McNally's Chance
by
Lawrence Sanders
Also by Lawrence Sanders
The McNally Novels
McNally's Secret
McNally's Luck
McNally's Risk
McNally's Caper
McNally's Trial
McNally's Puzzle
McNally's Gamble
Archy McNally novels by Vincent Lardo
McNally's Dilemma McNally's Folly
Guilty Pleasures
The Seventh Commandment
Sullivan's Sting
Capital Crimes
Timothy's Game
The Timothy Files
The Eighth Commandment
The Fourth Deadly Sin
The Passion of Molly "I.
The Seduction of Peter S. The Case of Lucy Bending
The Third Deadly Sin
The Tenth Commandment T
he Sixth Commandment
The Tangent Factor
The Second Deadly Sin
The Marlow Chronicles
The Tangent Objective
The Tomorrow File
The First Deadly Sin
Love Songs
The Pleasures of Helen
The Anderson Tapes
McNALLY'S CHANCE
Lawrence Sanders
An Archy McNally novel by Vincent Lardo
Hodder & Stoughton Copyright 2001 by Lawrence A. Sanders Enterprises
Inc. The right of Vincent Lardo to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988. G. P. Putnam's Sons and the estate of Lawrence
Sanders have chosen Vincent Lardo to create this novel based on
Lawrence Sanders' beloved character, Archy McNally, and his fictional
world. First published in 2001 by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.
First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Hodder and Stoughton A
division of Hodder Headline 2468 10 97531 All characters in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living
or dead, is purely coincidental. A CIP catalogue record for this title
is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 340 79361 9
Typeset in Palatine by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Polmont,
Stirlingshire Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham
plc, Chatham, Kent Hodder and Stoughton A division of Hodder Headline
338 Huston Road London NW1 3BH
One.
Sabrina Wright.
She was perched on a faux leather stool at Bar Anticipation looking
exactly as she did in her author photo on the jacket of her latest
bestseller, Desperate Desire. Her ebony hair was drawn back so
severely from her scalp as to render her startled at what e'er she
looked upon and, I suspect, served as a do-it-yourself face-lift. Her
eyes were like two shiny, black olives; her complexion was one that had
never felt the sun's warmth, and her lips, painted the color of a fine
Bordeaux, were pursed in an elongated moue reminiscent of the late
actress Joan Crawford. She wore a smart white linen suit and
black-and-white sling-back pumps that drew just enough attention to her
well-turned ankles and calves. Before her was a frothy concoction in a
stemmed glass known, I believe, as a Pink Lady.
Sabrina Wright's novels are bodice-rippers par excellence. Her first,
Darling Desire (Darling being the heroine's given name), enjoyed
fifty-two weeks on the New York Times bestseller list, usurped,
finally, by her second blockbuster, Dangerous Desire. She subsequently
penned such memorable classics as Deceptive Desire, Dark Desire,
Demanding Desire, Devious Desire, and Delicious Desire, as well as this
year's sensation, Desperate Desire. Collectively known as the Books of
Desire, they had been released as a Moroccan-leather boxed set,
illustrated in full color, and translated into thirty languages,
including Swahili. For the visually challenged they were available in
large print as well as Braille. Sabrina Wright's oeuvre had spawned
films, miniseries and a long-running evening soap. Needless to say, I
approached with caution. "Ms Wright, I presume." She turned,
startled. "Mr. McNally. How good of you to come." The voice was deep
if she sang she would be an alto and pure New York. The delivery
announced her point of origin with neither pride nor shame, but as a
matter of fact. I moved in closer but avoided mounting the empty stool
next to her. "Are you aware, Ms Wright, that you are sitting in the
most infamous bar in south Florida?" Her dark eyes scanned me, from
head to size-eleven white bucks, as her claret lips curved into a
condescending smile. "My readers wouldn't have it any other way, Mr.
McNally. In Chapter One, my heroine is hustling drinks in a dive like
this. In Chapter Five, she owns the joint, and by the final page she's
waltzing down the aisle with a title, be it corporate or of the blood."
So the lady had not only borrowed Joan Crawford's lips, she had also
borrowed Joan's film plots. As B. Brecht had so aptly put it, "From
new transmitters come the old stupidities." Pointing to the empty
stool, she invited me to sit. Gray sharkskin merged with Naugahyde as
I accepted the offer, saying, "Have you ever considered altering the
plots?" "If it's not broke, Mr. McNally, why fix it?" Why indeed?
"May I ask how you got my name, Ms Wright?" "From the Yellow Pages."
