Fletch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “It slipped my mind.”

  “We have you on a violation of that rule, Mr. Smith.”

  “Entrapment.”

  “Second, we know that you have been living here at The Beach with a young girl named Bobbi.”

  “I have?”

  “Where is Bobbi?”

  “She split.”

  “Where did Bobbi go?”

  “I don’t know. Home, maybe.”

  “I sincerely doubt that. Addicts seldom stray far from their source.”

  “She got a bit ahead. Enough to trip on.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Sunday night.”

  “By what method of transportation?”

  “She flew.”

  “Then there is the fact that we found stashed in your room quantities of both marijuana and heroin.”

  “Did you have a search warrant?”

  “We weren’t searching. We just happened to find the stuff concealed in the stove.”

  “I was hiding it from Bobbi.”

  “You are guilty of possession of hard drugs.”

  “I made the purchases as evidence.”

  “From whom did you buy it?”

  “Fat Sam.”

  “Then why was the marijuana in City Police Laboratory bags?”

  “Who knows Fat Sam’s source?”

  “Why would you need to make a purchase of marijuana anyway? One purchase of heroin would be sufficient evidence.”

  “I like to write a balanced story.”

  “That story you wrote last fall about the Police Association wasn’t very balanced.”

  “What?”

  “I remember the story. And the by-line. I. M. Fletcher. You said the Police Association was nothing but a drinking club.”

  “Oh.”

  “You made very little of the fact that we have seminars, when we meet, on police techniques. That we raise money for the Police Academy. That last year we donated an ambulance to Ornego, California.”

  “Thanks for reading me.”

  “Do you get my point, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “I’m getting it.”

  “I want you out of town. Immediately.”

  “Some police protection.”

  “You may have some excuses for the matters I have already mentioned, including the possession of heroin, but I have on my staff three police officers who can attest to having been struck by you while in the course of their duty last Sunday night.”

  “You didn’t arrest me then.”

  “We were trying to subdue another prisoner.”

  “It took seven of you to subdue a seventeen-year-old junkie?”

  “Due to your intercession, three of the seven were wounded.”

  “Why didn’t you arrest me the other night?”

  “Did you want to be arrested, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Golly, gee, no, chief.”

  “Mr. Fletcher, I am going to give you two orders, and you are going to obey both. The first is that any evidence you have regarding drugs on the beach you turn over to us. Do you have any evidence at all?”

  “No.”

  “None?”

  “Just Fat Sam.”

  “You really aren’t very good at your work, are you?”

  “I get a lot of help from the office.”

  “The second order is that you get out of town before noon. And not come back. Ever. Is that clear?”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “We’re not afraid of you.”

  “Seems like it.”

  “We are conducting our own investigation of the drugs on the beach, Mr. Fletcher. This is police work. These investigations have been ongoing for some time.”

  “Two or three years.”

  “We’re looking for a break sometime in the next few months. This is a difficult, complicated business. A private investigation, even by your newspaper, could ruin all our work to date. I think I’ve made myself clear: get out of town, or we’ll run you through a course that will begin immediately with jail, and will end with your suffering a very long and very expensive legal battle. Possession of heroin and assault upon three separate officers while in performance of their duties should be enough to convince you.”

  “I’m convinced.”

  “You will leave town immediately?”

  “Never to darken your dungeon again.”

  21

  It was a quarter to nine, and the sidewalks were as full as they ever got in the business district of The Beach. Traffic on Main Street was bumper to bumper.

  A block and a half from the police station, an approaching gray Jaguar XKE slid against the curb. License number 440-001. The car Fletch was to steal after murdering Alan Stanwyk in sixty hours. The horn honked.

  Fletch got into the front seat.

  Stanwyk moved the car back into the line of traffic.

  “What were you doing at the police station?”

  “Being questioned.”

  “About what?”

  “A kid I know disappeared. A girl named Bobbi.”

  “Are you involved in her disappearance?”

  “No, but I sure want to get out of town soon. How did you know I was at the police station?”

  “I asked at the beer stand. Which was open at eight o’clock in the morning. Some life you lead. A kid with jug ears said he saw you this morning in the back of a patrol car.”

  “French fries are good for breakfast.”

  Again Stanwyk lit a cigarette without using the dashboard lighter. He used a gold lighter from his pocket. He was wearing sunglasses.

  Fletch said, “What do you want?”

