Fletch f-1 Read online

  “It’s none of your business, even if you are an insurance man, but the answer is that the time got mixed up. We were supposed to go to Antigua for a vacation. Alan was paying. He was doing all right at Collins Aviation. A vice president of sales while he was twenty-something. That didn’t surprise me any. I’ve always been strong in sales myself. So we said all right. We’d never had a real get-on-an-airplane vacation before. The wedding was supposed to be a week after we returned. Smack dab in the middle of our vacation, we get this telegram saying the wedding had been moved forward because of some big business shift in her Daddy’s schedule. I think his name is John. We checked the airport, and no connection could be made until the next morning. The wedding was over. We missed it. I sorely would have loved to be there, though. The wife cried a little, but I figure she would have spilled a few tears even if she were there.”

  “You’ve never met the Collinses?”

  “Never had the pleasure. I’m sure they’re nice folks. I’ve never even met my daughter-in-law. Alan says she hates to fly. Isn’t that the damnedest? Her Daddy owns an airplane company and her husband’s a pilot and she won’t get on an airplane.”

  “You’ve never been to California?”

  “Nope. But we see a lot of it on television. Especially San Francisco. That place must be an awful pain in the ass to walk up and down. Hills and hills. Everybody in San Francisco must be either slope-shouldered or pigeon-breasted. Now, son, what did you call for?”

  “That’s all, sir.”

  “What’s all?”

  “Just inquiring about you and your wife.”

  “Seems to me we haven’t had a conversation at all.”

  “If I think of anything more, I’ll call back.”

  “Look here, son, if you think of anything at all, call back. I’d be relieved to hear you’re thinking.”

  “I do have one other question, sir.”

  “I’m breathless waitin‘.”

  “As far as you know, is your son in good health?”

  “When he was fifteen years old, he fought the state Golden Gloves. He’s been in better shape every year.”

  “You think he could win the Golden Gloves championship now?”

  “That’s not even funny, son.”

  “Mr. Stanwyk?”

  “I’m still listening.”

  “I won the Bronze Star.”

  Fletch listened to the silence.

  “I take back everything I said, son. Good for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It’s a pleasure being called by you. Is there any chance of your coming east with Alan?”

  “He doesn’t know me.”

  “He should. He won a Purple Heart. That doesn’t mean as much. He just got in the way of something.”

  “So did I.”

  “I bet. I bet you did.”

  “Where was he wounded?”

  “He crashed. A helicopter picked him up. The helicopter crashed. Busy snipers, that part of the woods. In the second crash a piece of metal went into his stomach. He told me it looked like an Amish door hinge. No one ever knew where it came from. Maybe the helicopter. I think it’s possible it came from the first crash. A man can carry a door hinge for a while without knowing about it. It’s okay. Recovering from it has kept him slim.”

  “Mr. Stanwyk?”

  “Yes, son.”

  “If you were my dad, I’d pick up the Bronze Star next week.”

  “You never picked it up?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You must have won it a while ago.”

  “I did. A long while ago.”

  “You ought to pick it up. Give the country a boost.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What’s your name, son, anyway?”

  “James,” Fletch said. “Sidney James.”

  9

  RESERVED CAPTAIN PRECINCT THREE

  Fletch parked there.

  He went straight to the bull room.

  “Lupo’s in back,” the sergeant at the typewriter said. “Beating the shit out of a customer.”

  “I’d hate to interrupt him. Someone might read the customer his rights.”

  “Oh, they’ve been read to him already. Lupo’s interpretation of the Supreme Court ruling has been read to him.”

  “How does Lupo’s interpretation go?”

  “You’ve never heard it? It’s really funny. I can’t remember all of it. He rattles it off. Something like: ‘You have the right to scream, to bleed, to go unconscious and call an attorney when we get done with you; visible injuries, including missing teeth, will be reported, when questioned, as having occurred before we picked you up, et cetera, et cetera.’ It scares the shit out of people.”

  “I bet.”

  The sergeant picked up a phone.

  “Lupo? Mr. I.M. Fletcher of the News-Tribune is here.” The sergeant slid the heavy I.B.M. carriage to three-quarters across the page, punched one key, returned and tabbed once. “Okay.”

  He hung up and smiled happily at Fletch. “Lupo said he made a bust Wednesday especially for you. Three dimes’ worth for twenty dollars.”

  “Twenty dollars?”

  “He says it’s Acapulco Gold. You should be so lucky. It was a bust on advertising executives.”

  “I pity the poor bastards.”

  “You don’t need three bags full to convict. It’s in the second left-hand drawer of his desk.”

  Fletch took the plastic bag from the second left-hand drawer of the first desk in the third row from the windows. “Thanks very much.”

  “The money, Lupo said.”

  “Do you accept credit cards?”

  “Cash. It’s for the Police Athletic Fund. Believe me, with his new chick, he needs an athletic fund.”

  “I believe you. Beating up people all day in the questioning room is a tough way to make a living.”

  “It’s hard work.”

  “Sweaty.”

