McNally's caper

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I was in bed with J. Mark Hamilton, my brother-in-law. We had spent the night together because my sister, Laura, was in Park Central, recovering from plastic surgery. She’d had her tits elevated.

So there we were in the morning, J. Mark and me, his unshaven jowls scraping at me. ‘Bon appetit,’ I murmured, and then the phone rang.

It was Sol Faber, my literary agent.

‘Morning, doll,’ he said brightly. ‘We got a meet with the man at tennish. Remember?’

That’s the way Sol talks.

‘I remember,’ I said. As a matter of fact, I had forgotten. I have that frailty: I lose the remembrance of unpleasant coming events.

Sol told me to meet him in the lobby of Binder Publications a few minutes before ten. Then we hung up. My brother-in-law raised his bald head to stare at me.

‘Who was that?’ he demanded.

‘Your wife,’ 1 said. ‘She asked me to remind you to pick up the drycleaning.’

His face went white before he realized I was ribbing him. J. Mark is not the fastest wit in the world. He does, though, possess certain skills, even if I don’t allow him between my sheets solely because of them. It’s a form of hostility directed against my sister. Laura is the pretty blond, petite one. I am constructed more along the lines of a Marine drill instructor, and I have a profile that belongs on postage stamps.

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