McNally's Bluff by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo
Authors: Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo
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failings, is still a vital, intelligent woman and for that I am ever grateful.
Even father raised one bushy eyebrow at my news which I have tried many times to emulate, but simply can’t.
“You’re going on a trip, Archy?” Mother exclaimed, hoping it would be a honeymoon cruise on some love boat out of Fort Lauderdale.
“New York for a long weekend is what I have in mind,” I told my amazed audience. “Edward Brandt, who goes under the professional name of Rick Brandt, performed in a revival of Death of a Salesman at our local theater which was seen by a producer from New York. It seems the man was impressed with Rick’s performance as Willy Loman’s son and offered him a role in an off-Broadway show he was mounting. Rick, or Todd as he then called himself, was a waitperson at the Pelican on busy Saturday nights and he’s sent me two tickets to the opening via priority mail.”
“How exciting,” mother said. “I like a success story.” Then, rather timidly, she asked, “Will you be taking Georgia?”
Since Connie and I came to a parting of the ways and I took up with Georgy girl, mother is a tad skittish over who might be my significant other of the moment. My parents have met Georgy and were very taken with her, especially father who is keen on shapely blondes.
“If she can get away, that is just what I had in mind,” I said.
Father wanted to know if I planned to stay at the Yale Club. He is a member, having graduated from that university as well as its law school. I attended Yale but, alas, got the boot for reasons that are none of your business.
This led to a discussion of the many benefits of staying at the club with mother recalling the happy times she and father had enjoyed there when visiting the Big Apple. “Why, it’s our New York apartment,” mother noted. “Of course you’ll stay there, Archy. Take a suite and charge it to father’s account.”
Father raised one eyebrow.
Ursi’s rib roast, with oven-roasted potatoes and balsamic-glazed pearl onions, was superb. With it came asparagus, which I always think is so elegant, served at room temperature and garnished with a drizzle of olive oil and a smattering of lemon zest. The bread was Ursi’s own sourdough loaf and the starter was a Caesar salad—chopped hearts of romaine lettuce tossed with plenty of freshly grated Parmesan and creamy dressing with a hint of garlic and topped with anchovies, then nestled within individual lettuce leaves.
The lord of the manor decanted a rare vintage Bordeaux St. Emilion poured into stemware that explodes if subjected to a dishwasher. Also not destined for the dishwasher was mother’s gold leaf Limoges father referred to as our “everyday” china. What comes out on special occasions? Don’t ask.
At my love nest in Juno we dine on ovenproof stoneware which is impervious to dishwashers, however, the Juno cottage does not boast such a convenience. Such are the anomalies of life.
The finish was the coffee soufflé concocted with Starbucks’s best beans and presented with a dish of freshly baked tuiles. Home is where the stomach is and Juno is where the heart is and never the twain shall meet.
Mother retired early, leaving father and me to our port and tobacco, a tradition of a bygone era father observes and I go along with because I’m a good son—and I like a good port. I opted for an English Oval, my first of the day, and father made a show of clipping the end of a very expensive-looking cigar before lighting it. I poured the port.
Father opened the conversation with, “Laddy Taylor called just before I left the office. He wants me to execute an order to exhume his father’s body.”
“On what grounds, sir?”
“That Carolyn Taylor poisoned her husband with the digitalis he was taking for his heart condition.”
“Oh!”
8
I HEARD FATHER’S LEXUS pull out of our driveway just as I came out of the shower. I’ve often wondered if he revs the engine when leaving in the morning to
Even father raised one bushy eyebrow at my news which I have tried many times to emulate, but simply can’t.
“You’re going on a trip, Archy?” Mother exclaimed, hoping it would be a honeymoon cruise on some love boat out of Fort Lauderdale.
“New York for a long weekend is what I have in mind,” I told my amazed audience. “Edward Brandt, who goes under the professional name of Rick Brandt, performed in a revival of Death of a Salesman at our local theater which was seen by a producer from New York. It seems the man was impressed with Rick’s performance as Willy Loman’s son and offered him a role in an off-Broadway show he was mounting. Rick, or Todd as he then called himself, was a waitperson at the Pelican on busy Saturday nights and he’s sent me two tickets to the opening via priority mail.”
“How exciting,” mother said. “I like a success story.” Then, rather timidly, she asked, “Will you be taking Georgia?”
Since Connie and I came to a parting of the ways and I took up with Georgy girl, mother is a tad skittish over who might be my significant other of the moment. My parents have met Georgy and were very taken with her, especially father who is keen on shapely blondes.
“If she can get away, that is just what I had in mind,” I said.
Father wanted to know if I planned to stay at the Yale Club. He is a member, having graduated from that university as well as its law school. I attended Yale but, alas, got the boot for reasons that are none of your business.
This led to a discussion of the many benefits of staying at the club with mother recalling the happy times she and father had enjoyed there when visiting the Big Apple. “Why, it’s our New York apartment,” mother noted. “Of course you’ll stay there, Archy. Take a suite and charge it to father’s account.”
Father raised one eyebrow.
Ursi’s rib roast, with oven-roasted potatoes and balsamic-glazed pearl onions, was superb. With it came asparagus, which I always think is so elegant, served at room temperature and garnished with a drizzle of olive oil and a smattering of lemon zest. The bread was Ursi’s own sourdough loaf and the starter was a Caesar salad—chopped hearts of romaine lettuce tossed with plenty of freshly grated Parmesan and creamy dressing with a hint of garlic and topped with anchovies, then nestled within individual lettuce leaves.
The lord of the manor decanted a rare vintage Bordeaux St. Emilion poured into stemware that explodes if subjected to a dishwasher. Also not destined for the dishwasher was mother’s gold leaf Limoges father referred to as our “everyday” china. What comes out on special occasions? Don’t ask.
At my love nest in Juno we dine on ovenproof stoneware which is impervious to dishwashers, however, the Juno cottage does not boast such a convenience. Such are the anomalies of life.
The finish was the coffee soufflé concocted with Starbucks’s best beans and presented with a dish of freshly baked tuiles. Home is where the stomach is and Juno is where the heart is and never the twain shall meet.
Mother retired early, leaving father and me to our port and tobacco, a tradition of a bygone era father observes and I go along with because I’m a good son—and I like a good port. I opted for an English Oval, my first of the day, and father made a show of clipping the end of a very expensive-looking cigar before lighting it. I poured the port.
Father opened the conversation with, “Laddy Taylor called just before I left the office. He wants me to execute an order to exhume his father’s body.”
“On what grounds, sir?”
“That Carolyn Taylor poisoned her husband with the digitalis he was taking for his heart condition.”
“Oh!”
8
I HEARD FATHER’S LEXUS pull out of our driveway just as I came out of the shower. I’ve often wondered if he revs the engine when leaving in the morning to
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