Free McNally's Trial by Lawrence Sanders Page B

Pelican?”
    “Oh-oh,” he said. “Every time you invite me to lunch I end up getting shot at.”
    “You know that’s not true.”
    “It’s half-true,” he insisted, “and half is enough for me. I refuse to lunch with you at the Pelican Club or anywhere else. And that’s definite.”
    I told him, “We’ll have Leroy’s special hamburgers with a basket of matchstick potatoes and perhaps a few pale ales.”
    “What time do you want to make it?” he asked.
    Before leaving home I called Binky Watrous, hoping the Duchess wouldn’t pick up the phone. She didn’t but their houseman did, and he informed me Master Binky was still asleep and had hung a Do Not Disturb sign on his bedroom door. (I happened to know that sign had been filched from the Dorchester in London.) I requested that Master Binky be asked to phone Archy McNally as soon as he reentered the world of the living.
    “I don’t know when that will be, Mr. McNally,” the houseman said dubiously. “He just arrived home about an hour ago.”
    “Whenever,” I said and hung up, wondering where my vassal had spent the night. Deep in mischief, no doubt. The apprentice shamus was becoming even more of a trial than I had expected.

10.
    I ARRIVED AT THE Pelican Club in time to enjoy a Bloody Mary (with fresh horseradish) at the bar before Sgt. Rogoff showed up. The dining area was filling rapidly and I peeked in to see if Connie Garcia was present. Thankfully she was not. The horseradish had invigorated my spirits but not to the point where I was ready to face Connie’s wrath if she had learned—as I was certain she would—that I had attended the season’s first big social affair and did not invite her to accompany me.
    Sgt. Rogoff finally came trundling in, wearing casual, off-duty duds. Al is a truculent piece of meat, built along the general lines of a steamroller. For career reasons he projects the persona of a good ol’ boy, and he drives a pickup to aid his public image. But he is brainy, a very keen investigator, and also happens to be a closet balletomane. One never knows, do one?
    We snagged a table for two in the dining room and, after some repartee with the sassy Priscilla, ordered the lunch that had lured the sergeant. Knowing our predilection, Pris served the Bass ales first, and we both took palate-tingling swigs.
    “I’d like to be floating in a tank of this stuff,” Al said. “Trying to drink the level down. Wasn’t there an English lord or someone who did something like that?”
    “Drowned in a vat of malmsey,” I said, but then my mind went blank. “I can’t remember who it was,” I admitted.
    Al looked at me reproachfully. “That’s not like you, Archy,” he chided. “You usually have instant recall of useless information.”
    “True,” I said, “but that bowl of Cheerios I call my brain is not up to cruising speed this morning. I’ve got problems.”
    “Yeah? Like what?”
    “Well, for starters I’ve taken on an unpaid assistant who wants to learn the discreet inquiry business, and he’s driving me right up the wall. Binky Watrous. Do you know him?”
    Rogoff took a gulp of his ale. “That twit? Sure, I know him. Last year he was charged with committing a public nuisance for riding a mule up Worth Avenue. He got off with a fine. Screwballs like him make me question the purpose of evolution. How come you tied up with an airhead like Watrous?”
    “Well, he is a friend of mine,” I explained lamely. “And he has to get a job or his aunt is liable to end his freeloading career.”
    “The Duchess!” Al said, laughing. He’s not totally ignorant of the intricacies of Palm Beach society. “That lady is a fruitcake, too. Every year she sends the Palm Beach Police Department a subscription to National Geographic. How does that grab you?”
    But then Priscilla brought our burgers and spuds along with a complimentary platter of sliced tomatoes and onions. The sergeant and I wasted little time in talking while we