  “To see how everything’s going. Do you have your passport?”

  “I should have it tomorrow.”

  “And the gloves?”

  “I’ll get a pair.”

  “You have applied for the passport?”

  “Oh, yes, I even had my picture taken.”

  “Fine. Are you clear in your mind about what you are going to do?”

  “Perfectly. You still want it done?”

  Stanwyk blew out a stream of smoke. “Yes.”

  “Are you sure you’re dying of cancer?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “You look fine.”

  “It takes a while for it to show. I want to be gone by then.”

  They were sitting at a red light.

  “I remember reading that you fly airplanes.” Fletch said. “Test airplanes. Whatever you call them.”

  “What about it?”

  The car crossed the intersection.

  “So why don’t you kill yourself in an airplane?”

  The shoulders of Stanwyk’s suit jacket moved more than another man’s would when he shrugged. He had powerful shoulders.

  “Call it pride, if you like. If you spend your life trying to keep airplanes in the air, it’s sort of difficult to aim one for the ground.”

  “An expensive pride.”

  “People have spent more than fifty thousand dollars on pride before.”

  “I guess so.”

  “You remember where the house is?”

  “At the end of Berman Street.”

  “That’s right. And how are you going to get there?”

  “I’m going to take a taxi to the corner of Hawthorne and Main and walk from there. It’s a different district, but only about two miles away.”

  “Good for you. And you remember the flight number?”

  “No. You never gave it to me.”

  Stanwyk was looking at him through the sunglasses. “It’s the eleven o’clock TWA flight to Buenos Aires.”

  “I know that,” Fletch said. “But I don’t know the number.”

  Stanwyk said, “Neither do I.”

  He glided the car against the curb.

  “I don’t believe you and I should know each other too well,” he said. “I’m trying not to know you. What I mean is, I think you should forget what you read about me in the newspapers.�
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  Fletch said, “I just happened to remember that.”

  “Forget it. I’ll let you off here.”

  “We’re on the other side of town. I was going in the other direction.”

  “You can hitchhike back.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Stanwyk said, “See you Thursday night.”

  22

  Fletch rang the bell of 15641B Putnam Street and looked back the few feet to where his MG was parked at the curb. Through sunglasses, the green of the car seemed the same as the green of the lawn.

  An elfin voice said, “Yes? Who is it?”

  Fletch bent and shouted into the mouthpiece: “Greene Brothers Management, Miss Faulkner.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Fletch smoothed his tie beneath his buttoned suit jacket.

  Sandra Faulkner’s face was not particularly friendly when she opened the door. She was wearing black slacks and a loose blouse. Her hair was bleached blond and touseled.

  Fletch was astonished. Sandra Faulkner was nowhere near as attractive as Joan Collins Stanwyk. She must be better in bed.

  “I’m from Greene Brothers Management,” he said sternly.

  She said nothing. She was looking at him as if he were a piece of month-old fish.

  “The people who manage these apartments.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “We want to talk with you.”

  “Do you have some identification?”

  “If I were you, miss, I would not take this opportunity to be insolent.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve had complaints from the neighbors about you, and we’re here to discuss the possibility of evicting you on morals charges.”

  “You must be kidding.”

  “We are not kidding at all. Now, if you wish to continue standing here on the doorstep talking about it, it’s all right with me. If you prefer to go inside, out of earshot of your neighbors, we can.”

  She drew back, leaving the door open.

  He entered and closed the door.

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” he said. “Are you alone now?”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  He stalked into the living room, which was furnished in what once had been termed Danish modern.

  “The use of foul and abusive language will do nothing to further your defense.”

  “Defense? What defense?”

  He pushed open the door of the bathroom, which struck him as peculiarly empty. In the bedroom was a king-size bed, with a mirror suspended from the ceiling over it. The bed was made, at ten-thirty, with a red silk coverlet smoothed over it. On a sideboard in the kitchen was a used bottle of vermouth, a half-empty bottle of vodka, and an empty bottle of California chablis.

  “What in Christ’s name are you talking about?” Sandra Faulkner asked.

  “What’s that suspended from the ceiling of the bedroom?”

  “It’s a mirror. What-the-hell business is it of yours what it is?”

  “Miss Faulkner, your lease precisely prohibits hanging anything from the ceiling of this apartment.”

  “Jesus.”