  Fletch dropped two tens on the sergeant’s desk. “We’re going to try it on you, one day, I.M. Fletcher. Find out what the hell the initials I.M. stand for.”

  “Oh, no,” Fletch said. “That’s a secret that will go with me to my grave.”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “Never. Only my mother knew, and I murdered her to keep her quiet.”

  Fletch sat in the sergeant’s side chair.

  “Seeing Lupo isn’t here at the moment, and can’t be disturbed,” Fletch said slowly, “I wonder if you would give me a quick reading on a name.”

  “What name?” The sergeant put his hand on the phone. “Stanwyk. W-Y-K. Alan. One ‘I.’”

  “You looking for anything in particular?”

  “Just a computer inquiry. A read-out.”

  “Okay.” The sergeant dialed a short number on his phone and spelled the name slowly. He waited absently a moment and then listened, making notes on his pad. He hung up within three minutes.

  “Stanwyk, Alan,” he said, “has a six-month-old unpaid parking ticket in Los Angeles. Eleven years ago, Air Force Lieutenant Alan Stanwyk, while flying a training craft, buzzed a house in San Antonio, Texas. Complaint was transferred to Air Force, which reprimanded said Stanwyk, Alan.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all. I’m surprised, too. I seem to recognize the name from somewhere. He must be a criminal. The only names I ever see are the names of baddies.”

  “You might have seen it in the sports pages,” Fletch said, getting up.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. He tried out for Oakland once.”

  ***

  Fletch went home.

  His apartment was on the seventh floor of a building that had everything but design.

  His apartment—a living room, a bedroom, bath and kitchenette— was impeccably neat. On the wall over the divan was a blow-up of a multiple cartes-de-visite by Andre Adolphe Eugene Disderi.

  In the bathroom, he dropped his clothes in the laundry hamper and
showered. The night before, after being away from his apartment for weeks, he had spent forty-five minutes in the shower.

  Naked, he added the day’s mail to the stack that had been waiting for him the night before on the coffee table. Sitting on the divan, he rolled himself a joint from the bag supplied by Police Detective Herbert Lupo.

  A half hour later he picked up the stack of mail, unopened, and dropped it into the wastebasket beside the desk in his bedroom. They were all bills.

  The phone rang.

  Fletch shoulder-rolled onto the bed and answered it.

  “Fletch?”

  “My God. If it isn’t my own dear, sweet wifey, Linda Haines Fletcher.”

  “How are you, Fletch?”

  “Slightly stoned.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I’ve already paid you today ”

  “I know. Mr. Gillett called and told me you had given him a great big check.”

  “Mr. Gillett? Of that distinguished law firm, Jackass, Asshole and Gillett?”

  “Thank you, Fletch. I mean, for the money.”

  “Why do you call Gillett ‘Mr.’? His pants don’t even have pockets.”

  “I know. Isn’t he awful?”

  “I never thought you’d leave me for a homosexual divorce lawyer.”

  “We’re just friends.”

  “I’m sure you are. So why are you calling me?”

  Linda paused. “I miss you, Fletch.”

  “Jesus.”

  “It’s been weeks since we’ve been together. Thirteen weeks.”

  “The cat must have decomposed by now.”

  “You shouldn’t have thrown the cat through the window.”

  “Anyhow, I bought you lunch more recently than that. You think I’m made of money?”

  “Together. I mean together.”

  “Oh.”

  “I love you, Fletch. You don’t get over that in a minute.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  “I mean, we had some beautiful times together. Real beautiful times.”

  “You know, around here now you can’t even smell the cat.”

  “Remember the time we just headed off in your old Volvo and we lived in it a whole week? We didn’t bring clothes, money, anything?”

  “Credit cards. We brought credit cards.”

  “Do you still have the old Volvo?”

  “No. An MG.”

  “Oh? What color is it?”

  “It’s called ‘enviable green.’ ”

  “I’ve been trying to get you on the phone.”

  “Even before you got your check?”

  “Yes. Have you been away?”

  “Yes. I’ve been working on a story.”

  “You’ve been gone a long time.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Migrant workers’ labor dispute.”

  “That doesn’t sound very interesting.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “You must be losing your tan.”

  “No. I’ve been staying at a motel with a swimming pool. Are you working, Linda? Last time we talked, you were looking for a job.”

  “I worked for a while in a boutique.”

  “What happened?”

  “What happened to the job?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I quit”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The owner wanted to make love to somebody else for a while.”

  “Oh.”

  “Fletch?”

  “I’m still here. Where you left me.”

  “I mean. I wonder. I mean, the divorce has gone through and all. We couldn’t spoil anything by being together.”

  “Couldn’t spoil anything?”

  “You know, spoil the divorce. If we had been together while the divorce was going through, you know, it might not have gone through.”

  “Oh. Too bad.”

  “Now our getting together wouldn’t spoil anything.”

  “You want to get together?”

  “I mean, it’s Friday night, and I miss you, Fletch. Fletch?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can we spend the night together?”

  “Sure.”

  “I can be there in about an hour.”

  “Great. You still have a key?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have to go out for a few minutes. There’s no food in the house. I have to get some beer and some sandwich stuff.”

