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Authors: Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo
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Archy enlisted to get the wind up. Beware investigative reporters bearing gifts would be my mantra when dealing with Denny.
“I will pretend to be gathering information for my Palm Beach story,” Denny was saying, “and continue being snubbed by all the right people and patronized by those who don’t matter.”
That reminded me of Lolly. “Have you met Lolly Spindrift?”
Denny thought a moment. “You mean the little guy in the white suit at MacNiff’s?”
“That’s him. He’s our local gossip columnist,” I said, “and you might interview him as part of your cover.”
“He gave me the cold shoulder,” Denny complained, “like everyone else at the MacNiff party.”
“I happen to know that Lolly can’t refuse an invitation to be wined and dined at someone else’s expense. Cafe L’Europe is his favorite.”
Denny nodded. “I’ll give it a try. Would you like to be wined and dined at my expense right here? The food is excellent.”
“Thanks, but I have a dinner date.”
At that moment, from out of nowhere, the sound of a shaky but robust tenor rose above the din, belting out Verdi’s rousing drinking song from La Traviata. I turned to see one of the waiters, a little older and a little stouter than the rest of Daniel’s crew, playing Alfredo in the middle of the small parquet dance floor and, appropriately enough, wielding a glass of champagne to the delight of his audience.
“The room’s singing waiter and main attraction,” Denny informed me. “They call him the fourth tenor.”
Our Caruso wanna-be finished with a theatrical flourish to his imaginary Violetta and to a standing ovation. I couldn’t wait to drag Al Rogoff to the next performance.
EIGHT
I CROSSED BACK TO the island and drove north on Ocean Boulevard with the top of my red Miata down, under a canopy of glittering stars and a new moon. I have traveled this route countless times but have yet to become jaded to the sights and sounds and splendor of my hometown on a balmy winter night when a gentle ocean breeze sets the palm trees swaying to the music coming from my car’s radio.
I drove past sumptuous white brick condos with terraces overlooking the Atlantic and grand homes with their windows ablaze as limos and sports cars with foreign plates pulled in and out of gated driveways. Farther along, the island widens to accommodate palatial villas on both sides of the highway and I found myself sandwiched between the rich and the richer in the land of Oz, on my way to see the Wizard.
Forgive the blather, but the easy listening music beneath the stars and swaying palms had me waxing poetic—as do two martinis, unsolved murders and singing waiters. I was actually on my way to the land of Juno to see my current flame, Georgy girl, known to her coworkers as Georgy and to her parents as Georgia. My green-eyed blonde is the happy result of a union between Ireland and Italy. I speak of her parents, not the nations. I read that this mix, especially in New York, is the most popular in our melting pot but has not, thanks to the blessed memory of Georges Auguste Escoffier, led to the joining of boiled potatoes and pasta.
Instead, it has given us handsome lads and gorgeous colleens with attitude. There are those who, in the garden of love, always manage to get hit on the noggin with a falling lemon. I was struck by a peach who packs heat and is licensed to kill. Lieutenant O’Hara, a state trooper if you please, and even if you don’t please. We met over a corpse in a seedy motel room. Given that beginning I figured the relationship had no place to go but up, so I invited her to dinner. We’ve been an item ever since.
Georgy’s electronic message this afternoon had instantly reminded me where and when I had heard the name Joe Gallo, the affable young man Holga von Brecht and I had beat two games out of three before the discovery of Jeff Rodgers’s body in the MacNiffs’ pool. The name came not from a wine commercial as one might
“I will pretend to be gathering information for my Palm Beach story,” Denny was saying, “and continue being snubbed by all the right people and patronized by those who don’t matter.”
That reminded me of Lolly. “Have you met Lolly Spindrift?”
Denny thought a moment. “You mean the little guy in the white suit at MacNiff’s?”
“That’s him. He’s our local gossip columnist,” I said, “and you might interview him as part of your cover.”
“He gave me the cold shoulder,” Denny complained, “like everyone else at the MacNiff party.”
“I happen to know that Lolly can’t refuse an invitation to be wined and dined at someone else’s expense. Cafe L’Europe is his favorite.”
Denny nodded. “I’ll give it a try. Would you like to be wined and dined at my expense right here? The food is excellent.”
“Thanks, but I have a dinner date.”
At that moment, from out of nowhere, the sound of a shaky but robust tenor rose above the din, belting out Verdi’s rousing drinking song from La Traviata. I turned to see one of the waiters, a little older and a little stouter than the rest of Daniel’s crew, playing Alfredo in the middle of the small parquet dance floor and, appropriately enough, wielding a glass of champagne to the delight of his audience.
“The room’s singing waiter and main attraction,” Denny informed me. “They call him the fourth tenor.”
Our Caruso wanna-be finished with a theatrical flourish to his imaginary Violetta and to a standing ovation. I couldn’t wait to drag Al Rogoff to the next performance.
EIGHT
I CROSSED BACK TO the island and drove north on Ocean Boulevard with the top of my red Miata down, under a canopy of glittering stars and a new moon. I have traveled this route countless times but have yet to become jaded to the sights and sounds and splendor of my hometown on a balmy winter night when a gentle ocean breeze sets the palm trees swaying to the music coming from my car’s radio.
I drove past sumptuous white brick condos with terraces overlooking the Atlantic and grand homes with their windows ablaze as limos and sports cars with foreign plates pulled in and out of gated driveways. Farther along, the island widens to accommodate palatial villas on both sides of the highway and I found myself sandwiched between the rich and the richer in the land of Oz, on my way to see the Wizard.
Forgive the blather, but the easy listening music beneath the stars and swaying palms had me waxing poetic—as do two martinis, unsolved murders and singing waiters. I was actually on my way to the land of Juno to see my current flame, Georgy girl, known to her coworkers as Georgy and to her parents as Georgia. My green-eyed blonde is the happy result of a union between Ireland and Italy. I speak of her parents, not the nations. I read that this mix, especially in New York, is the most popular in our melting pot but has not, thanks to the blessed memory of Georges Auguste Escoffier, led to the joining of boiled potatoes and pasta.
Instead, it has given us handsome lads and gorgeous colleens with attitude. There are those who, in the garden of love, always manage to get hit on the noggin with a falling lemon. I was struck by a peach who packs heat and is licensed to kill. Lieutenant O’Hara, a state trooper if you please, and even if you don’t please. We met over a corpse in a seedy motel room. Given that beginning I figured the relationship had no place to go but up, so I invited her to dinner. We’ve been an item ever since.
Georgy’s electronic message this afternoon had instantly reminded me where and when I had heard the name Joe Gallo, the affable young man Holga von Brecht and I had beat two games out of three before the discovery of Jeff Rodgers’s body in the MacNiffs’ pool. The name came not from a wine commercial as one might
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