Fletch Won f-8 Read online

  The gardener knelt down and resumed weeding the flower bed.

  “You have any idea where Mrs. Habeck went?”

  “La señora no es la señora.”

  “What?”

  “La señora no es la mujer, la esposa.”

  “What? ‘The lady is not the wife.’ You speak English better than I do. What are you saying?”

  “You mean that broad you were talking to, right?” the gardener asked.

  “Right.”

  “She’s not Mrs. Habeck.”

  “She’s not?”

  “Mrs. Habeck is young and pretty.” The gardener sketched a shapely form in the soil with his finger. “Like that. Blond.”

  “She said she was Mrs. Habeck.”

  “She’s not.”

  “She the cook?”

  “The cook is Hispanic. Forty years old. She lives two blocks from me.”

  “Then who was she?”

  “I dunno,” the gardener said. “Never saw her before.”

  As Fletch was going through the Habecks’ kitchen, the cook shrieked at the sight of a strange man naked except for a denim shirt hanging from his waist.

  As Fletch was going up the stairs, Biff Wilson came out of the living room and said, “I’ve just talked to Frank Jaffe. He says you’re a dumb kid who misunderstood your assignment. You’re to get your ass back to the office and report to Ann McGarrahan in Society double quick time.”

  “Right,” said Fletch. “Double quick.”

  He began taking the stairs two at a time.

  “Why are you going upstairs?” Biff yelled.

  Fletch yelled back, “I parked my car up here.”

  As Fletch handed the denim shirt back to the gardener, Fletch said, “Sorry I can’t give it back to you washed, dried, and pressed, but that’s how I lost my last clothes. They were headed for a wash.”

  As the gardener stood up and put back on his shirt, his eyes crinkled at the sight of the clothes Fletch was wearing.

  Fletch shrugged. “Found this suit in Habeck’s closet. He’ll never miss it.”

  “The suit is short and fat.”

  “I got a belt. Nice tie. The necktie should distract the eye from the rest of the ensemble, right?”

  “You’re ready to boogie, man.”

  “Thanks again. The cook yelled at me.”

  “I heard. I thought it was the noon whistle.”

  “What would she have done if you hadn’t lent me your shirt?”

  “Scrambled eggs while they were still in the refrigerator.”

  “Where did you learn your Spanish?” Fletch asked.

  “BHHS.”

  “BHHS?”

  “Yeah,” the gardener said, stooping to his work. “Beverly Hills High School.”

  “Cecilia’s Boutique. Cecilia speaking. Have you considered jodhpurs?”

  “I’m thinking very seriously about jodhpurs,” Fletch said into his car phone.

  “They’re just coming in, sir. In another month they’ll be all the rage. I’m sure your wife would be really impressed if you bought her jodhpurs now. Impressed by your prescience.”

  “So should the jodhpurs be impressed. I haven’t got a wife.” Waiting at the red light at the intersection of Washington and Twenty-third, Fletch saw that all was peaceful at the liquor store. Plywood had been nailed over the shattered breakproof glass of the door. They were ready for their next attack. “May I speak with Barbara Ralton, please?”

  Cecilia hesitated. “Sales personnel are not to take personal phone calls. May I take a message for her?”

  “Sure. This is Fletcher. Tell her I can’t see her for lunch today. Please also tell her I look forward to buying her a pair of jodhpurs, at Saks.”

  “Here I am,” Fletch said.

  “Here who is?” Ann McGarrahan, society editor of the News-Tribune, was a tall, broad-shouldered woman in her forties. She sat behind a desk that was too small for her in an office that was distinctly too small for her.

  “I thought you people in Society knew everyone.”

  “Everyone who is anyone,” Ann said softly. The corners of her mouth twinged with a smile. “Which obliges me to repeat: Who are you?”

  “I.M. Fletcher.” Fletch looked at the dead, brown fern on Ann’s windowsill. “A nobody. Beneath your attention. May I go now?”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Oh, I changed clothes.” Fletch held out the skirts of Donald Habeck’s suit coat. “Frank said something about my needing a suit and tie for this job.”

  Ann studied him over her half-lenses. “And that’s the suit? That’s the tie?”

  “Good material in it.”

  “I daresay. Clearly you made your investment in the material, and not the tailoring.”

  “I’ve lost weight.”

  “Gotten taller, too. Your trouser cuffs are a half-foot above your ankles.”

  “Have you heard that in another month jodhpurs will be all the rage? Lord, what I bring to this department.”

  “I see. Your sleeves are modified knickers, too, are they? They stop halfway down your forearms.”

  “I’m ready to cover the social scene.”

  “The young women around here call you Fletch, don’t they?”

  “When they call me at all.” Fletch sat in a curved-back wooden chair.

  “Why don’t they use your first name?”

  “Irwin?”

  “What’s wrong with Irwin?”

  “Sounds like a hesitant cheer.”

  “Your middle name then. Don’t you have a middle name?”

  “Maurice.”

  “I know lots of nice people called Maury.”

  “I’m not one of ’em.”

  “Okay. You’re a Fletch. It just sounds so much like a verb.”

  “To fletch, or not to fletch: that is the copulative.”

