Fletch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “More publicly, the fact that he married the boss’s daughter does not go unnoticed. But as someone pointed out: someone had to. And, after listening to Burt Eberhart, Carradine, Carmichael and John Collins himself, I would guess Alan Stanwyk is the best thing that has ever happened to Collins Aviation. The score seems balanced.

  “Alan Stanwyk is not taking a free ride, as one such as Jim Swarthout of Swarthout Nevada Realty is quick to assume.

  “Now for a few of the contradictions in facts this investigation thus far has revealed.

  “Alan Stanwyk says he is dying of terminal cancer. No one else says so. If he is, no one else knows it.

  “Stanwyk’s wife and father-in-law say that Stanwyk is estranged from his parents. Yet he visits them all the way across the country every six weeks.

  “The reason given for the estrangement is that his father forced him to box. Yet his father insists he urged Alan not to box.

  “Despite the fact, confirmed by a call to the Nonheagan Inn, that Alan visits his parents every six weeks, he has never told them that he has a child and that they have a grandchild.

  “Everyone says that Alan Stanwyk is buying a ranch in Nevada— his wife, his father-in-law, his stockbroker, his insurance man. Everyone, that is, except the person whom both Stanwyk’s wife and insurance man identify as the real estate broker: Jim Swarthout. It was quite clear from his attitude, as well as from his explicit statements, that Swarthout has never done business with, or even met, Alan Stanwyk.

  “To some extent, these contradictions can be explained, now that we have some knowledge of the man.

  “I take the clue from Burt Eberhart’s statement: ‘Al plays so close to his chest he wouldn’t tell you he was dying of cancer.’

  “Although no one knows it, Alan Stanwyk could have terminal cancer.

  “There can be an answer to his strange relations with his parents. He could love them very much. Being an only son, he could have a profound sense of loyalty and duty toward them. Apparently he has for his old college roommate, Burt Eberhart. As Marvin Stanwyk says, he could find stopping off in his old hometown frequently a restful experience.

  “At the same time, he could realize that the world of Joan and John Collins is no place for Marvin and what’s-her-name Mother Stanwyk. He might feel they would be very out-of-place and very embarrassed. Therefore, he might have fudged the date of his wedding, not told them they were grandparents, and told everyone else he was estranged from his parents—solely to save their feelings.

  “There is even an answer to the mysterious ranch in Nevada. He could have started to buy the ranch in Nevada for the best reason in the world: a good real estate investment. Neither he nor Joan needed to like the idea of living on a ranch. Thus the confusion in everybody’s mind about whose idea the ranch is—Alan’s or Joan’s. Neither of them really wants to do it. Buying the ranch is simply a good business idea.

  “It is possible he took the first steps toward buying the ranch, which first steps for him would have been seeking the advice of his stockbroker, insurance man, wife and father-in-law. After he did this much, he discovered he was dying of cancer. He had to devote his time and energies to cleaning shop at Collins Aviation, subtly, so that no one knew what he was doing. That would take some effort. He knew he would not be able to see the land purchase through, but he could not tell people so without also telling them why, that he has terminal cancer. Therefore, he kept talking about it as if it were a real, developing thing. John Collins referred him to Jim Swarthout. It is very likely that subsequently, when John Collins or whoever asked about Swarthout and the ranch, Stanwyk answered, ‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine.’ Doubtless he even found himself agreeing to take his wife to the ranch next weekend when there isn’t any ranch, because Stanwyk knows that for him there isn’t any next weekend.

  “Even the contradictions can be made to go together.

  “Yet there remains one overwhelming question in my mind.

  “If Alan Stanwyk wishes to commit suicide, why doesn’t he die the way everybody half-expects him to die?

  “Why doesn’t he crash an airplane?”

  Still moving slowly, Fletch disposed of his sandwich wrappings and carton of milk.

