McNally's Secret Read Online Free PDF Page B

claimed he would like nothing better than a weekend on an airboat in the Everglades, popping cans of Bud and lassoing alligators. He even drove a pickup truck.
    I think he adopted this Joe Six-pack disguise because he thought it would further his career as an officer of the law in South Florida. Actually, he knew who Heidegger was; could quote the lines following “Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?”; and much preferred an ’82 Medoc to sour mash and branch water. He looked and acted like a redneck sheriff, but enjoyed Vivaldi more than he did Willie Nelson.
    He hadn’t revealed the face behind the mask voluntarily: I had slowly, patiently, discovered who he really was. He knew it, and rather than be offended, I think he was secretly relieved. It must be a tremendous strain to play a role continually, always fearful of making a gaffe that will betray your impersonation. Al didn’t have to act with me, and I believe that was why he was willing to provide official assistance when my discreet inquiries required it.
    By the time he came marching through the front door, uniform smartly pressed, the Pelican barroom was thronged with the lunchtime crowd and people had started to drift to the back area where a posted warning said nothing about jackets and ties but proclaimed: “Members and their guests are required to wear shoes in the dining room.”
    I noticed a few patrons glancing warily at the uniformed cop who had invaded the premises. Did they fear a bust—or were they just startled by this armed intruder who was built like a dumpster? Al Rogoff’s physical appearance was perhaps the principal reason for the success of his masquerade. The man was all meat, a walking butcher shop: rare-beef face, pork chop jowls, slabs of veal for ears. And unplucked chicken wing sideburns.
    I conducted him to the dining room where Priscilla was holding a corner table for me. We both ordered medium-rare hamburgers, which came with country fries and homemade coleslaw. We also ordered steins of draft Heineken. While waiting for lunch to be served, we nibbled on spears of kosher dill pickles placed on every table in mason jars. The Pelican Club did not offer haute cuisine, but Leroy Pettibone’s food adhered to the ribs.
    “How much time do you have?” I asked Rogoff.
    “An hour tops,” he said. “What’s up?”
    “I want to report a crime.”
    “Oh?” he said. “Have you sexually abused a manatee?”
    “Not recently,” I said. “But this may not be a crime at all. It is an alleged crime. And the alleged victim will not report it to the police. And if you hear or read about it and question the alleged victim, she will claim no crime has been committed.”
    “Love it,” the sergeant said. “Just love it. Alleged crime. Alleged victim. And I’ve got to listen to this bullshit for a free hamburger? Okay, I’m not proud. Who’s the alleged victim?”
    “Lady Cynthia Horowitz.”
    He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “Mrs. Gotrocks herself? That makes the cheese more binding. She’s got clout. And what’s the alleged crime?”
    “Possible theft of a valuable possession.”
    “The Koh-i-noor diamond?”
    “No,” I said. “Four postage stamps.”
    He looked at me sorrowfully. “You never come up with something simple,” he said. “Like a multiple homicide or a supermarket bombing. With you, everything’s got to be cute. All right, buster, tell me about the four postage stamps.”
    But then our food was served, and we were silent until Priscilla left. Between bites and swallows, I told him the whole story of the Inverted Jenny and how a block of four of the misprinted stamps was missing from the wall safe in Lady Horowitz’s bedroom. The sergeant listened without interrupting. Then, when I finished, he spoke.
    “You know,” he said, “this hamburger is really super. What does Leroy put in the meat?”
    “Probably minced Vidalia onion this time of year. Sometimes he uses chopped red