  “Guess I’ll have to fletch. Well, Fletch. Not only has Frank Jaffe sent me you, with warnings regarding your appearance which, however dire, were still insufficient, he also sent me a strong suggestion as to what your first assignment might be.”

  “I know what it is.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. Stay on this story concerning the five million dollars Donald Habeck and his wife decided to donate to the art museum. To stay right on it until I get to the bottom of it and everything else concerning the Habecks. Right?”

  “Wrong. Of course.”

  “That was my assignment, for about a minute and a half this morning.”

  “Wasn’t Donald Habeck the man murdered in our parking lot this morning?”

  Fletch shrugged. “Just makes the story more interesting.”

  “Oh, we have an interesting story for you to work on, Fletch. It was Frank’s suggestion. In fact, he mentioned the suggestion originally came from you.”

  “From me? A story for the society pages?”

  “We don’t really think of this section as being society anymore, Fletch. Although, of course, there’s always the social aspect of it. We think of it more as human interest, with the emphasis on women’s interests.”

  “That’s why I brought up the latest scoop on jodhpurs.”

  “It’s not just fashion anymore, it’s more lifestyle. It’s not just beauty, it’s health.”

  “Right: women’s healthy lifestyles.”

  “You’d be surprised at some of the topics some of our younger women writers want to discuss these days.” Ann picked up some copy off her desk. “Here’s an article comparing the relative merits of manufactured dildos. With pictures, supplied by the manufacturers, I expect. Do you think we should run an article comparing dildos, Fletch?”

  “Uh…”

  “Which do you think is the best dildo in the world today?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I couldn’t be disinterested. I’m attached to it. It would be a subjective opinion.”

  “I see.” Again Ann McGarrahan struggled to keep th
e corners of her mouth straight. She dropped the copy onto her desk. “Ah, the woes of being an editor. Needless to say, I’ve had that story on my desk for some time.”

  “Dildo?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find space for it.”

  “So, you see, we’re into all sorts of areas of interest to you. We are not just concerned with little old ladies who slip vodka into their tea.”

  “Big-mouth Frank.”

  “So you haven’t yet figured out what your assignment is? I was hoping it would come to you, on your own.”

  “Something about sexual aids? I know: you want me to do a report on what sexual aids do two out of three gynecologists recommend.”

  “You ran in the Sardinal Race yesterday.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Frank told me you ran behind a group of about a dozen women you couldn’t bring yourself to pass.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “These same women received rather wide publicity, it seems, on this morning’s sports pages of the News-Tribune.” As she was saying this, Ann McGarrahan opened the News-Tribune to the sports section and looked at the two large photographs, on facing pages, of this group of women, coming, and going. “My, they are attractive, healthy young women, aren’t they?”

  “Not too shabby.”

  “For some reason, Frank takes this spread on his sports pages as some sort of personal affront. Also, I suspect he is in his office right now getting considerable flak for it, from the usual groups.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “ ‘Ben Franklyn Friend Service. A service company,’ ” Ann appeared to read from the newspaper. “What sort of service do you suppose they provide, Fletch, to have Frank so upset?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Ann jutted her large face across the desk and asked, “Does it have something to do with men?”

  “I suspect so.”

  “Tell me what.”

  Fletch felt the back of his chair pressing against his shoulder blades. “It’s an escort service of the traveling-whorehouse variety, and I suspect you know that.”

  “Ah! Sounds like there’s a story here.”

  “What? No story …”

  “As I’ve outlined to you,” Ann said, “on these pages we’re concerned with women’s interests, their health, how they make their livings—”

  “This is a family newspaper!”

  “Nice to hear you say so. Your investigation, of course, will be discreetly reported.”

  “You want me to investigate a whorehouse?”

  “Who better?”

  “I’m getting married, Saturday!”

  “Have you already passed your blood test?”

  Fletch took a deep breath.

  Ann held up the flat of her hand to him. “This is a new thing, as I understand it: prostitutes who are obliged to stay in prime physical condition. Goes along with several articles we’ve run on organic gardening, I think. How does this Ben Franklyn Friend Service operate? What is the source of their discipline? How do they entertain men professionally without having to drink a lot themselves? If they are not dependent upon drugs themselves, why are they prostitutes? How much money do they make?” Ann continued to hold up her hand. “Of most importance, who owns Ben Franklyn Friend Service? Who derives the profit?”

  Fletch let out his breath, and said nothing.

  Ann said, “I think we could have a story here.”

  “Best way to do it,” said Fletch, “might be to send one of your young women writers in to apply for a position with Ben Franklyn Friend Service.”

  “Ah, but it was your story idea, Fletch. Frank said so himself. It wouldn’t be right for us to take it away from you. Of course, we may send a young woman in, too, for a preliminary investigation, that side of the story.”

  “I said I’m getting married Saturday.”

  “Doesn’t give you much time, does it?”

  “Ann—”

  “Besides that,” Ann said, refolding the newspaper on her desk, “I think Frank feels that such a story—well done, of course—would go a long way toward getting him off the hook for these unfortunate pictures that ran on the sports pages this morning.” She folded her hands on the desk. “Not all is tea and biscuits on the lifestyle pages, Fletcher. Definitely, you’re the man for the job.”