  In the bedroom, he carefully packed a large suitcase. Into it went tennis whites. Three pairs of blue jeans. Blue jean shorts. T-shirts. Several dress shirts. Neckties. Underwear. His shaving kit. Two suits. Two sports jackets. Two pairs of slacks. His address book. Black shoes. Three pairs of black socks. Three pairs of brown socks. His passport.

  He put typing paper and carbon paper into his typewriter case and closed it.

  Then he dressed in brown loafers, brown socks, a dress shirt, necktie, trousers and a sports jacket. And sunglasses.

  Taking his big tape recorder, typewriter case and suitcase, he went to the apartment garage. He lashed the tape recorder to the passenger seat of the MG. He put the typewriter case behind the front seats and the suitcase in the trunk.

  Then he drove to the main gate of Collins Aviation and waited.

  19

  It was four o’clock when Fletch pulled up and parked across from the main gate of Collins Aviation.

  At four forty-five, through sunglasses, he saw the gray-uniformed guard at the gate step briskly out of his guardhouse, whistle and wave people aside, clear the road and the sidewalk, and casually salute a car coming through. It was the gray Jaguar XKE, license number 440-001. It turned left into traffic.

  Alan Stanwyk was driving.

  Fletch followed him.

  Joan Stanwyk had said Alan worked late Mondays and Wednesdays. On those two days of the week he seldom arrived home before midnight. He remained at the office.

  It was Monday. Stanwyk had left the office before five.

  He continued down Stevenson to Main and turned right on Main. Following him, Fletch thought Stanwyk might be heading for the expressway toward the city. But after twelve blocks, Stanwyk turned left on Seabury. At the corner of Seabury and Bouvard he pulled into the parking lot of a liquor store. Fletch waited across the street.

  Watching Stanwyk amble into the liquor store and out again, Fletch could only think him a well man. An unconcerned man. A relaxed man. As he went in, Stanwyk’s hands were in the pockets of his slacks. His gait was slow and even. His face expressionless. When he came out, his face had the half smile of someone who had just passed pleasantries. In the bag he was carrying were at least three bottles of liquor. It took him a moment to find the right key on his keychain for the ignition.

  Continuing the way he had been going, Stanwyk went another three blocks on Seabury and then turned left on Putnam. A half mile along Putnam, he turned into the tree-shaded parking lot of a garden apartment development. He parked the Jaguar in the shade of the trees at the far side of the parking lot. Fletch parked in the middle row of the parking lot, in the sunlight. Stanwyk locked his car.

  Carrying the bag of liquor, he strolled across the parking lot, cutting through the middle row of cars within three cars of Fletch, walked fifteen yards down the sidewalk, turned left on a walk and into a doorway.

  Fletch waited ten minutes by his dashboard clock.

  Then he went into the doorway himself.

  The doorway served two apartments. On the left, the name on the letterbox was Charles Rice. The box was full of mail.

  The mailbox on the right was empty. The name on that box was Sandra Faulkner.

  A sign in the recessed doorway warned trespassers and solicitors as well as loiterers and burglars. It was signed GREENE BROS. MANAGEMENT.

  “Where’s Gummy?”

  Someone had gotten up enough energy to make a campfire on the beach. It was a reasonably cool night. Farther up the beach there were other campfires.

  Vatsyayana said, “Fletch.”

  In a corner of the parking garage, Fletch had changed into jeans. Having had a sport coat on, he had not realized it had gotten cooler. He wished he had at least put on a T-shirt.

  �
�Where’s Gummy?” he asked again.

  July said, “I saw him earlier.”

  “Where did he go? Did he say?”

  July said, “No.”

  “Anyone else seen Gummy?”

  No one answered.

  Vatsyayana asked, “Where’s Bobbi?”

  Fletch said, “She’s split.”

  “For where?”

  Vatsyayana’s look was one of kindly concern.

  “That great candy store in the sky.”

  Vatsyayana said nothing.

