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

about its boardlike appearance. Spring steel was more like it; the overall suntan was bronzy rather than tawny. But I wasted little time taking inventory, set to work, and elicited a series of low sounds: sighs, moans, and one muffled sob. Of bliss I hoped. I was, I admit, more vocal than Nettie but I do not believe she was affrightened by my repertoire of yelps, whinnies, and yodels.
    Eventually the game ended of course. Score tied: 1 to 1. We lay there on the ruins of the cot, both of us breathing as if we had just completed the sixty-meter hurdles. She raised her eyes, coughed a short laugh, the corners of her mouth went up. But it was a trompe l’oeil smile given, I guessed, because she thought I expected it.
    “Wonderful,” she said.
    “Ecstasy,” I said. “From the movie of the same name.”
    Then she glowered. “Can’t you be serious?” she demanded.
    “No, I cannot,” I told her. “I am a frivolous scatterbrain. I want you to know that from the start.”
    “The start of what?”
    I shrugged. “Whatever may ensue from our delightful introduction. But if you desire a solemn, profound bloke, I am not he. If you can be satisfied with an ardent nincompoop I shall do my best to oblige.”
    She sat up, hugged her bare knees, regarded me gravely. “I don’t think you’re as dizzy as you say, Archy.” Then, suddenly: “What did you and mother talk about at lunch?”
    “This and that.”
    “I’ll bet you talked about money.”
    “The subject may have come up,” I acknowledged.
    “She wants to spend a mint on a stupid Fabergé egg,” she said wrathfully. “There goes my inheritance.”
    I grinned. “Selfish,” I said, “but honest. Are you acquainted with Frederick Clemens, her financial adviser?”
    “I’ve met the creep. I can’t stand oily men like him.”
    “Oily?”
    “You know what I mean. He puts oh the smoothy act and both mama and Helen think he’s God’s gift to women. I think he’s a fake.”
    “Why do you think that?”
    “He insisted on buying one of my paintings. He said it was a masterpiece, which was a lot of hooey. He just wanted me on his side so I wouldn’t object to mama giving him money for the Fabergé egg.”
    “I gather from what you say that your sister-in-law is already on his side.”
    “Wait’ll my brother gets back,” she said. “He’s supposed to arrive this week. I’m going to tell Walter what his dear wifey has been up to.”
    “And what has she been up to?”
    “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
    “Natalie,” I said, laughing, “I haven’t heard that expression since nursery school.”
    “I know what I know,” she said darkly, then abruptly switched gears on me. Very mercurial, our Nettie. “Do you want to see me again, Archy?”
    It was a challenge and stopped me. Did I want to see her again? Well... yes. I knew I was risking Connie’s wrath if she learned I was playing ring-around-a-rosy with a certified ding-a-ling who performed aerobics in gym bloomers. But when lust comes in the door prudence goes out the window—or something like that.
    Also I sensed Natalie might prove a valuable source of skinny relating to the internal conflicts of the Westmore family. She had already revealed much and hinted at more. Surely I would be a fool to reject such assistance. But the specter of Ms. Garcia lurked, my very own avenging angel. And so I dithered.
    “I don’t mean to go out,” Natalie said. “I’m uncomfortable in restaurants and bars. I’m not a social creature. But I thought you might like to come by occasionally and we could just, you know... talk.”
    “I’d enjoy that,” I said at once, happy with her suggestion. Connie would never in a million years discover me engaged in extracurricular activities within a ramshackle shed on an Ocean Boulevard estate. “But I don’t want to be a nuisance. Suppose I give you my unlisted home phone number and when you feel like company give me a call and I’ll come running. How