McNally's Dare (19 page)

I must remember to tell our mail person that he who marries for money, earns it.

Mr. Pettibone was now before us, asking, “Will you have the same, Archy?”

“Who’s paying?” I wanted to know.

“Archy!” Georgy chided me, and Izzy laughed.

“My treat,” said Diamond Jim Watrous. “Champagne cocktails all around, Mr. Pettibone.”

“What are we celebrating?” I asked.

“The opening lines of
The Adventures of Skip McGuire,”
Izzy announced in triumph.

“In that case, I’ll abstain,” I told Mr. Pettibone.

“Don’t be a spoilsport,” Georgy nagged. “It’s really very good.”

Shocked, I asked, “You’ve read it?”

“Just the very beginning,” Georgy said. “Binky read it aloud.”

“You know, Ms. Duhane...” I began.

“Izzy, please,” she broke in.

“Okay, Izzy,” I began again. “It may interest you to know my father was called upon to defend your mentor, Minerva Barnes, in a libel suit brought on by a person she had maligned in her last romantic extravaganza.”

“Sabine maiden,” Binky murmured with reverence as he watched Mr. Pettibone pop the cork on a bottle of pricey Brut. I didn’t know if he was referring to the title of Minerva’s book, ancient Rome or his rich squeeze.

“Him!” Izzy said, naming a film star of note. “He was my second cousin’s first husband, and everything Minerva wrote about him was true. When I decided to try my hand at fiction I came here just so I could join Minerva’s workshop. She’s a real pro.”

“Then why don’t you emulate your teacher and stick to romance?”

“Romance is not my strong suit,” Izzy pleaded, and I wondered if Binky had heard the comment.

“But when Binky told me about your adventures as a discreet inquirer, I knew I had found my forte,” Izzy rhapsodized.

It seems romance is not the tie that binds this literary couple, but Binky’s spilling the beans on his pal Archy. Or should that be former pal? Like the Arabian princess, Binky had to keep talking to keep his love alive, and I shuddered to think what poetic license he would take with my life. He continued to avoid my gaze as Mr. Pettibone poured our cocktails. I have always thought a champagne cocktail was a waste of good wine, but when you’re out with amateurs you take what’s being offered.

Should I expose Binky here and now? Tell Izzy the man she bought the Armani suit for was our mail person, and send him back to his paper dolls, where he belonged? Seeing him all gussied up and afraid to look at me, I just didn’t have the heart. You’re a sentimental sap, Archy McNally

Then Georgy got on my case. “Don’t rush to judgment, Archy. Keep an open. mind. I wonder who will play me in the movie,” she chatted like a magpie.

“Augusta Apple,” I told her.

“Augusta Apple is dead,” she protested.

“And so will you be if you persist in endorsing this inane idea,” I threatened. My gentle nature was being provoked by these women and the friend who refused to look me in the eye. “My livelihood depends on discretion. I like to keep a low profile, thank you.”

“So why did you give Michael Price the interview?” Georgy countered.

“So I could confuse you with my pet canine, that’s why.”

Izzy chuckled. “I like that. Binky, make a note and put it under gross mishaps, like the time his lady friend emptied a dish of eggs Benedict down the inside of his trousers, and the night he went skinny-dipping and a crab bit his...”

“Enough!” I cried. “Binky, you are history.”

Georgy picked up her stem glass. “Cool it, Archy, and drink up. Here’s to a best-seller.”

They picked up their glasses as I folded my arms across my chest. Needless to say I was dying of thirst. “I’ll sue,” was my toast to the best-seller.

“Binky, read Archy our opening,” Izzy requested. “You’ll love this, Archy.”

“Don’t you dare,” I cautioned the traitor.

Defiant, he pulled a page of notepaper from his jacket pocket and emoted.

As she walked into my office I caught the odor of expensive perfume and trouble. Outside my window the first two letters of the Essex Hotel’s blinking neon sign had blown a fuse, as if heralding her arrival. She saw it and smiled. “Are you for hire?” she asked in a voice that was as smooth as velvet and as tough as nails.

“Depends on the job, Miss...”

“Mrs. Rich. Ivy Rich.”

She opened her fur coat and sank into my visitor’s chair, crossing her legs so that the hem of her black silk dress slithered above her knee. “I want my husband followed.”

“Why?”

“Because I think he’s cheating on me.”

“If he is, he must be nuts.”

“My, aren’t you nice, Mr. McGuire.”