"I'm not in the Yellow Pages." "Precisely. If you were, I would not
have called. One cannot be discreet and in the Yellow Pages. That
would be an oxymoron." She referred, no doubt, to my position as sole
employee of a section of the law firm McNally & Son, Attorney-at-Law,
yclept Discreet Inquiries. My father is the attorney, I am the Son,
who left New Haven after being expelled from Yale Law. Upon my return
in disgrace to Palm Beach, my father provided me with gainful
employment as a Discreet Inquirer. If our rich clients should find
themselves in a compromising position, they may come to me rather than
seek help from law enforcement agencies because they do not wish to see
their problems headlined in tabloids for their housekeepers to peruse
while waiting in the checkout line at Publix.
I tell people I was tossed out of Yale Law for streaking across the
stage, naked except for a Richard Nixon mask, during a performance by
the New York Philharmonic of Shostakovich's Symphony No. 9 in E-flat
major. If you choose to believe that, fine. If not, I will give you a
hint that is closer to the truth. It wasn't a Richard Nixon mask and
it wasn't Shostakovich's Symphony No. 9.
I was in my office, located in the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way,
when Sabrina Wright's call came through. My office is a windowless
affair originally intended, I believe, to be a storage closet, albeit a
very small storage closet. My father, the venerable Prescott McNally,
took pity on me one sweltering August several years back and ordered
our maintenance crew to install an air-conditioning duct. This act of
kindness made the room's ambiance more amiable not only for me, but for
penguins, should they care to stop by. If you think mon pere is
chagrined over my misunderstanding with the authorities at Yale, you
are correct.
"This is Sabrina Wright," she announced in the manner of a grande dame
on the intercom with her kitchen help. I confess, when I ran the name
Sabrina Wright through my mental Rolodex I came up with zilch. However,
I found it impossible to say no to a sultry female voice imploring me
to meet her in a low-life hangout at high noon. Had I refused I would
have had to turn in my Mickey Spillane decoding ring as well as my
gumshoes.
One of the resources of a good law firm is its library. At McNally &
Son we are doubly blessed with our librarian, Sofia Richmond. Sofia is
a superbly qualified librarian, a computer whiz and a researcher
nonpareil. In addition, she not only keeps abreast of all the Palm
Beach gossip but, with a little coaxing, will impart what she knows.
Reluctantly, I sought Sofia's help in identifying Sabrina Wright. I
say 'reluctantly' because I am celebrating one year of almost being a
nonsmoker. Sofia puffs away happily and will die, I am sure, at the
age of one hundred and one with the healthiest pair of lungs in
captivity. Leaving my English Ovals behind, I headed for the library.
I found Sofia at her computer, surrounded by intimidating tomes, legal
briefs, and an ashtray the size of a flying saucer. Looking at me
through her horn-rimmed glasses she tossed out, along with a cloud of
smoke, "You look cute." In my dove-gray sharkskin suit, blue cambric
shirt sans cravat, and white bucks left over from my preppy days, I
must say I had to admire her keen perception and wished I could return
the compliment. But, alas, with her thick spectacles, tight French
braid, sturdy oxfords, and two-piece denim dress, I couldn't bring
myself to respond in kind. I have often imagined Sofia leaving work,
arriving at her apartment, removing her glasses, letting down her hair,
and donning a strapless sheath in shimmering ice-blue satin, after
which she heads for a supper club in Boca where she is the headlined
chanteuse. Her signature song?
"Let's See What the Boys in the Back Room Will Have." Lest you think I
am off my rocker, I give you the sage words of M. de Sade: "Imagination
is the only reality." "If you fed the name Sabrina Wright into that
machine, what would it spew back?" I asked. "You're kidding," she
responded. "No. Why should I be?" "You don't know who Sabrina Wright
is, Archy?" "If I did, I wouldn't be here, ingesting secondhand smoke
when I could be contracting pneumonia in my minuscule igloo. Who is
she, Sofia?" "Don't you read novels?" she prodded. "One a week, so
help me Marcel Proust." "And what was the last novel you read?" With
those glasses and that hair I could swear I was being questioned by
Miss Lowinstein, my tenth-grade English teacher. "All Quiet on the
Western Front." It's what I would have reported to Miss Lowenstein,
bringing tears to her eyes. All I got from Sofia Richmond was a shrug
and a cheeky retort. "Well, Archy, times have changed since the Big
War. Sabrina Wright's been leading the charge on behalf of the sexual
revolution." An occidental Kama-sutra?" I ventured. Sofia trashed
her cigarette in the flying saucer. "Archy, this lady makes The
Kama-sutra read like the Girl Scouts' handbook." It was at this point
that I was given a precis of the works of Sabrina Wright, from desire
to desire. "How old is she?" I asked Sofia when she had finished
lecturing. Shaking her head from side to side as if counting the years,
Sofia guessed, "Near fifty, I would say, but you couldn't tell by
looking at her." She reached into her bottom desk drawer and brought
out a copy of Desperate Desire. "See for yourself," she said, handing
me the book with Sabrina Wright's photograph on the book's back jacket.
