McNally's Folly by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo

for Tex-Mex. It’s his birthday.”
    “How sweet of you,” Connie said. “Give Binky a birthday kiss for me. See you at three.”
    “Thanks, Archy,” Binky said when I rang off. “But it’s not my birthday.”
    “Then I’m not taking you to dinner. But don’t tell Connie.”
    “I think you’re up to no good tonight, Archy.”
    “Much foofaraw about nothing, Binky my boy. Can I buy you lunch?”
    “The Pelican?”
    “I fear not. The longer I get in the tooth, the shorter I get in reasons for taking friends to business lunches. But I know a little joint you will like. It’s a show-biz hangout.”
    “Really, Archy?”
    “Trust me, kid.” And, alas, he did.
    We drove to a pizzeria on Federal Highway, south of the Port of Palm Beach, where we indulged in a pie adorned with broccoli, slivers of artichoke hearts, sundried tomatoes and Gorgonzola cheese, atop a thin crust. Two nuns, wearing particularly ornate white wimples, came in for a slice and I immediately pointed them out to Binky.
    “You know them?” he asked.
    “Chorus girls from The Sound of Music ” I told him.
    “Wow!” Binky said.
    There are those who say I am devious. I prefer adroit. The difference is subtle but, for the likes of me, momentous.
    Back on Royal Palm Way I consulted the yellow pages in search of psychics and found several listed as Psychic Advisers—all licensed, bonded and not averse to credit cards. I couldn’t imagine what the criteria was for licensing a psychic. Serge Ouspenskaya was not among them but one, Madame Hildegarde Berlin, advertised that she would answer one question, free, by telephone. I was tempted to call and ask Hildegarde if she could name the composer of God Bless America, but stifled the urge.
    I called information and from them learned the telephone number of Mr. Serge Ouspenskaya with an address on Clematis Street in West Palm. Tired of being the ugly stepsister of the Town of Palm Beach, West Palm has been going through a period of gentrification, a word coined by real estate brokers, and Clematis Street was as gentry as West Palm will ever be.
    A young man answered the phone and I asked him if I could speak to Mr. Ouspenskaya.
    “May I ask who’s calling?”
    “Archy McNally,” I informed him.
    “One moment, please, Mr. McNally.”
    Several moments later the perfectly modulated voice of Serge Ouspenskaya came over the wire. “Mr. McNally. I thought I would be hearing from you.”
    Would it be considered redundant to tell a psychic he thought correctly? “I was very impressed with your sitting, Mr. Ouspenskaya,” I began.
    “You are a charming liar, Mr. McNally. No offense, please. I meant it as a compliment. Far from being impressed I imagine you paid a visit to the Lake Worth Playhouse the very next day and asked if anyone had been to see them lately regarding the appearance of Freddy McNally some seventy years ago.”
    It was close enough to the truth but, as Nathan Detroit of Guys and Dolls would say, the odds were better than twelve to seven that any nonbeliever out to prove their point would have done just that. “In fact I did, sir.”
    Without a smug “I told you so” retort, he asked me if I was familiar with Greek mythology. “Specifically the story of Narcissus and the poor Echo.”
    “The youth Narcissus, who was the beloved of Echo, saw his reflection in the water of a pond and fell in love with himself. For this, the gods turned him into a flower and Echo, heartbroken, languished until all that was left of her was her voice.”
    “Very good, Mr. McNally. I ask because last night I had a dream that was similar to the myth but in reverse. That is, I dreamed that a lovely narcissus flower turned into a beautiful youth. The youth dove into the pond and swam rapidly away from the shore. I heard the echo of a laugh and turning I saw you, Mr. McNally, watching the swimmer while nibbling on a shrimp.”
    I felt those icy fingers tap-tap-tapping on my spine again. “Have you been