“My friends call me Skip.”

I clicked on the intercom and spoke to my secretary. “Milly? I’ll be working late, honey, and I won’t be needing you. Nighty-night.”

Binky turned to his audience as if expecting a standing ovation. What he got from me was a Bronx cheer.

“James Cain is turning over in his grave,” I moaned. “It’s dreadful.”

“Really?” Georgy said. “We think it’s great.” She tried to look like she meant it but when Izzy and Binky burst into laughter, Georgy joined in.

Even Mr. Pettibone was smiling as he dropped a cherry in an old-fashioned. “Did you read it to him?” he asked.

“Don’t you see, Archy? We composed it while waiting for you to arrive,” Georgy said between bursts of laughter.

“Blame me,” Izzy confessed. “When Binky told me you weren’t happy with our proposed book, I thought it would be fun to give you the worst possible preview of what we were up to.”

“And you succeeded,” I told my antagonists. “I can take a joke and I congratulate the authors.” I wasn’t exactly thrilled at being the target of a charade, but when you’re out with amateurs, etc., etc., etc. It did, however, give me an excuse to finally raise my glass and one should always be thankful for small favors. “I rather liked the Sex Hotel. Does Skip live there?”

“No,” Georgy answered, “he lives at home with Mumsy and Dada.”

I could have brained her but the others laughed and I went along for the ride. I was painfully aware that I was a decade older than each of them and any show of sour grapes would be attributed to my antiquity. I drank more of my champagne cocktail.

“I’ll strike a bargain with you, Mr. McNally Izzy offered.

“Please, call me Skip.”

That got a laugh, as intended, further abating the charged atmosphere that had encompassed our party before Binky’s performance. Even Izzy appeared to be more regular and I now saw that her earlier, rather haughty manner was part of the show. This pleased me. If Binky married money I wanted to be comfortable with the lady of the mansion, as I would like to visit my old friend often.

However, I ruminated, eyeing Izzy, I have taken women away from Binky before and why not again? What a cad to have such a thought with the lovely Georgy girl at my side. But, alas, I had such a thought.

“Binky and I will continue to work on our book and when it’s done we will turn it over to you for comment. I promise not to publish without your consent.”

“I say no and you trash it?”

“You have our word,” Binky pledged.

Knowing what Binky’s word was worth, I eyed him with a scowl, but he didn’t cower. Remarkable what an Armani suit and a rich lady friend could do for a guy. Sensing my doubt, Izzy also gave me her word.

“Now tell me, what you were doing at Jeff Rodgers’s funeral services this morning?”

“I’ve been reading about the murder,” Izzy replied, “and I wanted to get a look at the cast of characters. Binky and I have been discussing it and we have some ideas. I know Binky is undercover at the moment, so he couldn’t accompany me.”

Even Georgy girl winced at that one.

“I think you had better stick to your fiction,” I advised Izzy with yet another menacing look at Binky. This time he cringed, making me feel better. “Meddling with murder can be dangerous.”

“Are you on the case?” Izzy asked with obvious envy.

“Let’s say Skip is on top of things,” I teased, giving Izzy my thousand-watt smile.

Georgy’s glare had me cancelling my plans to marry for money. Lieutenant O’Hara, let’s not forget, carries heat and qualifies at the firing range monthly. Connie, my former flame, often threatened me with a carving knife. Did I have to be in harm’s way to fall in love? With Izzy’s loot, she probably owned an arsenal of assault weapons.

“How thrilling,” Izzy said. “I’ll try to keep out of your way. Now Binky and I must fly. Mother keeps an apartment at The Breakers and most of my wardrobe is still there. I have to pick up a few things and I thought we would have dinner at Flagler’s Steakhouse. Binky adores dining at The Breakers.”

The blushing undercover agent signed the bar tab and fled with his Mata Hari. “See you, Archy,” were his parting words.

“I can’t wait, Binky—I can’t wait,” I called after him.

A
S THEY WALTZED OUT
the door, Georgy exclaimed, “Her mother keeps an apartment at The Breakers and she’s living next door to Binky?”

I filled her in on Izzy’s heritage. “She’s the black sheep of the Battle clan.”

“That explains those pearls,” Georgy said with awe. “They were real, you know.”

“I know. And so were Binky’s cufflinks. The guy is a kept man, Georgy. He’s been looking for a lucrative career for ten years and he finally found one. I believe the job description can be summed up in one word: gigolo.”

She laughed. “I believe Archy is jealous.”

