scribbling in my journal, and prepared to crawl into the sack.
I cannot say my mood was melancholy, but neither was it chockablock with joie de vivre. I have never been a victim of presentiments, but that evening I must confess I had a sense of impending doom.
The only way I could calm my quaking spirits was to remind myself firmly that seriousness is a sin. I happen to believe that our Maker is the greatest farceur in the universe. And so sleep came only with the blessed remembrance of the sentiment: "Long live the sun! And down with the night!"
I thought it might be Pushkin. But then it might have been just Archy McNally. No matter. I slept.
And awoke on Wednesday morning revivified, alert, and wondering why I had been in such a funk the previous night. After all, I was alive, reasonably young, in full possession of my faculties (others might disagree), and inhabiting a world that offered such glories as lamb shanks braised in wine and tiramisu with zabaglione sauce. There was absolutely no reason to despair.
I knew exactly what I must do, but of course I had overslept and didn't arrive at my office in the McNally Building until a bit after ten o'clock. Oversleeping, I realized, was becoming a habit I seemed unable to break, and it occurred to me that I might have contracted trypanosomiasis. I have never been to Africa, but a chum of mine, Binky Watrous, had recently spent a weekend in Marrakech, and it was quite possible that, unknowingly of course, he had brought a tsetse fly home with him. It was troubling.
The moment I was behind my ugly desk I phoned Jack DuBois, my pal at the Royal Palm Way bank handling Hector Johnson's checking account.
"Jack," I said, "you told me that when Johnson made his initial deposit with a cashier's check from Troy, Michigan, he presented a driver's license as ID and supplied the names of two Fort Lauderdale residents as references."
"That's right."
"Could I have the names and addresses of the references, please?"
He groaned. "Archy, it seems to me I'm doing all your work for you."
"Jack, there's no such thing as a free lunch."
"Lunch?" he cried indignantly. "You promised me a dinner."
"I was speaking metaphorically," I soothed him. "You shall have your dinner complete with appetizer, soup, entrée, dessert, and whatever else your ravenous hunger and thirst demand. Now let's have the names of Johnson's references."
"Wait a sec while I call them up on my screen," he said. "We've got new software and it's a doozy. When are you going to get a computer, Archy?"
"Give me a break," I pleaded. "I can't even operate a battery-powered swizzle stick."
Eventually I received the information requested. Hector Johnson's two references were J.P. Lordsley and Reuben Hagler. I studied their addresses and reckoned that if I left immediately, I could manage a relaxed drive to Fort Lauderdale, enjoy a leisurely snack, check out both individuals, and be back in time for my daily dunk in the sea.
But it did not happen. My phone jangled ere I could depart, and a feminine voice inquired, "Archy McNally?"
I recognized that coo, and my heart leaped like an inflamed gazelle. "Theo!" I said. "How nice to hear from you."
"I do hope I'm not interrupting," she said. "I know how busy you must be."
"Work—" I said. "It's a four-letter word and I try to avoid it."
"Let me help," she said, her voice positively burbling. "You did offer to show me your home, you know, and it's such a lovely day I was hoping to persuade you to take a few hours off."
"Splendid idea!" I practically shouted. "And as I recall, lunch was also mentioned. Still on?"
"Of course. Daddy is using our car this afternoon, so could you pick me up?"
"Delighted," I said. "Half an hour? How does that sound?"
"I'll be waiting for you, Archy," she said softly and hung up, leaving me to interpret her final words in several ways, not all of them honorable.
I was happy I had worn dove gray slacks and my navy blue blazer adorned with the
I cannot say my mood was melancholy, but neither was it chockablock with joie de vivre. I have never been a victim of presentiments, but that evening I must confess I had a sense of impending doom.
The only way I could calm my quaking spirits was to remind myself firmly that seriousness is a sin. I happen to believe that our Maker is the greatest farceur in the universe. And so sleep came only with the blessed remembrance of the sentiment: "Long live the sun! And down with the night!"
I thought it might be Pushkin. But then it might have been just Archy McNally. No matter. I slept.
And awoke on Wednesday morning revivified, alert, and wondering why I had been in such a funk the previous night. After all, I was alive, reasonably young, in full possession of my faculties (others might disagree), and inhabiting a world that offered such glories as lamb shanks braised in wine and tiramisu with zabaglione sauce. There was absolutely no reason to despair.
I knew exactly what I must do, but of course I had overslept and didn't arrive at my office in the McNally Building until a bit after ten o'clock. Oversleeping, I realized, was becoming a habit I seemed unable to break, and it occurred to me that I might have contracted trypanosomiasis. I have never been to Africa, but a chum of mine, Binky Watrous, had recently spent a weekend in Marrakech, and it was quite possible that, unknowingly of course, he had brought a tsetse fly home with him. It was troubling.
The moment I was behind my ugly desk I phoned Jack DuBois, my pal at the Royal Palm Way bank handling Hector Johnson's checking account.
"Jack," I said, "you told me that when Johnson made his initial deposit with a cashier's check from Troy, Michigan, he presented a driver's license as ID and supplied the names of two Fort Lauderdale residents as references."
"That's right."
"Could I have the names and addresses of the references, please?"
He groaned. "Archy, it seems to me I'm doing all your work for you."
"Jack, there's no such thing as a free lunch."
"Lunch?" he cried indignantly. "You promised me a dinner."
"I was speaking metaphorically," I soothed him. "You shall have your dinner complete with appetizer, soup, entrée, dessert, and whatever else your ravenous hunger and thirst demand. Now let's have the names of Johnson's references."
"Wait a sec while I call them up on my screen," he said. "We've got new software and it's a doozy. When are you going to get a computer, Archy?"
"Give me a break," I pleaded. "I can't even operate a battery-powered swizzle stick."
Eventually I received the information requested. Hector Johnson's two references were J.P. Lordsley and Reuben Hagler. I studied their addresses and reckoned that if I left immediately, I could manage a relaxed drive to Fort Lauderdale, enjoy a leisurely snack, check out both individuals, and be back in time for my daily dunk in the sea.
But it did not happen. My phone jangled ere I could depart, and a feminine voice inquired, "Archy McNally?"
I recognized that coo, and my heart leaped like an inflamed gazelle. "Theo!" I said. "How nice to hear from you."
"I do hope I'm not interrupting," she said. "I know how busy you must be."
"Work—" I said. "It's a four-letter word and I try to avoid it."
"Let me help," she said, her voice positively burbling. "You did offer to show me your home, you know, and it's such a lovely day I was hoping to persuade you to take a few hours off."
"Splendid idea!" I practically shouted. "And as I recall, lunch was also mentioned. Still on?"
"Of course. Daddy is using our car this afternoon, so could you pick me up?"
"Delighted," I said. "Half an hour? How does that sound?"
"I'll be waiting for you, Archy," she said softly and hung up, leaving me to interpret her final words in several ways, not all of them honorable.
I was happy I had worn dove gray slacks and my navy blue blazer adorned with the
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