“I signed my lease and Mrs. Rutherford gave me a key and a coffee mug with my name on it. Compliments of the Palm Court.”
Compliments of the management? Did everyone at the Palm Court have a coffee mug with their name on it? Al Rogoff had never mentioned owning such a piece of crockery but then there was much the sergeant didn’t admit to. “And when does the actual move take place?” I asked as if I cared.
“I already started, Archy. I brought my shaving gear over this morning and most of my clothes. I’m going to sleep over tonight.”
Not without his Victoria’s Secret collection, I bet. The shaving gear brought to mind the mustache Binky used to sport when he was in love with a girl who fancied men with hairy upper lips in the tradition of Gable and William Powell. Binky’s was a pale blond affair that was all but invisible except when it got rained on. Then it resembled the tassels of a wilted ear of corn.
And I introduced myself to some of my neighbors,” he gushed on like a garden hose that had sprung a leak.
I foresaw a mass exodus from the Palm Court that might cause the waters of Lake Worth to part. “What neighbors?” I asked as if I cared, and I did.
“Bianca Courtney.” This was accompanied by a grin that brought to mind a cat who has just moved next door to a creamery. “Do you remember her, Archy?”
I pretended to ponder the question before answering, “Vaguely. A chubby thing with a poor complexion.”
“No way, Archy. Bianca is a dish. She invited me in for a cup of coffee.”
Wasn’t that nice. Please understand that for obvious reasons Binky and I have never competed for the affections of a lady fair and I wasn’t about to start now. That said, the memory of a pretty lass getting into her Mercedes is something that sticks to your ribs, like a hearty breakfast of eggs and porridge. And, as Binky didn’t stand a chance with this one I saw no reason to withdraw in his favor.
“Did she have a mug with her name on it?” I wanted to know.
“No, Archy. We drank from proper china cups, with saucers. Bianca is a lady.”
Saucers certainly attested to good breeding. Could she be the victim of impoverished gentry, hence the motor court digs and the job as companion to a rich old lady? In short, a latter-day Jane Eyre? If so, Binky Watrous was not her Mr. Rochester and the Palm Court was no Thornwood. Picking up the packet of envelopes Binky had deposited on my desk, I made a show of looking for one that was affixed with a first-class stamp. And what did you 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?”