McNally's Folly (5 page)

“Let us all join hands,” Ouspenskaya instructed, “and empty our minds of all worldly thoughts. I will not take questions, but wait to see what comes to me—or through me, if you will. Think of me as a radio. You are going to mentally switch me on and tune me in. I hope you like what comes out, but like a radio I am not responsible for the content of the broadcast. I do not create, I convey. Now, please, let us all imagine a taper—tall, slim, its wick aglow. Concentrate on the flame, please.”

His voice in the darkened room was so perfectly modulated it could have been coming from one of those recordings that people employ to achieve blissful tranquility via alpha rhythm, a pattern of slow brain waves that adherents of the therapy believe make one receptive to daydreaming while fully awake. However, it was tension, not relaxation, I felt in the hands holding mine and I suspected this was the psychic’s intention in spite of what he was saying.

“The flame is the radio’s dial. Look into it. See what you will. Don’t go from station to station. Select one. The one you want to hear from. The one that has a message just for you—be it a person, place or thing. Let your imagination soar. On the other plane all things are possible. All things.”

Was Penny seeing her father’s image in the flame? Fitz, her two current beaus? Arnold, Fitz’s two current beaus? Vance, no doubt, was trying to tune in Fitz and Mrs. Fairhurst, the child her daughter was carrying. I kept seeing the
Atlantis,
or was it the
Pearl of the Antilles,
weaving in and out of the flame like the
Flying Dutchman
on a foggy sea.

There came a long pause. So long I thought Ouspenskaya had fallen asleep.

“Do the words ‘Top Banana’ mean anything to anyone present?”

It was Ouspenskaya’s voice, but its comforting vocal caress was now as cold and matter-of-fact as a train conductor announcing the next stop.

My hands, as well as my heart, did a quick squeeze. Fitz didn’t respond but Penny returned the pressure. Good grief, what did that mean?

“I repeat, is anyone at the table familiar with the words...”

“A Top Banana is an archaic name for the lead comic in a burlesque show.” This from the smart-ass know-it-all, Arnold Turnbolt.

I had come to expose Serge Ouspenskaya but it looked as if Ouspenskaya was about to expose me. What I mean is, my grandfather, Freddy McNally, was a Top Banana on the Minsky circuit. The old pratfalling Freddy had sent his son to Yale and made him a lawyer while buying up Palm Beach real estate for a pittance. The latter made his lawyer son, my father, a rich man. In spite of all this, my father thought it best to pretend that Freddy McNally never existed and that he, son Prescott, arrived on our planet as a freshman at Yale with no past and only great expectations in his future.

How the hell did Ouspenskaya know this? Or, perish the thought, was Freddy actually with us? I stuck to the aphorism I have lived by all my life and one that has seen me through many a stormy sea and into a safe port.
When in doubt, keep your mouth shut.

“Tell them to book the
Pearl
,” Ouspenskaya advised, “the
Atlantis
sucks.” Pause. “Does this mean anything to anyone present?”

For the sake of my psychic partners, I hoped the palms of my hands were not as wet as my forehead. This was too much and it was making a convert of this nonbeliever.

“No one seems to know this horrid person,” Penny Tremaine said. “Can’t you block him out so others can get through?”

“I don’t think it works that way, dear,” Mrs. Fairhurst told her hostess.

Seeing as Penny Tremaine was footing the bill tonight, I think she had a right to complain. And if Ouspenskaya wanted to feather his nest he would be better disposed to call up old man Brightworth and put a gag on Freddy. Why was Ouspenskaya doing this?
How
was Ouspenskaya doing this?

“I played the Lake Worth Playhouse in ’24,” Ouspenskaya all but shouted. “It was the Oakley Theater then. SRO three straight weeks. I was on the bill with Lolly Pops, who did amazing things with three strategically positioned balloons. The men in the audience were frisked for hat pins, darts and pencils with sharp points. You won’t be the first McNally on the bill there. You hear me, Archy? You hear me?”

“Archy!” Penny Tremaine harangued.

Fitz giggled.

“Lolly Pops?” Arnold Turnbolt screamed.

UNLIKE
the last owners of Penny Tremaine’s
ameublement
I got out of the palace with my head attached to my shoulders and, of all things, Fitz attached to my arm. If I had inadvertently rained on my hostess’s parade, I had, with malicious aforethought, deluged the conflagration that raged within the savage breast of my host. Thanks to Serge Ouspenskaya, Archy McNally was now persona non grata at the Tremaine residence.