  Rolled against the base on the sea wall in a blanket, not far from where Fletch had placed the rock the night before, was Creasey. Fletch stood over him a moment in the dark, not sure whether Creasey was traveling or asleep.

  Creasey said, “What’s happening, man?”

  “I’m looking for Gummy,” Fletch said.

  “Oh, man, he’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “That kid’s had it. I mean, how often can you be a beatin’ bag for the fuzz?”

  “You don’t know he’s gone.”

  Creasey said, “He should have gone. Man, there has to be enough of everything. I mean, the kid’s been beatin’ and been beatin’. Then he gets home and his daddy whumps him. Everybody’s beatin’ up on that kid all the time.”

  Fletch said, “I’m lookin’ for Gummy.”

  “Like my old skins. Man, I feel guilty for beatin’ on them. Every night with sticks. Drumsticks. I beat on those skins. I mean, how do we know those skins don’t have feeling? Suppose when I hit them they hurt? Really hurt?”

  “I don’t know about that, Creasey.”

  “I’ve got a lot of painin’ to do. To make up for what I did.”

  “Don’t you think the drums will forgive you?”

  “The Christly drums. That’s the idea. Beat up on anybody, anything, as much as you want, even drums, and they must forgive you, because that’s what The Man said. Christ.”

  “I’m looking for Gummy. Have you seen him?”

  “No. Where’s Bobbi?”

  . Fletch said, “She’s all right.”

  “She split? I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

  “You saw her yesterday morning.”

  “Yeah. She was all strung out. She’d had it. Fletch? You know, she’d had it. Last time I saw her.”

  “I didn’t realize it.”

  “She’d had it. Is she gone?”

  “Yeah. She’s gone.”

  “Jesus.”

  Fletch stood a moment in the dark near Creasey, not looking at the rock, and then moved on.

  At another campfire he sat down and waited a moment before speaking. No one was speaking.

  “Anyone seen Gummy?”

  No one answered.

  The kid with the jug ears they called Bing Crosby was looking expectantly at Fletch, as if waiting to hear what Fletch had just said.

  “I’m looking for Gummy.”

  A forty-year-old man with a telephone receiver stenciled on his sweater, with the words under it DIAL ME, said, “He’s not here.”

  Fletch waited a moment before moving on.

  At another campfire, Filter-tip said he thought Gummy had gone home. To his parents’ house. Jagger said he thought Gummy had been picked up by the police again.

  When Fletch stood up from the campfire, he found Vatsyayana standing behind. Vatsyayana walked a few paces with him toward the sea wall.

  “Why are you looking for Gummy?”

  “Bobbi gave me a message for him.”

  “Where’s Bobbi?”

  “She’s split,”

  “Where’s Bobbi?”

  “Gonzo. Bye-bye.”

  “Where?”

  “With a knapsack I gave her. Full of protein tablets and Ritz crackers I ripped off from a Seventh Day Adventist supermarket.”

  Vatsyayana stopped. “I said, where’s Bobbi?”

  “Look. She got her supply up yesterday, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So she split.”

  Vatsyayana was giving him the hard stare through the moonlight. His eyes remained kind.

  “Why are you looking for Gummy?”

  “I told you. Bobbi gave me a message for him.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “It’s for Gummy.”

  “Tell me.”

  Fletch said, “Hang loose, Fat Sam.”

  He followed his moon shadow up the beach.

  On that cool night, trying to sleep on his groundmat, Fletch missed his sleeping bag. He missed Bobbi. Together they would have been warm in the sleeping bag.

  20

  Fletch heard the heavy footsteps on the stairs. They were in no hurry. They came along the short landing to his door and stopped.

  The door swung open slowly.

  Two policemen looked through the door.

  Fletch sat up.

  “Good morning,” the first policeman said. They both looked showered, shaved and full of coffee.

  “What day is it?” Fletch asked.

  “Tuesday.”

