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sounds of revelry. We all chipped in, bought the house, fixed it up (sort of), and the Pelican Club opened for business.
    And almost closed six months later. We were lawyers, bankers, stockbrokers, realtors, doctors, etc., but we knew nothing about running a club bar and restaurant. We were facing Chapter 7 when we had the great good fortune to hire the Pettibones, an African-American family who had been living in one of the gamier neighborhoods of West Palm Beach and wanted out. All of them had worked in restaurants and bars, and they knew how an eating-drinking establishment should be run.
    They moved into our second floor, and the father, Simon Pettibone, became club manager and bartender. Son Leroy was our chef, daughter Priscilla our waitress, and wife Jas (for Jasmine) was appointed our housekeeper and den mother. Within a month the Pettibones had the club operating admirably, and so many would-be Pelicans applied for membership that eventually we had to close the roster and start a waiting list.
    The Pelican Club was not solely dedicated to merrymaking, of course. We were also involved in Good Works. Once a year we held a costume ball at The Breakers: our Annual Mammoth Extravaganza. All the proceeds from this lavish blowout were contributed to a local home for unwed mothers, since so many of our members felt a personal responsibility. In addition we formed a six-piece jazz combo (I played tenor kazoo), and we were delighted to perform, without fee, at public functions and nursing homes. A Palm Beach music critic wrote of one of our recitals, “Words fail me.” You couldn’t ask for a better review than that.
    It was to the Pelican Club that I tooled the Miata after my stimulating morning with Lady Horowitz. It was then almost eleven-thirty, but traffic crossing Lake Worth on the Royal Park Bridge was heavy, and it was a bit after noon when I arrived at the club.
    No members were present when I entered the Pelican, but Simon Pettibone was behind the bar, polishing glasses and watching the screen of a television set displaying current stock quotations.
    I swung onto a barstool. “Are you winning or losing, Mr. Pettibone?” I inquired.
    “Losing, Mr. McNally,” he replied. “But I prefer to think of it as a learning experience.”
    “Very wise,” I said. “A vodka-tonic for me, please, with a hunk of lime.”
    He began preparing the drink, and I headed for the phone booth in the rear of the barroom. Did you guess I intended to call Jennifer Towley? You will learn that when duty beckons, there is stern stuff in the McNally male offspring; I phoned the Palm Beach Police Department. I asked to speak to Sergeant Al Rogoff.
    “Rogoff,” he answered in his phlegmy rasp.
    “Archy McNally here.” I said.
    “Yes, sir, how may I be of service?”
    When Al talks like that, I know someone is standing at his elbow—probably his lieutenant or captain.
    “Feel like a nosh?” I asked. “I’ll stand you a world-class hamburger and a bucket of suds.”
    “Your Alfa-Romeo is missing, sir?” he said. “I’m sorry to hear that. It will be necessary for you to file a missing vehicle report. Where are you located, sir?”
    “I’m in the barroom at the Pelican.”
    “Yes, sir,” he said, “I am familiar with that office building. Suppose I meet you there in a half-hour, and you can give me the details of the alleged theft.”
    “Hurry up,” I said. “I’m hungry.”
    I returned to the bar where my drink was waiting on a clean little mat. I took a sip. Just right.
    “Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “life is strange.”
    “Bizarre is the word, Mr. McNally,” he said. “Bee-zar.”
    “Exactly,” I said.
    Sgt. Al Rogoff owned that adjective. I had worked a few cases with him in the past—to our mutual benefit—and had come to know him better than most of his professional associates. He deliberately projected the persona of a good ol’ boy: a crude, profane “man’s man” who called women “broads” and