Fletch Won

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “And you wouldn’t have agreed?”

  “I don’t think so. I have been an expert witness in court, of course. But only when I have felt I was on solid ground, could trust whichever side of a case requested me. I don’t make a career of it. Only when I feel need for me is justified.”

  “And you didn’t feel you could trust Donald Habeck?”

  “I didn’t know anything about him, other than an impression of him that has come through the newspapers and television press. Vaguely, my impression was that, through a lot of tricks, he kept people who ought to be in jail out of it. I had never met the man.”

  Fletch noted how quick people were to say they had never met, or had scarcely met, Donald Habeck.

  “So Habeck was given an appointment, but not invited to lunch,” Kennedy continued. “He came in last Wednesday afternoon, sat in the chair you’re sitting in, and surprised the hell out of me by saying he was thinking of giving the museum five million dollars.”

  “What was your first question?”

  Kennedy thought a moment. “My first question was, ‘Of your own money?’ Immediately, I was suspicious, of I don’t know what.”

  “And he confirmed it was his own money he wanted to give away?”

  “Yes. I then said, as politely as I could, that I had never heard he was interested either in art or the museum. He answered that he was very interested in art and, furthermore, that he had identified what he referred to as ‘a vast hole’ in our present contemporary collection.”

  “That got your attention.”

  “It certainly did. I could hardly wait to hear what ‘hole’ he felt was in our collection. Ours is not the strongest collection of contemporary art in the whole world, but it is very strong and really quite well balanced, thanks to my predecessor and myself.” Kennedy was again playing catch with himself. “He said he wanted the five million dollars spent exclusively on acquiring contemporary religious art.”

  After a moment, Fletch said, “That’s a puzzle.”

  “Isn’t it?” Looking at Fletch apologetically, Kennedy said, “As you know, or don’t know, there is almost no contemporary religious art. I mean, all art is religious, isn’t it? In its own way, even the profane. Art depicts man in his relation to nature, himself, his fellow persons, and his deity. Not all of it may be worshipful, but each piece of true art, to me, is a powerful acknowledgment of the nature of our existence.”

  “How did you answer him?”

  “Politely, I asked him whom he thought we should be collecting. In true legalistic fashion, he answered that we are supposed to be the experts in that, and that if we felt we couldn’t find viable contemporary religious art to acquire, he’d take his money elsewhere.”

  “A tough guy even in his giving.”

  “Wait. You haven’t heard everything. Gently, I tried to explain to Mr. Habeck that if there were much viable contemporary religious art, I’d be the first to seek it out and acquire it. Of course, prayer-card art, like the poor, is ever with us. Some churches have developed very contemporary-looking designs for their crosses, and stations thereof. But unless you consider a Jesus with female breasts on the cross a viable statement, there isn’t much new in the field. As critics and curators, we find ourselves nowadays, perhaps mistakenly, considering the various religious genres, from Creation to Joan-at-the-stake, closed history.” Kennedy tossed the ball high and caught it. “Then I realized I was lecturing the poor man, and that was not why he came here. I could see he was getting angry. I was on the wrong track altogether. So, more personally, I asked him why he wanted to contribute so much money.”

  “A question we all have.”

  “I expect the answer will astound you. After a few moments of writhing in that chair, I’m sure looking as uncomfortable as any witness under his own cross-examination, Habeck blurted out that his life was over, that he was packing it in; no one cared a tin whistle for him; he was dispossessing himself of all of his property, and”—Kennedy threw the ball high in the air; he had to lean forward to catch it—“he intended to spend the rest of his life in a Roman Catholic monastery.”

  After a moment of silence, Kennedy threw the ball across the desk at Fletch.

  Catching the ball, Fletch said, “Glunk.”

  “Thought that would surprise you,” Kennedy said. “You see why I’m happy to talk to you this morning. A very strange circumstance indeed.”

  “My, my. Who’d have thought it?”

  “Aren’t people amazing? Well worth your collecting.”

  “He wanted to become a monk?”

  “Yes. So he said. A Roman Catholic monk. Spend the rest of his life reading Thomas Merton, or something. Matins and evensong. The whole bit.”

  “He always wore black shoes.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Needless to say, we’ve had some staff meetings around here to discuss this whole Habeck business. No one has known what to think. Then, yesterday, when I was driving out to lunch, I heard on the car radio Habeck had been murdered. When he said last Wednesday that his life was over, he was more right than he knew.”

  “If he wanted to give away five million dollars and go into the monastery, why didn’t he give the money to the monastery, or to the Church?”

  “I asked him that. He said he was too old ever to fulfill a ministry. Furthermore, that he would have too much to learn. And, he wanted the peace and quiet of a monastery. He said he was tired of talking and arguing and pleading. Would you believe that?”

  “So establishing a collection of religious art at the museum would do his public pleading for him?”

  “I guess. He hoped such a collection would inspire religious feelings among contemporary people more than any sermons he could ever give, or ever wanted to give. If I understood him correctly.”

  Fletch tossed the ball back to Kennedy in a high arc. “I don’t get it.”

