Read Online McNally's Chance by Lawrence Sanders - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Sanders
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Mystery Fiction, Hard-Boiled, Palm Beach (Fla.), McNally, Archy (Fictitious Character), Private Investigators - Florida - Palm Beach
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your cheek good night and savor the restful sleep of the just.
“Mr. McNally? This is Robert Silvester. I believe you’re looking for me.”
Was I just lucky, or was I the plaything of an author in search of a plot? To appreciate the full impact of this morning call on my febrile brain, let me begin with enumerating on the roods I bore before the mountain came calling on Mohammed.
For breakfast Ursi presented me with eggs Benedict. For those who only know from scrambled to fried to hard boiled, this delight is a toasted English muffin, upon which is placed a succulent slice of frizzled Canadian bacon, over which we have a poached egg. The resulting composition is then doused with a delicate Hollandaise sauce. Once one of my favorite egg dishes, it now brings back memories I would rather forget. Other loving couples have their song. Connie and I have eggs Benedict.
One afternoon in the not too distant past, I was lunching at Testa’s with a charming young lady, unaware that Connie was also taking her midday meal there. Seeing us, Connie came directly to our table, toting her brunch plate. I thought she intended to join us uninvited, I might add. In the manner of civilized people, I rose to introduce her to my companion. What Connie did was open the waistband of my lime-green linen trousers and slip in two perfectly prepared eggs Benedict.
So much for breakfast and remembrance of things past, but not forgotten. I drove my Miata into the garage beneath the McNally building, exchanged a few words with Herb, our security guard, and took the elevator to the executive suite. Dear Mrs. Trelawney accepted my expense report with neither meticulous analysis nor sarcastic comment.
En garde, I thought, reaching for an imaginary epee. She signed it with a flourish and handed it back to me. Poised for battle, I waited for her first parry. My father’s private secretary has two passions in life: serving the master and giving me a hard time, not necessarily in that order.
I was loathe to turn my back on her and leave. Mrs. Trelawney wears a gray wig and, for all I know, packs heat. “Thank you,” I ventured, sadly. A day without sparring with Mrs. Trelawney is like a day without sunshine.
“I have you down for a microwave,” she stated.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Trelawney.”
“A microwave oven,” she expanded. If she thought this clarified her meaning, she was wrong.
“I seem to have come in in the middle of the movie, Mrs. Trelawney.
Could you go back to the opening scene?”
Looking over her glasses she said, “You didn’t come in in the middle of the movie, Archy. You came in in the middle of the workday.”
This was more like the Mrs. Trelawney I had come to love. My spirits rose as I geared for combat. “Does your spy in the garage below report the time of everyone’s arrival, or just mine?”
“Just you, Archy.” She spoke without a trace of shame.
“You missed your calling, Mrs. Trelawney. One of those alphabet organizations is where you would have risen to the top of the class.
FBI, CIA, KGB, G-E-S-“I-A-P-O.”
She nodded knowingly, as if agreeing with me. Mrs. Trelawney has the irritating habit of defusing a barb with a smile. And you should have been a hairdresser,” she shot back. “Love your suit.”
She referred, no doubt, to my three-buttoned, pale pink linen ensemble of which I was particularly fond. Growing more conservative with the passing years, I no longer wore it with my lavender suede loafers but now opted for a pair of shiny black brogues with cooling perforations at the tips. I thought I looked smashing, but Mrs. Trelawney was the kind of gal who would gladly kick the crutch from Tiny Tim’s grip and tell him to walk like a man.
Round one. I declared it a tie and made to depart. “See you in court, Mrs. Trelawney.”
“Just make sure you bring the microwave with you.”
I froze. “Okay, I give up. Am I supposed to say, “What microwave?”
“Binky’s
“Mr. McNally? This is Robert Silvester. I believe you’re looking for me.”
Was I just lucky, or was I the plaything of an author in search of a plot? To appreciate the full impact of this morning call on my febrile brain, let me begin with enumerating on the roods I bore before the mountain came calling on Mohammed.
For breakfast Ursi presented me with eggs Benedict. For those who only know from scrambled to fried to hard boiled, this delight is a toasted English muffin, upon which is placed a succulent slice of frizzled Canadian bacon, over which we have a poached egg. The resulting composition is then doused with a delicate Hollandaise sauce. Once one of my favorite egg dishes, it now brings back memories I would rather forget. Other loving couples have their song. Connie and I have eggs Benedict.
One afternoon in the not too distant past, I was lunching at Testa’s with a charming young lady, unaware that Connie was also taking her midday meal there. Seeing us, Connie came directly to our table, toting her brunch plate. I thought she intended to join us uninvited, I might add. In the manner of civilized people, I rose to introduce her to my companion. What Connie did was open the waistband of my lime-green linen trousers and slip in two perfectly prepared eggs Benedict.
So much for breakfast and remembrance of things past, but not forgotten. I drove my Miata into the garage beneath the McNally building, exchanged a few words with Herb, our security guard, and took the elevator to the executive suite. Dear Mrs. Trelawney accepted my expense report with neither meticulous analysis nor sarcastic comment.
En garde, I thought, reaching for an imaginary epee. She signed it with a flourish and handed it back to me. Poised for battle, I waited for her first parry. My father’s private secretary has two passions in life: serving the master and giving me a hard time, not necessarily in that order.
I was loathe to turn my back on her and leave. Mrs. Trelawney wears a gray wig and, for all I know, packs heat. “Thank you,” I ventured, sadly. A day without sparring with Mrs. Trelawney is like a day without sunshine.
“I have you down for a microwave,” she stated.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Trelawney.”
“A microwave oven,” she expanded. If she thought this clarified her meaning, she was wrong.
“I seem to have come in in the middle of the movie, Mrs. Trelawney.
Could you go back to the opening scene?”
Looking over her glasses she said, “You didn’t come in in the middle of the movie, Archy. You came in in the middle of the workday.”
This was more like the Mrs. Trelawney I had come to love. My spirits rose as I geared for combat. “Does your spy in the garage below report the time of everyone’s arrival, or just mine?”
“Just you, Archy.” She spoke without a trace of shame.
“You missed your calling, Mrs. Trelawney. One of those alphabet organizations is where you would have risen to the top of the class.
FBI, CIA, KGB, G-E-S-“I-A-P-O.”
She nodded knowingly, as if agreeing with me. Mrs. Trelawney has the irritating habit of defusing a barb with a smile. And you should have been a hairdresser,” she shot back. “Love your suit.”
She referred, no doubt, to my three-buttoned, pale pink linen ensemble of which I was particularly fond. Growing more conservative with the passing years, I no longer wore it with my lavender suede loafers but now opted for a pair of shiny black brogues with cooling perforations at the tips. I thought I looked smashing, but Mrs. Trelawney was the kind of gal who would gladly kick the crutch from Tiny Tim’s grip and tell him to walk like a man.
Round one. I declared it a tie and made to depart. “See you in court, Mrs. Trelawney.”
“Just make sure you bring the microwave with you.”
I froze. “Okay, I give up. Am I supposed to say, “What microwave?”
“Binky’s
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