  The second policeman was looking for a place to sit down. In his eyes going over the room was comparable pride in his own home, his own furniture.

  “Get ready to come with us.”

  “Why?”

  “The chief wants to see you. Questioning.”

  Fletch was looking at his bare feet on their sides on the groundmat.

  “I guess I’m ready.”

  “You don’t even want to take a leak?”

  Fletch said, “Why should I take a leak when I’m going to the police station anyway?”

  It was about a quarter to seven in the morning.

  One of the policemen held open the back door of the patrol car for Fletch and closed it after he had gotten in.

  A heavy wire grill ran between the front seat and the back seat.

  The back seat was broken down. It smelled of vomit. Dried blood was on the seat and the floor.

  Fletch said, “This is a very poor environment back here. I want you to know that.”

  “It’s nice up here,” said the policeman in the passenger seat.

  The driver said, “How’s your head?”

  Fletch had forgotten.

  “This is the first time it hasn’t hurt. You two aren’t the two I belted on the beach the other night, are you?”

  “No,” said the driver. “I’m the one who belted you.”

  Fletch said, “You do nice work.”

  “It’s a pleasure.”

  “How come you guys didn’t arrest me the other night?”

  “The chief said not to,” said the driver. “He was feeling mellow.”

  “He feels mellow every time he comes back from his retirement home in Mexico. He counts the grapefruit or something. Makes him feel mellow.”

  “He’s retiring soon?”

  “Next year sometime.”

  Fletch said, “I was hoping he’d retire before I got to the station.”

  They turned onto Main. It was difficult talking through a grill to the backs of heads. Fletch wanted to open the window, but the window jack handles had been removed. The police were probably afraid someone would try to commit suicide by bopping himself on the nose with one.

  The smell was beginning to make Fletch feel sick.

  He repeated, “This is a very poor environment back here.”

  From his appearance, Chief of Police Graham Cummings could not have been anything else. Short-cropped iron-gray hair. A jawline like a shovel scoop. Broad, massive shoulders. Steady, brown eyes. A man of his appearance in any town would almost automatically be given the job of police chief.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Fletch.”

  “What’s your full name?”

  “Fletch Fletch Fletch.”

  Alone in the chief’s bare, utilitarian office, they sat on either side of a gray aluminum desk.

  “By any chance, could Fletch be short for Fletcher?”
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  “It could be.”

  “Is Fletcher your first name or your last?”

  “My first name.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Smith.”

  “Fletcher Smith,” the Chief said. “Seems I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”

  “Fletcher Smith?”

  “No. Just Smith. Where do you live, Smith?”

  “I forget the address. Where your goons picked me up this morning.”

  “You live there?”

  “Weekends I spend in Hawaii.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “Except for a pet roach.”

  “And what do you do for a living, Mr. Smith?”

  “I’m a shoeshine boy.”

  “There was no shoeshine equipment in your room.”

  “I must have been ripped off during the night. I’ll file a complaint before I leave.”

  The chief said, “There seems to be a certain lack of coordination between yourself and your office, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your superiors at the News-Tribune called here yesterday. Your editor. A Mrs. Snow. Do I have that right? A Clara Snow.”

  “Shit.”

  “She informed me you are doing an investigation, for your newspaper, of drugs on the beach. And she asked that we keep an eye out for you. She said she thought you might be getting close to something. If you asked for police protection we were to understand who you are, and to give it.”

  “Shit.”

  “You are I.M. Fletcher of the News-Tribune.”

  “You’ve got the wrong I.M. Fletcher.”

  “Are you getting close to something, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “No.”

  “Well, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Fuck.”

  The chief did not relax. He remained, forearms on the desk, looking directly at Fletch.

  “Mr. Fletcher, it seems you have forgotten certain things. There is a certain little rule, shall we call it, which says that you are supposed to identify yourself as a journalist immediately to any officer of the law with whom you find yourself in conversation—even casual conversation. Had you forgotten that rule?”