from the one up for grabs. She acknowledged our presence with a discreet nod before getting into a black Mercedes 190, modest but tasteful, and driving off. Binky had seen her, too, and I hoped her appearance would not cause him to sign a lease before investigating the premises.
“Shall we go in?” Hermioni suggested.
Three steps led to a concrete front porch that could hold one chair and little else. This was girdled by a wrought-iron fence painted a hideous green. Hermioni pointed to the trailer’s number painted over the front door in gold-flecked fluorescent white. “Eleven-seventy, just like the Bath and Tennis Club,” she announced. Here all resemblance to that posh establishment ended.
A mobile home, or trailer, is in essence a railroad car divided into diner, parlor, and sleeper. The kitchen of number 1170 contained a card table, one place mat, and one chair. A look in the cabinets and drawers revealed one cup and saucer, one dinner plate, one soup plate, one bread-and-butter plate, one water glass, one fork, one knife, one soup spoon, one tea spoon, an egg beater, and a timer.
The parlor was furnished with one club chair, one end table, one lamp, and one television stand minus the telly. The bedroom held one twin-size bed and beneath its counterpane, one fitted sheet, one top sheet, one blanket,
and one pillow with pillow slip. There was also one chest of drawers and one wardrobe in the sleeper.
“It was a divorce,” hermioni explained, ‘and everything was divided equally.”
Binky looked a tad crestfallen, so I encouraged him with the promise,
“Never fear, Binky. We will go to the Wal-Mart and furnish you with everything from stemware to bedding to Jockey shorts, and come January we will scour the white sales. The rest of your life is before you, young man.”
“Who are you?” Hermioni wanted to know. “His decorator?”
Looking out the parlor window, Binky asked, “What do you think of the view, Archy?”
Trailer courts are usually laid out in a grid with a disposal area unsuccessfully hidden behind a stockade fence at the far end of the vertical avenues. Each cement-block-mounted home has a carport and a patch of lawn the size of a handkerchief. Binky’s parlor windows provided a marvelous view across the avenue of trailer number 1171.
“There is nothing wrong with this vista that good curtains can’t enhance,” I assured him.
Hermioni had very little to say as we paced the boxcar, mostly because there was very little to say. What you saw is what you got. “We will need references, of course,” she cautioned, ‘from local residents as well as proof of employment and two months security on signing a lease.
Do I understand that this will be a single-occupancy lease?”
“For the time being,” Binky answered. For Binky, hope springs eternal.
The Palm Court is a respectable community,” hermioni told us lest we didn’t know, ‘catering to retirees and professionals. While we don’t exclude young families with children, neither do we encourage them.”
“What do you think, Archy?” Binky asked.
“What I think, Binky, doesn’t matter. What do you think?”
Hermioni and I stood our ground as Binky make a quick tour of the trailer, pausing only to scan the place mat on the card table depicting a map of Palm Beach Island. His brown eyes glassy, his limp blond hair fringing his now perspiring forehead, Binky looked more like a frightened child than a prospective tenant, and Hermioni, I was sure, fought the urge to take Binky into her arms and cradle him against her ample bosom.
I’ll take it,” Binky finally blurted to the place mat.
“Oh, good,” hermioni cried, like a proud mother. “I will give you my card and you can come to the office to complete a formal application and leave a deposit whenever it’s convenient.”
Having earned her commission, she was more than ready to abandon us in pursuit of her next ten-per center Looking at me she said, “I will leave you two alone as I’m sure you’ll want to go over everything without me looking over your shoulders.” Hermioni was now playing Goody Two-shoes with as much sincerity as a baby-kissing politician.
“Just close the door when you leave and the spring lock will fall into place not that there’s anything much to take. Hee, hee.”
No sooner had she gone out the door, then she popped back in again and called out, “Did I tell you that I also represent a cleaning service that will do for you once a week or more often if requested? Our domestic engineers are all bonded, of course.”
“Mr. Watrous can do for himself, thank you,” I called back.
“Who are you?” Hermioni demanded. “His father?”
Exit Hermioni Rutherford, and not a moment too soon.
After a brief silence that had Binky looking as if he wanted to change his mind, I said, “Congratulations, Bink. You are a man with a pad to call his own. Be it ever so humble and all that jazz.”
“Did you see the girl next door, Archy?” Here, any trace of second thoughts vanished.
“I saw a woman leave the trailer next door, Binky, but that does not mean she is your neighbor. Many people enter and leave the White House, but not all of them are the President.” Giving that a moment’s thought, I added, “But coming from Palm Beach County, one never knows, do one?”
Undaunted, as is Binky’s wont when it comes to speculating about the opposite sex, he went on, “She was some looker, eh?”
“Where you should be looking,” I admonished, ‘is into your wallet. Have you got the loot for the two-months’ security?”
“The duchess said she would help me,” was Binky’s not surprising answer. Having invested over twenty years in Binky, a few more bucks, with the promise of the end in sight, wouldn’t break the bank.
“Well, Binky, if you can tear yourself away from your castle, I think it’s time to call it quits.”
I’ll drive you back to the McNally Building, Archy, and thanks for your help.”
“Help? I did nothing but hang around,” I assured him.
“He who waits also serves,” Binky informed me. This keen observation can be found framed and hanging on the walls of courthouses where prospective jurors wait, endlessly, to be called to judge their peers.
Juror was one of Binky’s periodic gigs.
Murphy’s law anything that can go wrong, will — prevailed as we stepped out of Binky’s incipient love nest and almost collided with Al Rogoff, chomping on a stogie and toting a plastic garbage bag. Al is a big guy. Beefy, in the vernacular, and seeing him in his leisure togs is like coming upon Smokey the Bear decked out in Bermuda shorts and tank top. Astonishing, I believe, is the most fitting adjective, and Al was just as astonished to see Binky Watrous and Archy McNally on the street where he lives.
Removing the stogie from his mouth, Al gaped. After ogling Binky as if he were breaking parole simply by being at the Palm Court, Al turned his attention to me and exclaimed, “Don’t tell me Bianca hired you.”
“Bianca? No, we came to see Hermioni Rutherford. Who’s Bianca and why should she hire me?” I asked.
“Bianca Courtney,” Al answered, the stogie back in his mouth. “She’s the dame who lives there.” He gestured with the garbage bag toward the trailer from which we had seen the young lady surface earlier.
Al Rogoff has several colorful epithets to denote the female gender, none of which will earn him points with the more politically correct denizens of our democracy. However, before you label Al Rogoff crass, let me state that he is a closet balletomane and an aficionado of classical music and the performing arts more associated with the erudite than with a police sergeant who resides in a trailer court and subsists on a diet of hamburgers, beer, and chocolate pudding.
Al enjoys playing the uncouth slob in public, allowing only a select few, myself included, to get to know his Dr. Jekyll alter ego.
Furthermore, I’m reasonably certain that I’m his only friend who knows his middle name is Irving.
“Why would Bianca Courtney hire me?” I asked.
“She’s got some crazy idea that a murder has been committed and the perp is getting away with it.”
“Is she in danger?” Binky asked Al. Binky has a recurring Walter Mitty fantasy of turning into a masked crusader at the behest of a damsel in distress.
“Only of making a pest of herself,” Al told him.
“What’s the story, Al?” I asked.
“You looking for work, Archy?”
