Free McNally's Gamble by Lawrence Sanders Page B

earth prompted this disgraceful descent into blottoland?”
    “He took me to dinner.”
    “Who took you to dinner?”
    “Frederick Clemens.”
    “You josh.”
    “I do not josh. We were sitting around discussing heavy financial matters and Fred looked at his Rolex and said it was nearing time for a c-tail—that’s what he calls them: c-tails—and would I care to join him for a glass or two and a spot of dinner. Naturally I said I would be delighted and so we did. A funky little Italian place. I had brains.”
    “Too late,” I said.
    “With eggs,” he added. “Plus lots and lots of vino. It was a very jolly din-din.”
    “Binky,” I said desperately, “before you become totally unglued I am going to ask you a number of questions. Please try to be as concise and accurate as is possible for one in your benumbed condition. Primo, does Clemens work out of his home or does he have an office?”
    “Both. He inhabits this very posh condo—acres of space—and one big room is the office. Lots of glass, chrome, black wood. Elegant, y’know. Computer with all the bells and whistles. Three telephones on his desk: red, white, and blue.”
    “A Yankee Doodle dandy. And the assistant you spoke to on the phone—was he present?”
    “Yep. Name is Felix. No last name mentioned. Tall, skinny guy. I mean really tall and really skinny. Never smiles. Wearing a white suit, black shirt, white tie.”
    “The return of George Raft,” I said. “Did he go to dinner with you and Clemens?”
    “No. He chauffeured us to the restaurant in a maroon Bentley and then picked us up later. I don’t much like Felix.”
    “Why not?”
    “He scares me. I think he’s a wrongo.”
    “Because of the way he dresses?”
    “And he stared at me. Not a nice stare. Cold. Also he uses a fruity cologne. Also one of his fingers is missing.”
    “Which finger?”
    “Index on his right hand.”
    “At least he can’t pull a trigger,” I said. “Unless he’s sinistral.”
    “Archy, I’m getting sleepy. Can I go to bed now?”
    “No, you cannot,” I said. “You’re doing fine and I need to know more. Especially about Clemens. How old a man is he?”
    “Fortyish. Hard to tell exactly. I think he does facials and manicures. I mean he shines.”
    “Not oily?”
    “Oily? No way. A splendid chap. Sort of Spencer Tracyish. A fast man when it comes to picking up a tab. And tips like a zillionaire.”
    “Sharp dresser?”
    “Not sharp but rich. Wearing a flannel suit you’d kill for. Had on cuff links like miniature gold ingots. Archy, you should see the way he was shaved. I wish I could shave like that. I always seem to leave patches.”
    “I gather you approve of the man.”
    “I do, I really do. Sterling character. No front to him. True-blue.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said. “Did he offer any suggestions on how to invest your fifty grand?”
    “He says I should buy three-month Treasury bills.”
    “Oh,” I said, disappointed. “No oil wells or tin mines?”
    “Nope. He said I’ll sleep better at night with T-bills. And he offered me a job.”
    “A job?”
    “Well, not a regular nine-to-fiver. He wants me to recommend people I know who might be interested in investment advice. If he lands anyone as a client, I get a hundred bucks as a finder’s fee. A soft touch, huh, Archy?”
    “You’re going to do it?”
    “Sure I am. I already gave him a short list. You’re at the top.”
    “What! You actually gave him my name?”
    “I couldn’t see any harm. If he calls, you can turn him down or go see him.”
    I was about to scream at him but then I thought he might have stumbled into a seemingly clever way for me to meet Clemens. I wouldn’t seek him out; let him come to me. It would surely be as circumspect an introduction as my father required.
    I recalled Mrs. Westmore telling me how difficult it was to persuade the investment adviser to enroll her as a client. “He doesn’t just accept everyone.” But here he was paying Binky to