The Pride of the Pelican, Ms Priscilla, welcomed us with an armful of menus and, “Well, well, the fuzz and the shamus. Are you in hot pursuit or can you stay for lunch?”
“We’ll take the corner table, young lady, and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“Oh, cool it, bub, don’t get your Jockeys in a knot. Two malts, as usual?”
“You can.” Sitting, I said to Al, “That girl is a piece of work.”
“You can say that again. I saw the young Lena Home on the tube the other night and she had it all, but you know what? Pris is prettier than Lena.”
“And more sassy.” I picked up one of the menus Priscilla had dropped on our table. “What are you having, Al?”
“I won’t know how much of your money to spend until I know why you got me here.”
I tried to raise one eyebrow as does my august papa and failed.
“Whatever do you mean?”
Archy, we’ve been friends for years and you’ve never invited me to lunch without having me sing for my supper. So what is it you want to know?”
“You really know how to hurt a guy, Al.”
“I hope so.” Al slapped his forehead with the palm of his huge hand.
“Hell’s bells, I forgot to smile and wave. Should I go out and come in again?”
Priscilla arrived with our froth-topped beers in chilled pilsner glasses, perfectly drawn by Mr. Pettibone. With a nod, Al knocked back half the glass, leaving a white mustache on his upper lip, which he carefully shaved off with his tongue. But remember, he can sit through The Ring tetra logy and hum along. How do you figure a guy like this?
“Hamburgers and fries?” Priscilla guessed.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Why not?” Al questioned with indignation.
“Since I all but gave up the weed, I’ve been putting on weight and I have to watch my waistline. Besides, we should be cutting down on red meat. We’re not getting any younger,” I lectured with feeling.
Priscilla let out a chuckle. Take it from me, gentlemen, the bloom is off the rose.”
“That’s not funny,” I told her.
“It wasn’t meant to be.” Remembering her job she recited the afternoon’s special. “Grilled salmon. Very healthy, especially with a tossed green salad.”
I looked across the table at Al who was shaking his head. Man does not live long on hamburgers and fries washed down with a few pilsner glasses full of suds. In the interest of keeping Al alive long enough to tell me what I wanted to know I ordered for both of us. Two grilled salmons, Priscilla, and the tossed green.”
“Okay,” Al relented unwillingly, ‘but bring me an order of fries on the side.”
As Priscilla was withdrawing I called, “Make that two orders of fries.”
“What about your waistline?” she challenged.
“I’m not going to eat them. I just want to look at them and remember when I could.”
Al watched Priscilla’s departing form, which was done up in a Pucci — a print wrap dress in light blue, black, and mocha and sighed. Watching Priscilla in retreat after taking an order had become the fastest growing non contact sport at the Pelican, an honor formerly held by our annual Running of the Lambs in the parking lot.
We were a bit early for a lazy Palm Beach summer lunch and were the only ones occupying a table in the bar area. There were a few men seated on stools watching market quotes on the TV and picking Mr.
Pettibone’s brain for tips. The dining room was nearly empty when we entered, but a steady flow of singles and doubles trickled in as we awaited our food.
While his mind was otherwise occupied, I inquired with a bored air,
“What can you tell me about Bianca Courtney, Al?”
“She and Binky had Chinese takeout last night. Chicken and snow peas with extra fried rice. They ain’t eating healthy like us.”
“Are you a peeping torn, Al?”
“No. Kevin Woo delivered my order before going next door.
Sweet-and-sour pork with two spring rolls.”
“Kevin Woo? From what part of China does he hail, Belfast?”
Al finished his beer and looked about for Priscilla. “He’s third-generation Floridian. His father is Tyrone Woo. He owns the Pagoda.”
I was getting more information than I cared to know. “So Kevin Woo delivers the orders and rats on his customers. Did you ever think of moving into a fishbowl?”
“It’s not like that,” Al said. “We’re a friendly group and we watch out for each other. We ain’t no different from your gang. You got Lolly Spindrift we got Mrs. Brewster.”
Here, Priscilla breezed by and deposited a plate of crudites on our table. “It comes with the salmon,” she informed us.
Staring at the raw vegetables, Al ordered two more beers and a platter of onion rings. “And a few dill spears while you’re at it.”
And some of Leroy’s fried mozzarella sticks,” I added.
“Should I have Leroy fry the crudites?” Priscilla asked before wandering off.
“Where were we?” I said to Al when she was gone.
“On a diet, remember?”
“No, after that.” Snapping my fingers as if a bulb had just lit up in my head, I exclaimed, “Yes, Bianca Courtney. What else can you tell me besides what she and Binky had for dinner last night.”
“Let’s see. She had a visit this morning from a man driving a red car.
Then a stretch limo pulls up outside her door and sits there until the guy leaves Bianca’s pad. He gets in the limo for maybe twenty minutes, and it just sits there like there’s a meeting going on. When the guy gets out of the limo, it drives off, and then the guy gets back in the red car and follows it.”
This left me not only flummoxed, but speechless. Our brews arrived and I drank to play for time. Mrs. Brewster had witnessed Cranston’s cloak-and-dagger ploy and reported it to the neighborhood cop. Did the snoop get the limo’s license number?
“I got a call at the station house this morning from Mrs. B,” Al said, like I didn’t know. “Nice dame, but old and nervous. She calls me if a UPS truck backfires. So who was in the limo?”
Nervous old ladies did not take down plate numbers. They wouldn’t turn their backs long enough to get pencil and paper. “It was a client, Al.
That’s all I can say.”
“How come a client met you at the Palm Court?”
Not even I could answer that with a story that was remotely believable, so I made no attempt to do so. “You said we’ve known each other for a long time, Al, right?” He nodded with a shrug. “Have I ever done anything to abuse that friendship?” He shook his head but spared me the shrug. “Then I have to ask you to trust me with this one. I can’t tell you a damn thing about the limo, Al, but I promise I will as soon as I’m able.”
“Has it got anything to do with Bianca Courtney and her deceased employer?”
Absolutely not,” I said with joy at being able to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Our onion rings, pickles, and mozzarella sticks arrived and we helped ourselves. I felt I had sweated off enough pounds over Mrs. Brewster’s see-and-tell avocation to make up for the few ounces I was imbibing.
“Has it got anything to do with Sabrina Wright?”
My joy was short-lived. I grabbed a mozzarella stick to ward off the evil eye and to appease the gnawing in the pit of my belly. Lunch with Al Rogoff could be hazardous to your health. The best way to avoid answering a question was to ask one. “How do you know Sabrina Wright is in town, and why would I be involved with her?”
Al was working on a pickle spear. He really loved those things. “We read Spindrift, too, and we like to keep an eye on the visiting firemen, especially the big shots. And there was a rumor going around that she hired Archy McNally to find some guy who ran off on her.”
There was that blind item again. Gadzooks, it had done everything but start World War Three. Bite your tongue, Archy, she’s not out of Palm Beach yet. “Do you read Sabrina Wright, Al?”