Read Online McNally's Bluff by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo
Ads: Link
Macurdy’s cup of tea. “You watch the show regularly, Mrs. Trelawney?”
“I never miss it,” she cooed and almost blushed.
“I’ll try to catch the repeat,” I said.
“You can catch it sooner if you go to the mailroom,” she called after me.
I paused and turned. “Pray elucidate, madame.”
“Binky taped the show and is running it off in the mail-room on his VCR. Half the office has been down there when they should be working.”
“I don’t get it. How did Binky know this morning’s show was going to be a blockbuster?”
“Joe Gallo told him, I guess.”
“Binky is matey with Joe Gallo?” I exclaimed. “Since when?”
We do not have an electronic security system in the McNally Building but something far more reliable. We are sandwiched between Herb, our security person in the basement garage, who checks our comings and goings, and Mrs. Trelawney on the top floor who monitors our movements when in residence. They work in tandem like the jaws of a vise. Herb is a retired police officer and Mrs. Trelawney claims to be a graduate of a prestigious business academy. I believe she attended the FBI school for spies with a master’s from the KGB. However, there are times, like now, when her information is most interesting.
“I assume, since they’re neighbors,” she explained.
My knees turned to water as they used to say in pulp fiction, a genre sadly missed by discriminating readers.
“Gallo rented the trailer next to Binky’s at the Palm Court. Didn’t you know that?”
No, I did not know that, but I do know that Sergeant Al Rogoff calls the Palm Court home. Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub—and give unto me a break!
6
I STUCK MY HEAD into the mailroom and caught a show in progress. By this time all the big boys and girls had had their viewing so Binky’s audience now consisted of secretaries on their lunch break. Binky had tried to date most of them but I fear his appeal is more to the mother instinct in ladies of Mrs. Trelawney’s generation than to the raging hormones of lassies looking for a mate. A sage once wrote that for every man there’s a woman but given Binky’s record this may prove to be presumptuous, to say the least.
Binky’s blond hair is desperately in need of “body,” and Binky’s pink-and-white body is desperately in need of hair. His brown eyes are woeful, even when he laughs. But perhaps I am being too harsh on one of my best friends. After years of job hunting that was no more successful than his quest for romance, I secured Binky Watrous a position as mail person for McNally & Son where he seems to have found a home. Translation: Mrs. Trelawney adores him.
On Binky’s minuscule TV screen the dynamic trio of the moment were reporting, with gusto, the events leading to the discovery of Marlena Marvel’s body in the goal of the maze. I must say it was riveting reportage by two pros and a rising star. Joe Gallo’s small-screen debut was more than promising and while he wasn’t as yet the suave anchorman with trendy tonsure and Savile Row suit, he was the boy-next-door with a bright future. The boy sported jeans and a tee, explaining, “I rushed right over and didn’t bother dressing.”
Didn’t bother? Joey’s garb was as calculated as his ambition. The comment got a glare from Mack and a smile from Marge. Poor Mack suddenly looked stodgy in his blazer and summer flannels. Marge, in a white pantsuit with a rainbow ascot at the throat, was the epitome of Palm Beach chic. I knew she was made up for the show (the endearing freckles were not visible) but the makeup artist, no doubt taken by her wholesome good looks, kept the war paint to a minimum and let her smile say it all.
Naturally they ran the footage of Mack’s helicopter ride over the maze and, as I had recalled, it was not possible to distinguish the passages that led to the goal, but I did catch a fleeting glimpse of the sundial. I now knew it to be in the goal itself, but one would not know
“I never miss it,” she cooed and almost blushed.
“I’ll try to catch the repeat,” I said.
“You can catch it sooner if you go to the mailroom,” she called after me.
I paused and turned. “Pray elucidate, madame.”
“Binky taped the show and is running it off in the mail-room on his VCR. Half the office has been down there when they should be working.”
“I don’t get it. How did Binky know this morning’s show was going to be a blockbuster?”
“Joe Gallo told him, I guess.”
“Binky is matey with Joe Gallo?” I exclaimed. “Since when?”
We do not have an electronic security system in the McNally Building but something far more reliable. We are sandwiched between Herb, our security person in the basement garage, who checks our comings and goings, and Mrs. Trelawney on the top floor who monitors our movements when in residence. They work in tandem like the jaws of a vise. Herb is a retired police officer and Mrs. Trelawney claims to be a graduate of a prestigious business academy. I believe she attended the FBI school for spies with a master’s from the KGB. However, there are times, like now, when her information is most interesting.
“I assume, since they’re neighbors,” she explained.
My knees turned to water as they used to say in pulp fiction, a genre sadly missed by discriminating readers.
“Gallo rented the trailer next to Binky’s at the Palm Court. Didn’t you know that?”
No, I did not know that, but I do know that Sergeant Al Rogoff calls the Palm Court home. Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub—and give unto me a break!
6
I STUCK MY HEAD into the mailroom and caught a show in progress. By this time all the big boys and girls had had their viewing so Binky’s audience now consisted of secretaries on their lunch break. Binky had tried to date most of them but I fear his appeal is more to the mother instinct in ladies of Mrs. Trelawney’s generation than to the raging hormones of lassies looking for a mate. A sage once wrote that for every man there’s a woman but given Binky’s record this may prove to be presumptuous, to say the least.
Binky’s blond hair is desperately in need of “body,” and Binky’s pink-and-white body is desperately in need of hair. His brown eyes are woeful, even when he laughs. But perhaps I am being too harsh on one of my best friends. After years of job hunting that was no more successful than his quest for romance, I secured Binky Watrous a position as mail person for McNally & Son where he seems to have found a home. Translation: Mrs. Trelawney adores him.
On Binky’s minuscule TV screen the dynamic trio of the moment were reporting, with gusto, the events leading to the discovery of Marlena Marvel’s body in the goal of the maze. I must say it was riveting reportage by two pros and a rising star. Joe Gallo’s small-screen debut was more than promising and while he wasn’t as yet the suave anchorman with trendy tonsure and Savile Row suit, he was the boy-next-door with a bright future. The boy sported jeans and a tee, explaining, “I rushed right over and didn’t bother dressing.”
Didn’t bother? Joey’s garb was as calculated as his ambition. The comment got a glare from Mack and a smile from Marge. Poor Mack suddenly looked stodgy in his blazer and summer flannels. Marge, in a white pantsuit with a rainbow ascot at the throat, was the epitome of Palm Beach chic. I knew she was made up for the show (the endearing freckles were not visible) but the makeup artist, no doubt taken by her wholesome good looks, kept the war paint to a minimum and let her smile say it all.
Naturally they ran the footage of Mack’s helicopter ride over the maze and, as I had recalled, it was not possible to distinguish the passages that led to the goal, but I did catch a fleeting glimpse of the sundial. I now knew it to be in the goal itself, but one would not know
Similar Books
