curious proclivities of Natalie Westmore. Then, my eyelids beginning to droop, I went to bed and dreamed of making a romantic trip through a