“I won’t deny it. I want those cufflinks.”

“To go with that jacket? Where did you ever get it, Archy? From an extra in an old Tarzan movie?”

“No, I bought it in a smart trading post in Kenya.” I signaled Priscilla who was just passing our way. “Can we get a table?”

“Your favorite in the corner will be available in five minutes. Todd is just clearing it.” Priscilla was wrapped in one of those sarong dresses in beige, which is her color. Her hair hung loose, one side swept back from her face with a lovely gardenia covering the clip that held it in place.

“Do you have a Hula-Hoop to go with the frock?” I asked.

Addressing Georgy, she said, “What’s a nice girl like you doing with Jungle Jim?”

Naturally, Georgy all but applauded. “I told you,” she mocked me.

“Did he read the opening lines?” Priscilla asked, still directing the conversation at Georgy.

“Don’t tell me you were in on it, too?” I groused.

“Her black silk dress slithered above her knee
was my contribution,” Priscilla recited, with a show of pride.

“That figures,” was my comment.

“Izzy thinks I have talent,” Priscilla boasted, as if Izzy were a literary scholar.

“She thinks Binky has talent, too, so consider the source, Missy,” I told her.

“Meow. Meow. I think Jungle Jim is jealous,” Priscilla ridiculed, wagging a finger at me. “Binky’s girl is a looker and as rich as Leroy’s
mousse chocolat.
If I owned those pearls, Georgy honey, I would sell them and buy Denzel Washington.”

Priscilla Pettibone didn’t need the price of Izzy’s pearls to tempt Denzel Washington, or any heterosexual male for that matter. She’s had her share of offers from some very eligible bachelors, but she’s holding out for a modeling career and doesn’t want to be saddled with any extra baggage when Lady Luck beckons. She’s done some work for a fashion photographer in Miami in return for a composite that is now making the rounds of the New York agencies. We all wish her well but would hate to lose her.

“Not me, Pris,” Georgy replied. “There isn’t a man who’s worth that much—present company excepted.”

“That,” I said, “saved you from buying your own dinner.”

“Speaking of dinner tabs,” Priscilla confided, “Binky is now a solvent Pelican, thanks to Izzy.”

Not true, of course. It was I who had paid Binky’s bill at the club, but being a gentleman I didn’t tattle. I did wonder, though, if having your lady friend pay your club bill was any less embarrassing than having your male friend write the check? Binky, to be sure, couldn’t care less who bailed him out as long as the wolf left his front door so he could go out and run up another tab.

If Isadora Duhane was as fickle in her endeavors as Lolly had implied, what would happen when she abandoned Skip McGuire and moved on? Would Binky trade his Armani suit for a palimony suit? With Binky, as with Jesus, all things are possible.

“Don’t look now,” Priscilla warned, “but here comes the conquistador and his sassy senorita. My, what a pair they make,” she gloated.

I turned to see Connie Garcia and Alejandro Gomez y Zapata make an entrance that lacked only a rose between Connie’s teeth to make one think the curtain had just gone up on Bizet’s opus. They headed straight for the bar and I immediately took hold of Georgy’s elbow, endeavoring to lead her to our table before the Cuban encroachment on our territory.

“Wait, Archy,” Georgy urged, “they’ve seen us. It would be rude not to say hello.”

I was not in the mood to be polite, but did as I was told. It was difficult for me not to do Georgy girl’s bidding. Her gold hair and emerald eyes made Izzy’s string of pearls look like paste. What a lovely thought. I must remember to whisper it into her ear at the appropriate moment. Better than
sweet nothings
any day.

Connie and Don Alejandro looked like the winning contestants in a cha-cha contest. Her green sheath ended in a fringed hem that played peekaboo with her knees as she walked. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face and knotted into a bun. Connie was not a petite woman but even in her stiletto heels she was a head shorter than Alex.

It only upsets me to delineate Alex so I’ll pass on Georgy’s opinion of the guy,
gorgeous hunk,
and leave it at that. He was very South Beach this evening in jeans (too tight) and a white dress shirt (too tight) with a navy ascot. He dangled a lightweight jacket over his shoulder a la a matador’s cape. It’s a wonder the entire dining room didn’t stand up and shout
Ole!

I am a founding member of the Pelican and, being a closeted chauvinist, voted against admitting women on the grounds that a guy should be able to wine and dine a new acquaintance without fear of running into an old acquaintance who believed you were at home nursing a head cold.