Free McNally's Trial by Lawrence Sanders Page A

first time I had seen her laugh with abandon and it was a joy to witness.
    “I haven’t heard that line since nursery school,” she said when she ceased spluttering.
    “Nursery school?” I said. “I am shocked, shocked! I hesitate to think of what went on by the time you got to junior high.”
    But of course we kissed. And kissed. And kissed. If she had an ulterior motive for coming on to me, and I suspected she had—to insure my loyalty?—I have sufficient male ego to believe what began as a manipulative ploy quickly became a more genuinely passionate experience than she had anticipated.
    She was carried away. I was carried away. And we both were carried away right into her bedroom where we disrobed in frantic haste, muttering when buttons were fumbled or zippers snagged.
    She owned a body as solid as the figurehead of a Yankee clipper. I don’t mean to suggest she could have played noseguard for the Washington Redskins, but there was not an ounce of excess avoirdupois on her carcass. Believe me; I searched.
    Our acrobatics became more frenzied, and my last conscious thought was of Binky Watrous attempting the tango with Mitzi Whitcomb. Sunny and I were doing the same thing horizontally rather than vertically. But with infinitely more expertise, I assure you. Then I stopped thinking.
    I do recall that at one point during our exertions the bedroom seemed filled with light, really a soft glow. The only way I can account for it is the phenomenon of triboluminescence. Very rare and much to be desired.
    I stayed in Sunny’s bed until almost 2:00 A.M. , during which time we consumed another Budweiser—and each other. What a loverly night that was—a fitting end to an evening of jollity. Such perfect occasions occur all too infrequently and must be sought and treasured. Remember that gem of McNally wisdom the next time someone offers you a beer.
    I drove home slowly, hoping my eyelids would not clamp firmly shut before I arrived in the safety of the McNally garage. I made it and stumbled upstairs, undressing as I went, and flopped into bed with a wheeze of content. “Thank you, God,” I murmured. A Category Five hurricane could have descended upon the coast of South Florida that night and I swear I would not have been aware of it. I slept the sleep of the undead.
    I awoke the following day a sad Budweiser man. Listen, I know it’s an ancient pun, but I was not in a creative mode that morning. Physically I felt fine, having had the foresight to pop a couple of Tylenols before collapsing into the sack. But mentally I was totally flummoxed. The Whitcomb case seemed to be growing steadily like some horrid fungus that just keeps getting larger and larger until it devours acres. The Blob That Ate Cleveland.
    In addition, I was suffering from an attack of the guilts. My unfaithfulness to Connie Garcia, of course. I had committed a disloyal act and could not deny it. Well, I could to Connie but not to myself. Sighing, I blamed those treacherous genes of mine. I tell you a faulty DNA can really be hell.
    I had slept a good eight hours, and by the time I finished my morning routine, breakfast was out of the question; luncheon loomed. Determined to do something— anything!—purposeful that day, I phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff at PBPD headquarters. I was told he was on a forty-eight. They wouldn’t give me his unlisted home phone number, of course, but that was okay; I already had it.
    I called and he picked up after the third ring.
    “Archy McNally,” I said.
    “Good heavens!” he said. “I haven’t heard from you in a week or so. I hope I haven’t offended you.”
    “Oh, shut up,” I said. “I hear you’re on a forty-eight. Have anything planned for today?”
    “Why, yes,” he said. “I thought I might play a chukker of polo this afternoon or perhaps enjoy an exciting game of shuffleboard—if my heart can stand it.”
    “Funny,” I said, “but not very. Al, why don’t you have lunch with me at the