McNally's Dare by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo

Bermuda shorts with knee-length stockings, ugh!) and Floridians in more somber attire, making an oasis stop between work and home. Music was being piped in and those in conversation with their neighbor had to shout above it to be heard. The resulting din was more conducive to making whoopee than indulging in a tête-à-tête with the formidable Dennis Darling.
    I spotted Darling at a table for two abutting the windows facing the outside terrace and was tempted to go rushing over and shout, “Darling, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.” But with a name like Darling, a good Yankee name by the way, he must have grown callous to the approach or, more likely, might respond by getting up and kissing me on the cheek. At Daniel’s on a crowded evening the game was not worth the candle so I approached with caution and said instead, “Mr. Darling? Archy McNally here.”
    He rose and extended his hand, and we shook like civilized people. Remember, I had only seen Dennis Darling on the tennis court at Nifty’s so had no idea of what he might be like when clothed and shod for company. I was not disappointed. In fact, I was impressed. The summer grays with a white open-collar dress shirt and a lightweight navy blazer bespoke New York chic and was an outfit I myself have been known to favor. Darling was about my height, six feet, with dark hair and eyes that suggested a dash of the Mediterranean in the woodpile. Had his reputation not preceded him, I knew several PB hostesses who would have made Dennis Darling’s stay more welcome.
    Happily, I had gone for Ermenegildo Zegna jeans and a striped polo shirt in soft greens and blues, sans circus animal over the left breast, so we didn’t appear to be gazing in a mirror as we appraised each other.
    “We meet again, Mr. McNally. You do remember we played a few sets together on MacNiff’s court yesterday.”
    “On opposite sides of the net, Mr. Darling.”
    “Of course,” he said. “But perhaps we can play on the same team this time around.”
    “I’m not much of a team player,” I assured him.
    “So I understand,” he answered, eying me as if I were a job applicant. “Let me say how much I appreciate your coming, Mr. McNally” He pointed invitingly to the empty chair opposite his and continued, “I’m a stranger on your tropical island and about as welcome as a blizzard.” Signaling a passing waitress, he asked, “What are you drinking?”
    “Before you buy me a drink,” I answered, easing into the chair, “I want you to know that I will discuss neither the flora nor the fauna of Palm Beach only to be misquoted in Bare Facts magazine.”
    “Relax,” he said. “I didn’t get you here to find out what you know about Palm Beach society, but to tell you what I know about Jeff Rodgers. Interested?”
    I looked up at the waitress and ordered a vodka martini with a twist, straight up. Darling told her to bring him another Johnnie Walker Red Label, on the rocks. I have always been wary of men who take their whiskey neat but rationalized that the added ice gave Mr. Darling the benefit of any doubts I might have about him. “I didn’t think you knew anyone in these parts, Mr. Darling.”
    “I don’t,” he told me, adding, “with the exception of poor Jeff, and I only met with him once before his untimely death. He was murdered, wasn’t he?”
    “Are you asking me or telling me, Mr. Darling?”
    “My friends call me Denny, and I hope to count you among them.”
    The guy was engaging, I will admit, but he seemed intent on cementing our relationship with the speed of a gigolo at a debutante ball. I could see no reason to withhold what little I knew, as the full story of Jeff’s demise would be in tomorrow’s papers and was probably being aired on the evening news as we spoke. Also, as a crack investigative reporter for a national magazine he would know how to wrest information out of a desk sergeant on Palm Beach island.
    “Well, my friend, I would like to