To wit: After fingering me as the person to whom the so-called Top Banana was shooting off his mouth, Ouspenskaya refused to continue with the séance, or sitting, because of the quote, disruptive personality, unquote, of said comic. Meaning that Freddy had clogged the airwaves with enough ham to thwart any other channels from coming through. This Ouspenskaya had the
cajones
of a brass monkey. Arnold’s near hysterics over the name Lolly Pops did not help my cause.

I said earlier that I thought Ouspenskaya was skirting me when we were introduced. I now believed that he knew the reason I had attended the séance and had set out to goad me, embarrass me and warn me off. He had succeeded in two out of three. At the close of my first inning with the psychic the score was one to zilch, in favor of the spooks.

But how did he know? More important, if he was wise to me, he had to know who had hired me. And if he had put off catering to the ninety-million-dollar baby in order to get me off his back it meant that he had long-range plans for mining the rich turf of Palm Beach. He had also managed to K two B’s with one stone this evening by demonstrating his powers to me and impressing the rich folk at the same time.

Naturally, I had to admit that family lore had it that my grandfather “dabbled” in theatricals. Let’s face it: How often do you get the spirit of a Top Banana and an ecdysiast called Lolly Pops at your neighborhood séance? Penny couldn’t wait to set up a private sitting with Ouspenskaya and tune in to daddy dearest. Fitz, it seemed, had been dropped off at the Tremaines’ abode by her brother and it had been decided that the Tremaine chauffeur would see her safely home. The Tremaine chauffeur had come down with a bellyache induced, no doubt, by the greenback Vance must have slipped him to play sick. The gallant Vance volunteered to see Fitz to her front door. Penny turned the color of Ouspenskaya’s turban at the thought of her husband and Fitz zipping along the A1A under a starry sky and stopping God knows where for God knows what along the way.

Seeing the chance to redeem myself in the eyes and heart of Penny Tremaine for being the grandson of a Top Banana, I immediately said that I would drop Fitz wherever she wanted to be dropped. Both Penny and Fitz thought this a fine idea. Vance thought that a better idea would be to have me drawn and quartered.

Vance had invited me to partner him at his club in a tennis doubles match later in the week. As Fitz and I left, he suddenly remembered the match had been canceled and implied that I might never see the inside of the Bath and Tennis again in my lifetime. I didn’t bother telling him I had been barred from far more prestigious institutions, i.e., Yale University.

So it was Archy who zipped along the A1A under a starry sky with the gold-clad Fitz by my side. A heady experience, indeed. “Was your grandfather really a comic in a burlesque revue?” Fitz asked, seemingly fascinated with my lineage.

“The Minsky circuit,” I ceded.

“Neat,” came her reply. “Maybe Lolly Pops is your grandmother.”

The young have rich imaginations. Should such a rumor make the rounds of Palm Beach, the sire’s retribution would be heartless and Archy would be homeless. “Grandmother,” I revealed to Fitz with great solemnity, “was raised by the nuns and short-listed for sainthood upon her demise.”

“Oh,” said Fitz.

Not knowing where Fitz lived, I had to rely on her directions. This got us to the Ta-Boo’ bar and restaurant. “You live here?”

“Practically,” she said. “It’s just about midnight and the bar should be in full swing. I’ll stand you a drink, Archy.”

For those not familiar with Palm Beach in season, midnight is when the social set starts socializing and the only difference between Tuesday night and Saturday night is seventy-two hours. The bar was in full swing with every stool taken and it was none other than Buzz Carr who abdicated his throne for Fitz.

“Hi, Archy. Hi, Fitz,” Buzz welcomed us.

“You two know each other?” I questioned.

“Not in the biblical sense,” Fitz said, “but the night is young.”

I can forgive Buzz Carr his Adonis body, his perfectly layered head of dark hair, his gray eyes and his face that launched a thousand yachts. I cannot forgive him the way beautiful young women and rich old women, both of whom should know better, are all over him like a cheap suit, seemingly oblivious of his reputation as a gender swinger. Or was that part of his lure? Could no temptress resist the challenge of getting Buzz to mend his ways, courtesy of
her
irresistible charms?

I ordered a bourbon and branch water. Fitz asked for a tall scotch and soda. Buzz clung to his bottled beer—no glass. When we were served, Buzz couldn’t wait to inform us, “I’m going to be in a show.”

