and the lady discuss, Binky? The joys of living in a corridor?”
A bit sheepishly, or so I thought, he said, “As a matter of fact, Archy, your name came up over the coffee and croissants.”
Croissants? Not Jane Eyre, but Julia Child. Bless her heart. Binky was about as subtle as the writing on a latrine wall. Al Rogoff had told us of Bianca’s quandary and even chanced that we were at the Palm Court at her bidding. To impress his neighbor, Binky had told her that his best friend ran Discreet Inquiries, explained its function, and, no doubt, hinted that he was in some way associated with the agency.
What did I think of all this? I loved it. Someplace in the back of my wicked, scheming, conniving, and perverted mind I was thinking of just such a ploy to insinuate myself into the confidence, and perhaps the arms, of Bianca Courtney. How, was the question, and lo, Binky was the answer. Unthinking to be sure, but then few of Binky’s actions are accompanied by thought. Conclusion: if Bianca and I hit it off, it’s all Binky’s fault.
To be sure, I wasn’t going to tell him this. Let ‘em squirm was my modus operandi. Wide-eyed, I questioned, “My name? In what connection, pray tell?”
He told, adding, “I mentioned that I often help in your inquiries.”
Just as I suspected. “Really, Binky? Refresh my memory.”
“Well,” he said, ‘remember that party at Manalapan Beach when I drove the pretty girl’s car to your house so you could follow with her in your car?”
And Hobo bit you and you wanted to sue.”
“I was crippled, Archy.”
“You had a scratch on your ankle.”
Leaning on his mail cart as if to accentuate his former injury, he tried again. “What about the time I got a job in the pet store so you could follow up a lead?”
And the parrot bit you.”
Grasping at straws, he uttered, “When your sister was here last Christmas, I took little Darcy to the beach.”
And little Darcy bit you. Let’s face it, Binky, you bring out the feral instincts in man and beast. It could be your cologne.” I stopped him from extolling the merits of Old Spice by returning to the point of this dialogue: “Did you tell Bianca I would call upon her for details of this alleged crime?”
“Sort of. You see, Archy, as much as she wants to hire you, she can’t afford you.”
I nodded my understanding in the grave manner of a doctor telling a patient the operation needed to save his life was priced beyond his means and referring him to the doc’s brother-in-law, who happened to be an undertaker. “There’s no charge for the initial interview; after that we can see what we can do.”
“Like pro bono,” Binky spouted.
A few months of hauling mail in a law office and the guy spoke as if he were delivering scrolls to the Roman senate. “When did you say I might call, Binky?”
“I didn’t, Archy, but I’ll ask her tonight. She’s invited me to dinner, seeing as my kitchen isn’t set up as yet.”
“How neighborly. What’s she making, did she say?”
“Chinese takeout,” Binky blustered like it was the bill of fare at the Ritz.
“With three you get egg roll,” I told him.
“We’ll only be two, Archy.”
Sometimes I wondered if under that head of droopy blond hair there wasn’t a wise guy screaming to get out.
Ten
That evening, I got in my swim, showered, parted my freshly washed hair neatly on the left, and combed the remainder straight back in imitation of the young Ronald Reagan in his Warner Bros, hey days Not bad. Troy Appleton’s wife wasn’t the only one who knew how to use someone else’s coiffure to win friends and get out the vote.
Satisfied with what I saw in the mirror (I’m very easy with me) I dabbed a bit of my personal and very expensive scent onto the back of my neck, donned a pair of Newport red Bermuda shorts over a matching shade of cotton briefs, and pulled a blue sweatshirt, emblazoned with a foot-long white Y, over my head. I never wear the thing in father’s presence as it evokes stares and sighs of woe that would have neighbors believe the McNallys were putting on a revival of Oedipus with a Greek chorus of one.
Actually, I wore it last winter when I took Connie to a performance of Puns of Steel by the Princeton Triangle Club at the Alexander W.
Dreyfoos Jr School of Arts in
West Palm. Connie was embarrassed but I got a round of applause from the Elis present.
Regardless of the effect the lettered shirt has on the pater, the outfit would never do for family dining were he at home. When breaking bread with the help in the kitchen on a balmy summer night, it was perfect.
I mixed myself a proper Sterling vodka martini in the den before joining Ursi and Jamie. I must say, I am certainly making the most of the master’s absence, which, alas, must soon come to an end. Nothing is forever and rightly so, for I do miss mother.
“Roast chicken with lemon and herbs,” Ursi recited the bill of fare as I entered. Jamie had his nose buried in the evening paper with a bottle of beer before him. “And don’t you look sporty, Archy.”
“Thank you, Ursi. I do have good legs, don’t I?”
This got Jamie to look up, scan my legs, and go back to his paper. A no comment, I’ve always thought, is the most telling comment of all.
“What do we get with the chicken, Ursi?”
“Rice pilaf and a romaine salad with buttermilk dressing,” she answered. “Very light and easy and just the thing for a hot summer night, don’t you think?”
I did think. But, for starters, Ursi couldn’t resist passing around one of her specialties. Miniature pizzas, no more than two bites per munch, with a variety of toppings. Not very light fare, but then they were just to get the juices flowing. Jamie, who drinks his beer straight from the bottle, put aside his paper to concentrate on the tray of finger food his wife had placed on the table.
“Now tell us all about Sabrina Wright,” Ursi said as she puttered around the stove. “Did you find her daughter?”
“Let’s say her daughter gave herself up,” I told them. “The family is now together at The Breakers.”
“And the young man?” Ursi asked, opening the oven from which the aroma of lemon chicken escaped to tantalize my taste buds.
“He’s with her,” I said.
“In the same room?” As she spoke, Jamie reached for a tidbit of bread, cheese, tomato sauce, and anchovy but froze to await my answer.
“No, Ursi. They are in separate but adjoining rooms.”
“Is there a connecting door?” Jamie’s voice so startled us we stared at him as if he were daft. Picking up his mini pizza he popped it into his mouth.
“Don’t be crude,” his wife reproached him. “Besides, connecting doors can be locked.”
“From either side,” Jamie said, scanning the tray for his next assault on the minis.
It was so unusual to hear the Olsons engaged in spirited repartee that I had allowed Jamie to get one up on me on the crusty delights. I had had an anchovy, a pepperoni, and a broccoli. I spotted another anchovy and got there before Jamie. He shot me a look and fished up a plain cheese-and-sauce. That should teach him to keep his eyes upon the food and his mind off bedroom doors.
“So your case is closed,” Ursi said.