After viewing Sabrina, I took a quick glance at the cover art which
depicted a blond Amazon being ravished by a young man in football garb,
sporting a film of manly prespiration and a torn jersey that bared his
torso. Looking deep into the blonde's blue eyes, the jock appeared to
be saying, "My chest is bigger than yours." "You read this stuff?" I
chided Sofia. "It's my job, Archy," she said, retrieving the novel.
"I have to keep my finger on the pulse of the nation." With that, she
lit another cigarette. And if the nation were attempting to keep pace
with the Amazon and the jock, we would be on the verge of a
cardiac-arrest epidemic any moment. "The lady is in town," Sofia was
saying. Had Sofia, too, been invited to Bar Anticipation this
afternoon? "How do you know that?" "There was a note in Lolly
Spindrift's column yesterday, and I quote: "That anticipated July heat
wave hit town yesterday in the form of novelist extraordinaire
Sabrina Wright. Here on a fact-finding mission for your next novel,
Sabrina, or looking for the man that got away dot, dot, dot?"
unquote."
Lolly Spindrift is the gossip columnist for our local gazette, who
favors the dot, dot, dot school of journalism in memory of the school's
founding father, Walter Winchell. "What do you suppose that means?" I
asked Sofia.
"Beats me, Archy. Ask Lolly."
"I'll do better than that, Sofia. I'll ask Sabrina Wright."
I didn't wait for the smoke to clear, so I have no idea of Sofia's
reaction to my parting shot.
"Well," I questioned the novelist extraordinaire, 'who gave you my
name?"
A former client who wishes to remain anonymous."
Given the ana of my clientele, that did not narrow the field, but
before I could insist on a more concrete reference the bartender was
before us. He was a young man with a lot of attitude, the required
demeanor for the adolescents who linger in Palm Beach after the close
of the season wondering why they had failed to attract a rich patron of
either sex in January. Hope sprung eternal in the less frenetic dog
days of mid-July.
A drink, Mr. McNally?" my hostess offered.
My drink of choice in the summer months is a frozen daiquiri, but in
this venue I thought it best to stick to the basics. "What brand vodka
do you pour?" I inquired of the failed Lothario.
"The brand that comes in a bottle and looks like water." My companion
found this amusing. I didn't, but to take issue would only serve to
validate the wisecrack. Besides, he was twenty years younger than yrs.
truly and all muscled P&V. "I'll have one with tonic and lemon, not
lime." "And I'll have another Pink Lady," Sabrina ordered, confirming
my suspicions. Looking around I noted that the place was doing a
lively business for so early in the day and assayed the crowd as a
mixture of the haves, the have-nots, and wannabes heavy on the
wannabes. The one cocktail waitress did not show promise of ever
owning the joint or waltzing down the aisle with a guy boasting any
title other than Mister. In a move that I assumed was meant to rile
me, Sabrina whispered, "What do you think of the bartender, Mr.
McNally?" "Not much. Why?" "He has a common face and a noble
derriere. A lethal combination. I shall call him Chauncey and
immortalize him in my next novel and remember, you heard it here
first." How could I forget it? Unaware that he had been short-listed
for immortality, Chauncey served our drinks and treated us to a bowl of
salted peanuts. "Cheers, Mr. McNally," Sabrina Wright toasted. I
gestured with my drink in the time-honored manner and continued to try
to learn why I had been summoned into the presence. "If you won't tell
me who recommended me, Ms Wright, will you tell me why you invited me
here?"
Her dark eyes darted somewhat theatrically from left to right before
she confided, "I want you to find my husband."
"I don't take domestic cases, Ms Wright."
She reared her head and snapped, "This is not a domestic case."
"Your husband took a powder and you want me to find him. Where I come
from, that constitutes a domestic case."
Her Joan Crawford lips smiled, or grimaced, I'm not sure which, and
finally opened so she could intone, "He did not take a powder, Mr.