I closed my eyes, pressed thumb and forefinger against my forehead and proclaimed, “The Palm Beach Community Theater proudly presents
Arsenic and Old Lace
.”

“How did you know?” Buzz was very impressed.

“We just came from a séance and the spirits are still with us.”

“The Ouspenskaya guy,” Buzz guessed correctly. “Lady Cynthia is wild about him.”

“He contacted Archy’s grandfather who was a Top Banana,” Fitz announced.

“What’s a Top Banana?” Buzz wanted to know.

“Never mind,” I broke in. “It’s, all nonsense.” I needn’t have worried about discouraging talk of my ancestor as the very young don’t stay focused on one topic for more than one sound bite, especially when an aspiring actor is on a roll.

“Bet you’ll never guess who’s gonna be my co-star,” Buzz bragged.

If Ouspenskaya knew I was working for Desdemona Darling’s husband, that was already one person too many who knew. Prudence told me to repeat the act I had put on for Connie so I feigned surprise when Buzz said, “Desdemona Darling.”

“Who’s she?” Fitz asked, taking the wind out of Buzz’s sails.

“One of the biggest Hollywood stars ever,” Buzz insisted.

“She was a wee bit before your time, Fitz, my dear.” To Buzz, I said, “I take it she plays one of the old maid aunts.”

“Right, Archy. And we still haven’t cast the other old maid aunt or any of the other roles, but there’s a great part in it for you, Fitz. You can play my girl.”

Halfway through her tall scotch and soda, Fitz appeared unimpressed with being discovered at Ta-Boo’. “I’ve never acted,” she told Buzz.

“Neither has he,” I said. “You would be perfectly matched and pose no threat to the memory of Lunt and Fontanne.”

“Who are they?” Fitz asked.

Present company considered, I declared the question moot.

“We open at the Lake Worth Playhouse...” Buzz rambled on, but what else he had to say was lost on this listener.

“The Lake Worth Playhouse?” Fitz repeated. “Didn’t Ouspenskaya mention that place, Archy?”

I felt the fickle finger of fate’s icy digit slither up my spine as I answered, “Indeed he did. Indeed he did.”

A
GAINST MY BETTER JUDGMENT
and feeling almost as wanted as lumps in a classic sauce béchamel, I left Fitz at Ta-Boo’ with her future co-star. Yes, Buzz talked Fitz into becoming an active member of the PB Community Theater. What else he may have talked her into is not germane to this tale. I left the budding Tracy and Hepburn in the wee small hours of the morning and returned to my third floor nest where I undressed, washed, brushed, donned a silk robe and, taking my Mont Blanc in hand, added a few sentences to the saga of “Serge the Seer” in my journal, most of them ending in question marks.

Late to bed and late to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and—late for breakfast. An early-morning call from Arnold Turnbolt didn’t help my cause. “What do you think, Archy? I was
très
impressed.”

Figuring it didn’t take much to impress Arnold, I answered, “I’m reserving judgment.”

Not knowing restraint, Arnold went right on. “I don’t know how you can say that when he called up your grandfather and a stripper named Lolly Pops. It’s too much, Archy. What do you think Lolly was hiding behind those three balloons?”

“What do you think Ouspenskaya was hiding under that turban?” I really liked Arnold Turnbolt but I liked breakfast better.

“I don’t see why you’re so chagrined, Archy. I would be delighted to have a show business personality in my family tree. Even Lolly Pops—or should that be, especially Lolly Pops?”

“We’re not ashamed of Freddy,” I lied, “we just think the dead should rest in peace and not be called upon to amuse the rich at their parlor games.”

“So what were you doing there?” Arnold was no fool.

“I was doing Vance a favor and filling in for Fitzwilliams.”

“That’s not the way Vance tells it.”

So Vance Tremaine must have started bad-mouthing me as soon as I left his domain with the door prize on my arm. And if Vance told the crew I had invited myself to the séance, there was a good chance he had told Ouspenskaya the same thing when he called the psychic to report my substituting for Fitzwilliams. Ergo, Ouspenskaya was aware I had muscled my way in and after checking my credentials he didn’t have to wait for a news flash on his psychic radio to guess I was there on business.

“If Ouspenskaya is not the real thing, how do you think he did it? And do those two cruise liners mean anything to you, Archy? You never told us.”

“How do you know he was referring to cruise ships, Arnold?”