McNally's chance

eyes that evoked the mother instinct in older women and indifference in their daughters.

There are two things I detest in this vale of tears, and they are eggs Benedict over heather-gray briefs and office parties. Being the scion of the firm’s ruler, I am forced to contribute financially to the latter but reserve my right to be a no-show at the gala. There is something almost morbid about seeing those you toil with in their cups.

Bottoms are pinched, tops are ogled, and, on occasion, romance by misadventure follows. This differs from death by misadventure in that both parties can get up and walk away from the scene of the crime.

“Why should I give Binky Watrous a microwave oven?” I wanted to know.

We did not have such an appliance in our home, thank you. Mother would never force a begonia and Ursi would never force a baked potato. Like Julian, the last Roman emperor to defend the old gods against the Christian hordes, so we McNallys fought valiantly to keep the digital world from encroaching upon our doorstep.

No fax, no e-mail, no voice mail, no PC, no WP, no CD, and no DVD.

However, you might find the odd pair of BVD’s in father’s chiffonier.

“Remember, you’re Binky’s best friend,” she announced.

“Says who?”

“Says Binky,” she argued. Binky has diarrhea of the mouth and constipation of ideas. Not wanting to singe Mrs. Trelawney’s ears and, by propinquity, her darnel tresses, I toned it down to, “Binky speaks with a profusion of words and a paucity of facts.” “You’re still down for a microwave oven.” With this she ticked my name off her list of donors. “Your father is giving china. Service for four. A starter set, don’t you know.” “Father? You spoke to the boss?” “This morning at half-past nine, as usual. I told him I would give you his regards as soon as you come in.” “You are a national treasure, Mrs.

Trelawney, and will take your rightful place in history alongside Pearl Harbor, the Lusitania, and The Fall of the House of Usher,” I was losing my cool. “Flattery will get you wherever you want to go.”

“Right now I want to go to my office and cry.” “Fine. Then go for the microwave.” “Just how much does one cost?” I asked. “About a hundred, but it depends on the size. And go with a known manufacturer; you don’t want to go cheap on this. Remember, he’s your best friend.” “I don’t have a hundred to spare,” I pleaded like one being audited by the IRS. “You will when you cash in that swindle sheet. Have a nice day, love.” The phone was ringing when I entered my office.

“Mr. McNally? This is Robert Silvester. I believe you’re looking for me.”

I wanted to say I was looking for a microwave oven but refrained from doing so. After a significant pause I decided to play it with moxie and answered, “As a matter of fact, Mr. Silvester, I was just about to call you.”

“Really? And do you know where I am?”

“I do now. I have caller I.D.”

Robert Silvester laughed. “I don’t believe you, but you have a whimsical sense of humor, and if you’re going to be dealing with Sabrina you’ll need that in great abundance.”

“You know I’ve seen your wife?”

“I do now.” Again the laugh. It was a pleasant sound, not at all mocking. “It was me who gave Sabrina your name.”

I got the feeling I was being jerked around with humor and I didn’t like it. “You told your wife to hire me to look for you? How clever.”

“So, I am the man that got away.”

“Let’s say you’re in the running, Mr. Silvester.”

“How did Ms Spindrift know Sabrina had come down here looking for me?”

Silvester asked.

“Mr. Spindrift. Lolly is a he.”

“How quaint.”

“I’ll tell him.” Not wishing to get into a discussion about men named Carroll and Adrian I asked, “Why did Zack Ward tip off Lolly that Sabrina was in town looking for some guy?”

“He didn’t.” came Silvester’s immediate reply.

“Then who did?”

“For all I know it may have been Sabrina herself.”

Lolly had told me the caller was a man, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. Instead I told him what I thought of the inference. “I’m not amused, Mr. Silvester.”

“Please, call me Rob.”

“I’m still not amused, Rob.”

“If you give me a chance, I’ll tell you what I know,” he said.

“I’m listening.”

“Not on the phone, it would take too long. Besides, I’d like to meet you in person. Do you lunch?”

“Only when I’m hungry.”

“Would Harry’s Place at The Breakers suit?”

To a “I.”

“Good. Let’s say twelve-thirty or one.”

Six

The Breakers was originally created as Henry Flagler’s Palm Beach Inn.

Originally build of wood, it twice burned to the ground before the current phoenix rose from the ashes. It’s said that the second conflagration was started by a PB matron giving herself a home perm with a curling iron.

I don’t know which came first, Cornelius Vanderbilt’s weekend cottage in Newport, also called The Breakers, or Flagler’s inn. I do know Cornelius never ran a B- amp;-B at his place, but then Cornelius never had a drawbridge named after him. Henry’s Palm Beach cottage, Whitehall, is now the home of the Henry Morrison Flagler Museum. Its size and opulence makes Versailles look like a pretentious bed-sitter with formal gardens.

Besides the Ponce de Leon ballroom where revelers usually gather in support of some charity rather than seeking eternal youth that they leave to skilled laser wielders The Breakers also houses several fine restaurants. Harry’s Place bills itself as a genuine English pub and is the closest thing to fast-food dining a place like The Breakers would admit to. I told the maitre d’ I was joining Mr. Silvester and as he showed me to the table, my host rose to greet me.

“Mr. McNally,” he said, extending his hand as he eyed my apparel. “I was certain it was you.”

There are times when my reputation proceeds me. Had I known I was to meet with Robert Silvester today I would have worn the summer uniform

— chinos, dark blue blazer, and loafers by the Italian shoemaker currently in fashion. (If you get caught in a pair of Mr. Gucci’s flats, you’re giving your age away.) The winter uniform finds the toffs in gray flannels, dark blue blazer, and loafers by etc. As it happened, I was happy to have come as myself as Robert Silvester had come as Everyman.

Not surprising, the guy was a good fifteen years younger than his wife with the kind of clean-cut good looks popular with Hollywood teenage idols of the forties and fifties. Think of a blond Farley Granger, e.g. Silvester’s hair was an attractive reddish brown, worn parted on the left and showing a hint of gray at the temples. I got the feeling that, contrary to the norm, the gray came from a bottle, perhaps in an attempt to look more like his wife’s husband than her son. A dozen years ago, on his honeymoon, he would have had to show proof before he could order a bottle of champagne to toast his bride. Still, his bright blue eyes and genial smile rendered him more cute than classically handsome.

“What will you have?” he asked as I sat. “This.” pointing at the drink in front of him, ‘is a pint of Guinness stout. When in Rome..

.”

I wasn’t in Rome so I ordered a frozen daiquiri before playing my first, and only, card. “You know your wife