McNally's caper

apparent he had spent much time building the appearance of casual elegance. Hound’s-tooth jacket, gray-flannel slacks, fringe-tongued black moccasins, a paisley ascot around his neck — and a rubicund complexion that signaled two double martinis. He was bubbling.

‘Beautiful,’ he said, taking my mink and dropping it on the floor. ‘You and me, the dinner. Everything. Listen, hon, I mixed this shaker to keep me company while I’ve been cooking. How about-’

He held up a crystal shaker and peered at a few inches of liquid and chips of ice in the bottom.

‘Dregs,’ he said sadly. ‘I better stir up another batch.’

I followed him into that stainless steel workshop. He had a zillion dishes, bowls, pots, and pans going. And if he was weaving slightly, he seemed to know exactly what he was doing: beat this, whisk that, stir here, chop there, cans opened, jars stirred. He was busy as hell, pausing only occasionally to take a delicate sip from his martini. I perched on a kitchen stool and watched the nut work.

‘Inventory all finished?’ I asked casually.

‘What?’

‘The inventory. Last night. At the store.’

‘Oh,’ he said, not looking at me. ‘Oh yes. All finished. Perfect. Everything checked out.’

‘It’s unusual, isn’t it? Taking inventory two weeks before Christmas?’

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘No, no, no. Take them all the time. Once a month, at least.’

‘Shoplifting?’ I guessed.

‘My God, no!’ he said, busy at the stove. ‘Our losses are minimal. We do have a foolproof system of showing the merchandise, you know. One item at a time. You don’t see item two until item one is stowed safely away. No, the inventory is for us, internal security.’

‘Internal?’ I said, figuring that out. ‘You mean you don’t trust your help?’

He laughed. A hard, toneless laugh.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Trust ‘em. Have to. What? But still … temptation, you know. A lot of small, very valuable items.’

What he said made sense. But I had the oddest impression that he was conning me, an eerie feeling that he was reciting a prepared speech.

That dinner was something. Blue point oysters on a bed of shaved ice. Each succulent blob topped with a spoonful of Beluga caviar. Don’t knock it. A salad of tiny cherry tomatoes on romaine leaves with an anchovy dressing. A pasta dish that was a mixture of noodles, elbows, gnocchi, and God knows what else, all in a sort of Alfredo sauce, rich enough to put two inches on your hips instantaneously.

What else … let me remember. The main dish was braciole — slices of rare steak spread with a paste of parsley, cheese, garlic, salt, pepper, oil. Thin slices of salami and bacon atop that. Crowned with a tomato sauce. Your gastric juices flowing? You should have tasted it. I wanted to put a dab behind my ears and, possibly, just a touch in the armpits.

And then minor things like french-fried zucchini, balls of rice molded with ground steak and Parmesan cheese. And Key lime pie made from grated lime peel. Espresso. Some kind of liqueur that tasted of burnt almonds and burst into flame when Noel Jarvis carefully put a match to the surface of each glass.

And, of course, wine during the meal. A dry white to begin. A rich, heavy chianti classico to finish.

‘Marry me,’ I said to him.

‘Dee-lighted,’ he said, giggling. And I wondered how long it would be before he was once again prone in the master bedroom. In all honesty, I was feeling no pain myself. But it was obvious he had a head start on me. And was keeping ahead. With no urging on my part.

By this time we had wandered back into the lush living room, carrying our coffee and brandies, belching gently.

‘Help you clean up?’ I offered halfheartedly.

‘Nonsense,’ he said stoutly. ‘Someone will come in tomorrow morning. Go through the place.’

‘Who?’ I said idly. ‘The FBI?’

It was a joke; that’s all it was: a silly joke. It made no sense whatsoever — I admit it. But I was bombed enough so that I had a good excuse for not making sense. I admit that ‘Who? The FBI?’ was just nonsensical, just something to say. No reason for it. But Noel Jarvis’ reaction was incredible.

He jerked to his feet, spilling most of his drink down his shirtfront. I didn’t like the look in his eyes.

‘ Why did you say that?’

‘My God, Noel,’ I said. ‘Take it easy, it was just a joke. A lousy joke, I admit. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just something to say.’

He collapsed as quickly as he had pounced on me.

‘Of course, my dear,’ he said, lolling back. ‘A joke. No, no, not the FBI. Just the cleaning lady. Take care of everything, she will. Enjoy the dinner?’

‘I told you,’ I said. ‘The best. The very best. You don’t eat like that every night, do you?’

He was sitting in a velvet armchair. Suddenly he slid down until he was hung on the end of his spine, legs stretched out in front of him. All of him was limp, beamy, and relaxed. Another inch down and he’d have crumpled onto the floor.

‘You know,’ he mumbled, ‘let me tell you something, luv.’

‘Tell me something.’

I don’t apologize for this drunken conversation. I’m just trying to report it as accurately as I can.

‘What I’d really like to do,’ he said slowly. ‘What I’d really, really like to do. All my life. Is run a restaurant. That’s what I’d really like to do. Yes. But who of us can do what we …’

He left the sentence unfinished. I knew what he meant. It was sad; he would have made a hell of a chef.

‘Hey,’ I said brightly. ‘Noel, did you read about that robbery? In San Francisco? Last Saturday, I think it was.’

‘Friday,’ he said, looking at me blearily. ‘Afternoon. Heard. About it. Devolte Brothers. San Fran.’

I realized he wouldn’t be with me much longer.

‘How about a nightcap?’ I suggested. ‘A brandy? Settle all that marvy food. I’ll get it for you.’. He grinned at me.

I went into the kitchen, found a bottle of Remy Martin. 1 didn’t slug nim, honest I didn’t. I poured him exactly as much as I poured for myself. An ounce each, being very drunkenly exact with a little measured jigger he had.

He was still conscious when I came back into the living room. He took the brandy snifter from me with a glassy smile. I pressed his fingers around it.

‘Cheers,’ he said, missing his mouth on the first try. But he finally made it.

‘You bet,’ I said, standing near him so maybe I could catch him when he collapsed. ‘Listen, Noel, aren’t you afraid that your place could be ripped off like Devolte? In San Francisco?’

He straightened up, pulling in his legs. His eyes rolled up to me. I could almost hear the rumble.

‘No way,’ he said, shaking his big head. ‘No way.’

‘They had alarms,’ I reminded him. ‘The newspaper stories said so. But by the time the cops got there the place was cleaned out and the crooks were gone. With all the jewelry.’

‘Silent alarms,’ he said drowsily. ‘Bullshit. I beg your pardon, dear lady. The theory is, with silent alarms, you see, the police or a private agency are alerted and come running. No danger to people in the store. Like me. Who sounds the alarm. You see? Right? You press an ordinary button in the store, a bell goes off, a siren, whatever, gas, smoke, and a cheap crook panics and shoots. You understand? Like if Brandenberg got held up, I press a button, bells ring, and they shoot me. Could happen.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Of course. I understand. That’s why they call them silent alarms. You press a button, nothing happens in the store. But the cops in the precinct house or guards in a private security agency, they’re alerted. But no one in the store gets hurt.’

‘Right,’ he said, nodding wisely. ‘No one gets hurt.’

‘I hope you’ve got silent alarms in your place,’ I said, trying to yawn. ‘I wouldn’t want you hurt.’

‘Bless you, my child,’ he said, taking a sip of his brandy. ‘Bless you. Better than that. Much better.’

‘Better?’