I thought I could finesse that.
“Hi, darling,” he said chirpily. “Don’t tell me you called to remark that it’s great weather for ducks. If I hear that once more today I’ll scream.”
“Actually, Lol,” I said, “I phoned to invite you to lunch. How about Bice? We’ll have a nice salad with a side order of quid pro quo.”
“Oh-ho,” he said, “it’s tattle time, is it? I’d love to, doll, but I just can’t. I’m chained to this sadistic word processor and it won’t turn me loose until my copy is complete. What have you got for me? I hope it’s something juicy. I need a final item that’ll cause a splash or my devoted readers will think old Lolly is losing his edge.”
“This will cause a splash,” I promised, “but you’ll have to write it as a question because I don’t know the answer.”
“All right, all right,” he said impatiently. “Half my scoops are phrased as questions. It’s a great way to avoid libel suits. Let’s have it.”
“Quote: ‘What were the police doing at the Griswold Forsythe mansion early Saturday morning? Rumor hath it that there have been dark doings in that haunted castle.’ Unquote. How does that sound, Lol?”
“A doozy,” he said immediately. “A smash finish for the column. But is it for real?”
“Have I ever stiffed you?”
“No, you’ve been true-blue, sweetie. But why do I have the feeling you’re not telling me everything you know?”
“It’s everything, Lol,” I assured him. “If I learn more you’ll be the first to hear about it.”
“I better,” he warned, “or you’ll go on my S-list. You do know what that is, don’t you?”
“I can guess,” I said. “Now here’s what I need: A few years ago Geraldine Forsythe, the unmarried daughter, reportedly had a thing going with a polo player. Apparently he treated her in a most ungentlemanly manner including nicking her for a sizable sum. Question: Do you know the name of the knave?”
Lolly laughed. “I don’t even have to consult my private file. It so happens I hoped to start a thing with that hulk myself but it came to naught. It wasn’t that he was unwilling to swing, but he was suffering from a severe case of the shorts and was looking for a fatter bankroll than mine. I heard later that he had latched onto Geraldine. His name is Timothy Cussack.”
“Cussack?” I said and smote my brow with an open palm. “I should have guessed. He was cashiered from the Pelican Club a year ago for nonpayment of his bar tabs. Is he still playing polo?”
“Heavens, no! He fell off a horse and broke a bone. His fetlock or pastern or something silly like that.”
“And what’s he doing now, Lol—do you know?”
“The last I heard he was working as a trainer at a horse farm out near Wellington.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Interesting—but not very. Thanks for the poop, Lol, and keep defending the public’s inalienable right to know.”
“Up yours as well, Priapus,” he said, and I hung up laughing. Outrageous man!
My next move might have been to learn the name of Mrs. Constance Forsythe’s horse farm out near Wellington and determine if she was employing the man who had betrayed her daughter. But I thought additional research was required first.
I donned my oilskin again and set out for the Pelican Club in mother’s station wagon. The rain had not lessened but at least the wind had lost its intensity and I was able to navigate the flooded roads successfully. The vehicle I was driving, I suddenly realized, was older than I, and I hoped when I was its age I might be as stalwart and dependable.
As I suspected it would be, the Pelican Club was deserted on such an indecent day. Only the staff was present, with Mr. Simon Pettibone behind the bar watching a rerun of “Dynasty” on his little TV set. He looked up with amazement when I entered.
“Mr. McNally,” he said, “you braved the elements to honor us with your presence?”
“Thirst will drive a man to
“Hi, darling,” he said chirpily. “Don’t tell me you called to remark that it’s great weather for ducks. If I hear that once more today I’ll scream.”
“Actually, Lol,” I said, “I phoned to invite you to lunch. How about Bice? We’ll have a nice salad with a side order of quid pro quo.”
“Oh-ho,” he said, “it’s tattle time, is it? I’d love to, doll, but I just can’t. I’m chained to this sadistic word processor and it won’t turn me loose until my copy is complete. What have you got for me? I hope it’s something juicy. I need a final item that’ll cause a splash or my devoted readers will think old Lolly is losing his edge.”
“This will cause a splash,” I promised, “but you’ll have to write it as a question because I don’t know the answer.”
“All right, all right,” he said impatiently. “Half my scoops are phrased as questions. It’s a great way to avoid libel suits. Let’s have it.”
“Quote: ‘What were the police doing at the Griswold Forsythe mansion early Saturday morning? Rumor hath it that there have been dark doings in that haunted castle.’ Unquote. How does that sound, Lol?”
“A doozy,” he said immediately. “A smash finish for the column. But is it for real?”
“Have I ever stiffed you?”
“No, you’ve been true-blue, sweetie. But why do I have the feeling you’re not telling me everything you know?”
“It’s everything, Lol,” I assured him. “If I learn more you’ll be the first to hear about it.”
“I better,” he warned, “or you’ll go on my S-list. You do know what that is, don’t you?”
“I can guess,” I said. “Now here’s what I need: A few years ago Geraldine Forsythe, the unmarried daughter, reportedly had a thing going with a polo player. Apparently he treated her in a most ungentlemanly manner including nicking her for a sizable sum. Question: Do you know the name of the knave?”
Lolly laughed. “I don’t even have to consult my private file. It so happens I hoped to start a thing with that hulk myself but it came to naught. It wasn’t that he was unwilling to swing, but he was suffering from a severe case of the shorts and was looking for a fatter bankroll than mine. I heard later that he had latched onto Geraldine. His name is Timothy Cussack.”
“Cussack?” I said and smote my brow with an open palm. “I should have guessed. He was cashiered from the Pelican Club a year ago for nonpayment of his bar tabs. Is he still playing polo?”
“Heavens, no! He fell off a horse and broke a bone. His fetlock or pastern or something silly like that.”
“And what’s he doing now, Lol—do you know?”
“The last I heard he was working as a trainer at a horse farm out near Wellington.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Interesting—but not very. Thanks for the poop, Lol, and keep defending the public’s inalienable right to know.”
“Up yours as well, Priapus,” he said, and I hung up laughing. Outrageous man!
My next move might have been to learn the name of Mrs. Constance Forsythe’s horse farm out near Wellington and determine if she was employing the man who had betrayed her daughter. But I thought additional research was required first.
I donned my oilskin again and set out for the Pelican Club in mother’s station wagon. The rain had not lessened but at least the wind had lost its intensity and I was able to navigate the flooded roads successfully. The vehicle I was driving, I suddenly realized, was older than I, and I hoped when I was its age I might be as stalwart and dependable.
As I suspected it would be, the Pelican Club was deserted on such an indecent day. Only the staff was present, with Mr. Simon Pettibone behind the bar watching a rerun of “Dynasty” on his little TV set. He looked up with amazement when I entered.
“Mr. McNally,” he said, “you braved the elements to honor us with your presence?”
“Thirst will drive a man to
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