McNally. My daughter ran off. I sent my husband to find her and now I
seem to have lost him, too."
Lost both her daughter and husband? How careless, I thought, however
it did enlighten me on the meaning of Lolly's dot, dot, dot item. But
if Sabrina Wright was speaking to me in confidence, as I assumed she
was, how did Lolly know she had misplaced her husband? Of course I
would ask him, and he would stoically refuse to name his source,
claiming reporter informer confidentiality, but blab it fast enough
over dinner at Cafe L'Europe, ordering Krug with his beluga, at my
expense. Such are the priorities of gossip columnists.
I sipped my vodka and tonic while trying to decide my next move. As
Sofia had told me, Sabrina Wright was no spring chicken, despite her
trim figure and porcelain complexion. Therefore it would be very
unlikely that she had a daughter young enough to be considered a
runaway. I munched a peanut as she observed Chauncey, though I'm not
certain if it was his head or his tail that kept her captive. To
rescue her from prurient thoughts, I asked, "How old is your daughter,
Ms Wright?"
She turned her attention to me, more startled than ever, and answered,
"Nearing thirty."
My mind shouted, "How near?" but what came out of my mouth was, "A
woman nearing thirty cannot be said to have run off in the manner of a
minor child .. ."
"Gillian did," she cut me off.
"She has the right to come and go as she pleases," I continued. "If
you suspect foul play, I suggest you contact the police. And husbands
have been known to run out for a pack of cigarettes, never to return
-however, I believe he has more of a legal obligation to you than does
your daughter." Here it occurred to me that the husband could be in
cahoots with Gillian, both harboring a desire to flee the dubious
family blessing of fame and fortune. Sabrina Wright wouldn't be the
first successful woman to rule her roost with an iron hand and a short
leash.
But was Sabrina's husband Gillian's father? Here comes the plot twist
worthy of a Sabrina Wright novel. A stepfather with a roving eye and
his stepdaughter living in the shadow of a successful and, perhaps,
overbearing mother. Daughter flees and step daddy goes in hot pursuit,
literally as well as figuratively. Either the escapade was planned or
the daughter, having taken the first step, enjoined stepfather to hop
aboard the liberation train when he caught up with her. Had he, or
Gillian, made a dent in Sabrina's bank account recently? Doubtful, as
I imagine Sabrina Wright kept the exchequer under lock and key,
penuriously doling out the walking-around cash. Gently, I probed, "Is
your husband Gillian's father?" Again the smile, or grimace, and, "I
know what you're thinking, Mr. McNally, and how delightfully naughty
of you. Do you write?"
"I keep a journal and am told my expense account shows promise of a
creative genius reminiscent of Fitzgerald in his youth."
She flashed me a genuine smile this time and almost, but not quite, let
down her guard. "Very cleverly put. We're going to get along just
fine, Mr. McNally." "I told you, I don't take domestic cases." "And
I told you, this is not a domestic case." I had finished my drink but
refrained from signaling Chauncey. I thought a quick retreat rather
than involvement in a family squabble the better part of valor. But,
like a good mystery you hate to abandon without knowing who done it, I
wanted an answer to my question.
"Is Gillian your husband's daughter?" I repeated. This time I got the
phony smile, which was wearing thin. "He is not, Mr. McNally, but
unlike a Sabrina Wright novel, Gillian and Robert, my husband, did not
flee in tandem, so to speak. She ran off with a young man of her own
of whom I do not approve."
And there was the case, a domestic one to be sure, in the proverbial
nutshell. "She eloped," I stated.
"She did not," the lady insisted.
"Then why did she leave home?"
"Why?" Sabrina Wright echoed. "Because I told her I was her mother.
That's why."
Two.
The explanation, direct and to the point as was the lady's style,
prompted not only another question but another drink with which to wash
it down. As I awaited both, I became uncomfortably aware that Sabrina
and I were being observed by the patrons of Bar Anticipation, like a
couple of germs on the stage of a mad scientist's microscope. Someone
had obviously recognized Sabrina Wright and the gallery was abuzz with
sibilant whispers. The fact that these early-afternoon imbibers were
bending elbows with a bona fide celebrity had them pickled pink.
Chauncey, who had been paying more attention to his manicure than to
Sabrina and me, was suddenly all over us like a cheap suit. When he
replenished my drink he also whisked away our dish of peanuts and
replaced it with one of macadamias and shelled pistachios. Such are
the rewards of celebrity hood
Picking up th