  “He said he’d have something more than a million dollars left over, and that money he would give to the monastery.”

  “What about his wife? His kids? His grandchildren?”

  “He didn’t mention them. Except to say no one cared a tin whistle for him. His words exactly.”

  Kennedy tossed the baseball back to Fletch.

  “The museum as church, uh?”

  “A museum is partly a church. Maybe entirely a church.”

  “So how did you leave it with him?”

  “I was so startled, I suggested he think it over. I think I even dared suggest he talk it over with his wife, his children, his law partners.”

  Fletch tossed the ball back in as high an arc as the room could take. “Curator as minister, eh?”

  “Or shrink.” Kennedy caught the ball over the glass top of the desk. “And I told him we’d talk it over here. I indicated very strongly to him that I didn’t feel we could take his five million dollars with the restriction that it be spent solely on acquiring contemporary religious art. It wouldn’t be fair to him to accept money on conditions we couldn’t observe.” He tossed the ball back to Fletch. “If he could find some wording which would make the money available to us to use, with the understanding that we would acquire valid contemporary religious art when and if it becomes available, then maybe we could accept his money.”

  Fletch arced the ball back at the curator. “And he, being a lawyer, was perfectly sure that he could develop such wording.”

  “Probably. The story of his murder I read on the front page of your newspaper this morning said he intended to see your publisher regarding the announcement that he was giving five million dollars to something in the city.”

  “The museum was what was mentioned to me.”

  “Did you write that piece in this morning’s paper?”

  “No. Biff Wilson.”

  Kennedy tossed the ball into his glove. “It was a good piece.”

  “It was okay,” Fletch said. “For an obituary.”

  In the very small reception room of the B
en Franklyn Friend Service, the young-middle-aged, distinguished-looking woman gave Fletch the once-over from behind her small wooden desk.

  “If you take your left here at the corner,” she said, pointing a manicured hand, “and left again in the middle of the block, you’ll find yourself in the alley.”

  “Ecstatic!”

  “Our delivery door is about halfway down, on the left.” Over her pink sweatsuit she wore a long rope of pearls. “The door is clearly marked.”

  “Pure ecstasy!”

  The woman frowned. “You are making a delivery, aren’t you?” She looked more the type to be sitting at a checkout desk in a public library.

  “What am I delivering?” Fletch asked.

  “Linens. Towels.”

  “Me.”

  “You?”

  “Me. In all my parts. Head, shoulder, hips, and knee joints, right down to the ankles. And everything in between.” Fletch swallowed hard.

  “Do you have an appointment?” She opened a desk calendar. “You’re just not the sort…”

  “Sort of what?”

  Her eyes confirmed that he was wearing a T-shirt, faded jeans, and very white, new sneakers. “… the sort we usually see.”

  “I was welcomed by the museum dressed this way.”

  “Your name?”

  “Jaffe.”

  “Ah, yes: Fletcher Jaffe.” She made a pencil check in the IN box beside his name.

  “You’ve heard the name before?”

  “We don’t pay that much attention to names.”

  “Jaffe is a name to which you should pay attention.”

  “That will be one hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “Good! I’ll pay it!” He dropped seven twenties and a ten on the desk. “Make sure I get a receipt.”

  She looked quizzically at him. “Our clients don’t usually ask for receipts.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll make out a receipt for you before you leave.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Well, you might want to add on some extras.”

  “Extra whats?”

  The woman seemed embarrassed. “Tips. Whatever.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re not married, are you?”

  Fletch shook his head. “No, ma’am. No one goes through my pockets.”

  “Diseases?” Her eyes enlarged as she looked at him. “Are you willing to swear you have no diseases?”

  “This place is harder to get into than a New England prep school.”

  “I asked you about diseases.”

  “Chicken pox.”

  “Chicken pox!”

  “When I was nine.” Fletch pointed out a pockmark on his left elbow. “I’m better now, thank you.”

  The woman sighed. She pressed a button on the desk intercom. “Cindy? Someone’s here to see you.”

  “Ah, Cindy!” exclaimed Fletch. “I was hoping for a Cindy. Nobody wants a Zza-zza, Queenie, or Bobo this hour of the day.”

  “I’ve seen you somewhere before,” the woman said, almost to herself. “Recently.”

  “I’m around town,” Fletch said breezily. “A bit of a boulevardier.”

  “Oh, Cindy,” said the woman. “This is Fletcher Jaffe.”

  In the door stood a woman in her early twenties. She was dressed only in well-cut nylon gym shorts, sneakers, and footies. Her shoulders were lightly muscled. Her perky breasts were tanned in the round identically with the rest of her body. Muscles were visible in her stomach. Her black hair and wide-set eyes matched perfectly and had the same sparkle.

  Looking at Fletch, she wrinkled her nose.

  “Good morning, Cindy.” Fletch again swallowed hard. “Glad you came to work early today.”

  Through the street door came another young woman. She was wearing white jeans and a loose red shirt. She had fly-away blond hair.

  Approaching the desk, she openly studied the scene: Fletch standing in the middle of the small reception room; Cindy presenting herself in the doorway.