  “Okay.”

  “So if I’m not here when you get here, just come in and wait. I’ll be back.”

  “All right.”

  “I won’t be long,” he said.

  “You’d better be.”

  “Very funny. Don’t bring your cat.”

  “I don’t have a cat. See you soon, Fletch. Right after I shower.”

  “Yeah. Be sure and take a shower first.”

  “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  After hanging up, Fletch went to the bureau, put on a fresh pair of jeans, a fresh T-shirt, grabbed his pot from the coffee table, his wallet and keys from the bookcase, turned out the lights, checked to make sure the door was locked, went down in the elevator to the garage, got into his car, and drove the hour and a half back to The Beach.

  10

  When he arrived, the chain light hanging from the ceiling was on. Bobbi was lying naked on the groundmat, on her back, asleep.

  The room Fletch had rented at The Beach for the duration of this assignment was over a fish store. It stank.

  He had furnished it with a knapsack, a bedroll, and his only luxury in that room, the groundmat.

  In an ell of the room, in grossly unsanitary juxtaposition, were a two-burner stove, a tiny refrigerator which did not work well, a sink, a shower stall and a toilet. For this room he paid a weekly rate that amounted to more per month than his city apartment. It had been rented to him by a fisherman who had the character in his face of an Andrew Wyeth subject. It was impossible to lock the door.

  The noise of the pan on the stove woke Bobbi.

  “Want some soup?”

  She had been up, but now she was down..

  “Hi.”

  “Hi. Want some soup?”

  “Yeah. Great.”

  She remained inert. Her “great” had sounded a proper response to the news that pollution had killed all the rabbits on earth.

  Bobbi was fifteen years old and blond. She had lost weight even in the few weeks Fletch had known her. Her knees had begun to appear too big for her legs. The skin of her small breasts had begun to wrinkle. Even with her deep tan, the skin under her eyes, almost to the base of her nose, was purple. Her cheekbones appeared to be pulling inside her head. Each eye looked as if it had been hit with a ball-peen hammer.

  On her arms and legs were needle tracks.

  He sat cross-legged on the mat with the pan of soup and one spoon.

  “Sit up.”

  When she did, drawing her knees up to make room for him, her shoulders looked narrower than her ribcage.

  “Been trickin‘?”

  “Earlier,” she said.

  “Make much?”

  “Forty dollars. Two tricks. Nothing extra.”

  “Have some soup.”

  He tipped the spoon into her mouth.

  “One guy had a great watch I tried to hook, but he didn’t take his eyes off it once. The bastard.”

  “Did you spend the forty?”

  “Yes. And used it. Now it’s gone. All gone.” A childlike, ladylike tear built on the lower lid of her left eye and rolled down her cheek without her appearing to notice it.

  “Cheer up. There are always more tricks tomorrow. Where did you get the stuff?”

  “Fat Sam.”

  “Any good?”

  “Sure. But he doesn’t have much.”

  “He doesn’t?”

  “He said he hopes he can deal the weekend.”

  “Where does he get it, anyway?”

  �
�Why?”

  “I was just thinking: his source might be cheaper.”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere on the beach, I guess.”

  “Did you find him on the beach?”

  “Yeah. He’s always there.”

  “He sure is.”

  “Where did you go, Fletch? You’ve been gone all day. You smell different.”

  “I smell different?”

  “You smell more like air than like a person.”

  “Like air?”

  “I don’t know what I mean.”

  He said, “I was in an air-conditioned building for a while today.”

  “Ripping off?”

  “Yeah. I was doing some lifting from a couple of stores on the Main. It takes time.”

  “Get much?”

  “A couple of cameras. Tape recorder. Trouble is there’s this store dick in one store always hassling me. Minute I show up, he eye-bugs me. I had to wait for him to go to lunch.”

  “It’s lousy the way they always hassle you.”

  “Shits.”

  “Rip off much?”

  “Twenty-three dollars’ worth. Big deal.”

  “Not so much.”

  “Not so much.”

  “I mean, for all day. You were gone this morning, too.”

  “All fuckin‘ day.”

  “Why do they have to hassle?”

  “Because they’re shits. They just see you coming and they’re against you. Fuck ‘em.”

  “Fuck ‘em,” she said.

  “Fuck ‘em all. The shits.”

  “You know, Fletch, you could probably turn tricks.”

  “No.”

  “There are plenty of boys out.”

  “Kids.”

  “You got a better body than they have.”

  “Too old.”

  “You’re only twenty-three.”

  “Twenty-six,” he said.

  “So. You could turn tricks. You’d be surprised at the men cruising.”

  “I’ve seen them.”

  “Sometimes they don’t know which they want. A guy settled with me once, and a boy cruised by, and he said, ‘Forget it,’ and went off after the boy. I don’t know who was more surprised—the boy, or me.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

  “It doesn’t hurt, Fletch. Honest it doesn’t.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “You might make more money, is all.”

  “I guess. Finish the soup.”

  Between her knees, she stirred the soup in the pan with the spoon, concentrating on how the soup moved.