  Fletch was looking out the window. “P.S., your fern is dead.”

  “I happen to like brown fern,” Ann said, without looking around. “I feel they make a statement: despair springs eternal.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “Happy to have you in the department, young Mr. Fletcher. At least you won’t have your purse snatched.”

  “It’s not my purse I’m worried about.” He stood up.

  “It will be interesting to see what you turn in.”

  “You’re asking me to ‘turn in’ under wicked circumstances.”

  “Oh, and, Fletcher…?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Be careful of Biff Wilson. Don’t get in his way. You do, and he’ll run over you like a fifty-car railroad train. He is a mean, vicious bastard. I ought to know. I was married to him, once.”

  “Fletch, there’s a call waiting for you.” The young woman outside Ann McGarrahan’s office jangled her bracelets at him. “Line 303. Nice suit. ‘Fraid you’re goin’ to get raped ’round here?”

  “Hello,” Fletch said into the phone.

  “Hello,” said Barbara. “I’m furious.”

  “I’d rather be Fletch.”

  “What the hell do you mean by chewing out my employer?”

  “Did I do that?”

  “Cecilia’s very serious about jodhpurs just now. She overbought.”

  “I care. She wouldn’t let you come to the phone.”

  “Company policy. The phone’s for the business, not for the employees.”

  “But I’m the fianc? of her number-one salesperson.”

  “And what do you mean you can’t have lunch with me?”

  “Things are a little confused here.”

  “This is Monday, Fletch. We’re getting married Saturday. We have things to discuss, you know?”

  “Anyway, I’d already agreed to have lunch with Alston. We want him as my best man, don’t I?”

  “That’s the least of my worries. We don’t have much time. You’ve got to get with it.”

  “I’m with it.”

  “I mean, really with it. Look at all you’ve got to do. Cindy says—”

  “Barbara! Cool it! Don’t chew me out now!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve just been chewed out by absolutely the best. Next to her, you sound tin-horn.”

  “Then why don’t you marry her, whoever she is?”

  “I would,” answered Fletch, “except she has other ambitions for my proclivities.”

  “Good afternoon, Alston.” Fletch slid into a chair at the café table.

  “Good afternoon,” Alston said. “I’m having a beer.”

  “Enjoy.”

  “Want a beer?” Fletch nodded. Alston signaled the waiter. “Two beers, please.” With the back of his hand, Alston then brushed a speck of lint off the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Fletch, I couldn’t help notice, as you scuffed along the sidewalk…”

  “What?”

  “Your suit.”

  “I’ve been assigned to the society pages.”

  Alston grinned. “Well, that’s a real to-hell-with-society suit.”

  “It makes a statement, I think,” Fletch said. “Like dead ferns. Despair springs eternal.”

  “I see you had a super morning, too. Did they finally get you for that headline you wrote?”

  “Headline?”

  “DOCTOR SAVES LIFE IN ACCIDENT?”

  “They never noticed that one.” The waiter brought the beers. “Sometimes I think I’m the only one at the News-Tribune with any news sense.”


  “I have that headline hanging on my wall.”

  “We must look at the bright side, Alston.”

  “Yeah,” Alston said. “Barbara.”

  “Barbara just chewed me out.”

  “Oh.”

  “This morning I was chewed out by the managing editor, Frank Jaffe, the News-Tribune’s star crime writer, Biff Wilson, Ann McGarrahan, the society editor, and my fiancé, Barbara Ralton. And it’s only Monday.”

  “In a suit like that—as much as you can be said to be in it—I’m surprised anyone takes you seriously.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Fletch removed his coat and put it on the back of his chair. “I was also held up by a liquor store. Shot at.”

  “Lots of people have been held up in a liquor store. Once, my uncle was in a hurry; you know, before the rabbits started nibbling his toes? And—”

  “And I interviewed a nice, kooky lady who said she was someone apparently she isn’t.”

  “You interviewed an impostor?”

  “I guess.”

  “Did you get anything interesting out of her?”

  “I did have the feeling I was leading her, Alston.”

  “I would think you would have to feed answers to an impostor,” Alston said. “To get any kind of a story.”

  “What’s more, she got my clothes off me. Ran away with them.”

  “All this happened just this morning?”

  “And those sneakers were just getting comfortable.”

  “Fletcher, are you sure you can make it outside the U.S. Marine Corps?”

  “It’s hard, Alston, getting a start in life.”

  Alston held up his beer. “To youth.”

  “No one takes us young people seriously.”

  “And we are serious.”

  “We are indeed. Seriously serious.”

  The waiter said, “Are you gentlemen ready to order now?”

  “Yes,” Fletch said. “The usual.”

  “Sir,” the waiter said with poised pen, “it may be usual to you, but whatever it is, is not usual to me.”

  “You mean I have to tell you my order?”

  “You could keep it to yourself, sir. That would cut down on my work.”

  “I had it here just last week.”

  “I’m pleased to see it was you who returned, sir, and not whatever it was you had for lunch.”

  “This is Manolo’s, isn’t it?”