  “Marta!” she whimpered to the woman at the desk.

  “I can’t help it, Carla,” Marta answered.

  “You told me I should sleep in, this morning!”

  “I also told you,” Marta said forcefully, “never to wear that color red. It doesn’t go with your hair coloring.”

  “I know.” Carla giggled. “It makes men in the street look away.”

  In the interior doorway, Cindy tossed her head. Fletch followed her.

  He followed her down a paneled, carpeted corridor.

  “You a cop?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I hope you are,” Cindy muttered. “Time this place got busted.” She slowed her walk. “Do me a favor, though, will you?”

  “Anything.”

  “Bust this place if you want. See where it will get you. But don’t bust me personally, okay?”

  “What makes you think I’m a cop?”

  “I’m splitting the end of this week. I swear to you. I don’t want the hassle.”

  “If I’m a cop, you’re ugly.”

  Even in the dark corridor, her skin had a lovely sheen.

  She smiled at the compliment.

  She opened a heavy drawer built into the wall, and pulled out another pair of well-cut nylon shorts. “These about right? Waist thirty?”

  She tossed them to him.

  “Sure.”

  She led him into a brightly lit room to the left off the corridor.

  In the room was a single-frame exercise rig.

  The walls were covered with mirrors. Mirrors hung from the ceiling. At one place there was even a mirror on the floor, inset into the carpet.

  Fletch stood on the floor mirror and looked up and around. Through the angled ceiling mirrors he saw himself from directions he had never seen himself before. In the mirrors on the four walls he saw his body replicated to infinity.

  Cindy closed the door to the corridor. “Where did you get your tan?”

  “On my face.”

  “Anywhere else?” She crossed the room, went through a door to a bathroom, came back immediately, and tossed him a towel.

  Standing on the mirror, looking around at himself everywhere, Fletch said, “Me, me, me.”

  “You got it, honey.”

  He held the towel and the shorts in his hand.

  “Take a shower,” she said. “Use the soap. Change into just the shorts, and come back.”

  Fletch held the shorts up. “These shorts ain’t got nothin’ in them.”

  “They will have,” she said. “I expect.”

  The shower soap stung.

  When he reentered the room, Cindy was at a small, recessed bar mixing a drink.

  She glanced at him. “I thought so.”

  “You thought what?”

  She was bringing him the drink. “What vitamins do you take?”

  “P.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “All the best beers have it.”

  She handed him the drink. Her other hand dropped five stuffed olives into his hand.

  He sniffed the drink. “What’s in it?”

  “Orange juice.”

  “Okay.” He munched the olives.

  “Some protein powder.”

  “That sounds healthy.”

  “A little yeast.”

  “Sounds explosive.”

  “And some ground elk’s horn.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “An aphrodisiac, you know?”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Specialty of the house?”

  “Drink it, honey. Perfectly safe.”

  He sipped it. “Yummy.”

  “Chug-a-lug,” she said.

  “Really,” he said, choking a little. “You thought of marketing this stuff?” Even while drinking it, his throat felt dusty. “Elixir of Ben Franklyn.”

  “Come on.” She took the empty glass from him and put it on the recess
ed bar.

  Then she took his hand and led him to the exercise machine.

  “You know how to use these things? Of course you do. Lie down on your back. You’re going to do bench presses. I have it set for one hundred and twenty pounds. That about right?”

  “We’ll see.”

  He lay down on his back on the bench. His knees were bent, his feet on the floor.

  Looking up, he saw himself and the top of Cindy’s head, and her shoulders, in the mirror.

  “Lift,” she said.

  He lifted.

  “That’s about right,” she said. “Feel good?”

  “Like ice cream on a hot summer’s day.”

  “Do eight in a row, slowly.”

  She sat on him, straddling his thighs. She spread her hands on his lower stomach, thumbs touching.

  As he lifted, she pressed her hands into his stomach muscles.

  He felt a sensation such as he had never felt before.

  He groaned.

  “Don’t drop it,” she said. “Makes a loud noise.”

  He let the weights down quietly and looked into her eyes.

  “Come on,” she said. “You’re going to do eight of them in a row. I’m giving you every motive. Breathe.”

  He breathed and lifted.

  On the third lift, he found his legs straightening, his heels sliding along the rug.

  She did not fall off his thighs. Through the mirror he saw that she had hooked the calves of her legs around the legs of the bench. At each lift she pressed the palms of her hands into his stomach muscles.

  “Breathe,” she said.

  “That, too?”

  After he did eight lifts, she flicked the front of his shorts with her fingernails. “You’re healthy enough. I thought so.”

  He raised his knees.

  “I’ll take your sweat,” she said.

  She leaned forward and put her breasts, her stomach on his. She raised her legs and put her thighs on his. She rolled on him, just a little.

  As soon as he gave in to irresistible impulse and put his arms around her back, she was up and away.

  She stood under the chin-up grips. “Come on.”

  “Who said exercise has to be boring?”

  As they moved in the brightly lit room, their infinite reflections in mirrors on all sides made it seem as if each were a legion moving with martial precision.