McNally's Dare by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo Page B

Herb, our security guard, was on duty inside his glass kiosk. He waved me in with one hand while the other dialed Mrs. Trelawney’s extension to report my arrival at the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. She would record the time in her little pink book covered with forget-me-nots, a fitting symbol of Mrs. Trelawney’s ability never to forget a thing she could use against me.
    In my windowless glorified closet, the little red light was aglow and blinking on the machine I distinctly remember unplugging yesterday. Binky Watrous, our mail person, had no doubt wandered in to deliver my paltry assortment of fast food menus, adverts for recording devices one could hide in a hearing aid and envelopes that stated they were not to be opened by persons under eighteen. Binky reported the unplugged machine to Mrs. Trelawney—they work as a team—and she told him to reconnect me with the outside world.
    Reluctantly I pressed the message button, which indicated I had two calls waiting.
    “Archy. It’s Denny. I’m having dinner with Lolly Spindrift tonight. He agreed as long as I didn’t ask him any questions about Palm Beach socialites. I told him I used to cover Hollywood for the magazine and that we might swap stories one would never see in print. He said he could be persuaded. Cafe L’Europe at eight if you care to join us. Have you found out anything?” Click.
    No, I would not care to join you and, no, I have not found out anything. I hit the vile button again.
    “Connie here. Why didn’t you return my call? Lady C is having temper tantrums. They say Meecham had a party on the Sans Souci last night that broke up at sunrise with everyone bedding down on the upper deck in sleeping bags. Two to a bag according to Lolly, who is taking delight in keeping Lady C posted on Jackson’s layover in Palm Beach. You know Jackson was supposed to report to the coast for some kind of screen test but now we hear that the picture crew is coming here to accommodate him and Meecham has invited them all to stay on the Sans Souci. Lady C wants you to torpedo Meecham’s yacht and deliver Jackson to her for safekeeping. Ta-ta.” Click.
    We’ll see who gets torpedoed, Ms. Garcia. I dialed Connie, who presides over a communication system at the Horowitz mansion that would be adequate to service some small countries.
    “Lady Cynthia’s residence.”
    “Tell your lady boss that procuring is not only illegal, it’s also immoral.”
    “Oh, simmer down, Archy. Madame just wants to make our visiting celebrity comfy.”
    “He seems perfectly comfy on Meecham’s deck in a sleeping bag built for two.”
    “Who shared Jackson’s bag?” Connie gushed.
    “Didn’t Lolly tell you?”
    “No,” she cried.
    “Well, maybe you could speculate on it the next time you sit down with Georgy for a heart-to-heart.”
    Being a quick study it took Connie a beat and a half to come back with “Joe Gallo.”
    “Exactly. And how did you know Joe Gallo and Georgy were once engaged?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.
    “Georgy told me, that’s how.”
    She certainly wasn’t cowering under my interrogation, but then cowering wasn’t Connie’s style. She was a lovely Spanish spitfire who could make a ninety-year-old Buddhist monk rethink his vows. “I didn’t know you and Georgy had become so chummy,” I said.
    “Just girl talk, Archy. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention your shortcomings.”
    “I wasn’t aware of any shortcomings on my part,” I told her.
    “Well, compared to Alex...” She had the temerity to giggle.
    “Alex is ten years younger than me.”
    “So is Georgy,” she responded, none too kindly.
    Being a gentleman I refrained from reminding her that she was just a year or two younger than me, hence a number of years older than Alex. Instead I suggested we should refrain from double dating. “It only seems to exacerbate the difficulties we were having with our so-called open relationship.”
    “The only thing open, Archy, was my