  Nowhere in the apartment were there signs of anyone packing. Fletch sat on a living room chair. He took a notebook and pen out of his pocket.

  “Is your real name Sandra Faulkner?”

  “Yes. Of course. What’s all this about, anyway?”

  “Miss Faulkner, you live in a residential community. There are young families who live in these apartments around you. Families with young children.”

  “I know. So what?”

  “It has become clear to some of the mothers, and, I might add, some of the fathers, that you have no visible means of support.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You haven’t worked in some time.”

  “Why is that anybody’s business?”

  ‘There is a question of whether your hanging around all the time is good for the moral fiber of the community’s young.”

  “Wow. Who’d believe this?”

  “Second, it is quite clear what your means of support are. You keep this apartment solely by your means to sexually entertain.”

  “My God! You’re something from the last century.”

  “Greene Brothers Management is responsible for these apartments, Miss Faulkner, and responsible to some extent for what goes on inside them. At least we must be responsive to complaints.”

  “You can just get the hell out of here.”

  Fletch said, “How long have you known Alan Stanwyk?”

  Her face changed from fury to suppressed horror mingled with sickness.

  “Sit down, Miss Faulkner.”

  She did. On the edge of the divan.

  “How do you know about Alan?”

  “Neighbors recognized him. His picture is frequently in the newspapers, after all.”

  “Jesus. Leave Alan out of this.”

  “He is paying for this apartment and your support, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then. You’re keeping this apartment through illicit means. You had better tell us everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Miss Faulkner, would you like to see Alan Stanwyk named in an eviction action? An eviction action taken on moral grounds?”

  “Oh, my God. I can’t believe this is happening. Who complained?”

  “It is our policy not to report that sort of thing.”

  “Make the world safe for informers, huh?”

  “We’re very grateful to people who tell us when things are amiss among our apartments. How else would we know? Now, I suggest that you take our attempt to grant you a fair hearing sincerely, and tell us all.”

  Sandra Faulkner was looking at Fletch as a lady-in-waiting caught rolling in the hay with a court violinist might have looked at Queen Victoria.

  “Do you always wear your sunglasses in the house?” she asked.

  “I have a failing in the eyes,” Fletch said, “which is not a subject for general conversation.”

  “I see. Wow. Okay. What do you want to know? I used to work as a receptionist at Collins Aviation. Alan Stanwyk is sort of important at Collins Aviation.”

  “We know, Miss Faulkner.”

  “I’m not Miss Faulkner. I’m Mrs. Faulkner. My husband was a test pilot. For the navy. One day, trying to land on an aircraft carrier, he missed and crashed. I couldn’t work for a long time thereafter. Jack and I had put off having children, thinking there would be plenty of time …”

  “This person you refer to as Jack was your husband?”

  “My husband. The insurance ran out. Unemployment ran out. I was drinking heavily. Very heavily. At first, Alan Stanwyk’s office would make a call to see how I was doing. It was just professional courtesy, I think. One morning, very early, I was drunk out of my mind, and I told the secretary to go fuck herself. The next day, Alan Stanwyk showed up at the door with his secretary and some flowers. This was more than a year after Jack had died. They put me in a hospital for a while. And paid for it. Alan is a flier himself. He was overseas. He has a scar on his belly from where he was wounded. The day I was released, Alan picked me up in his car and brought me home. It’s been that way ever since.”

  “You see him twice a week?”

  “Yes, about that. He’s given me something to live for. Himself. I hope someday to have his child.”

  “He comes here on Mondays and Wednesdays?”

  “The neighbors don’t miss much, do they? The sons of bitches.”

  “Mrs. Faulkner, do you have any intention of ever marrying Mr. Stanwyk?”

  “Why, no. He’s married. Joan Collins. He couldn’t divorce her. She’s the daughter of the chairman of the board, or something. John Collins.”

  “You’ve never thought of marrying him?”

  “No. We’ve never discussed it.”

  “Yet you hope to have his child?”
/>   “Yes. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Are you currently pregnant?”

  “No.”

  “In other words, Mrs. Faulkner, you intend to maintain this affair, unchanged, in this apartment, for the foreseeable future?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “And Mr. Stanwyk has not indicated to you any desire for change?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it hardly needs pointing out, Mrs. Faulkner, you have no rights here. Alan Stanwyk could disappear next week, and you wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

  “Fine. If that’s what he wants to do. He owes me nothing. I could get a job now. I’m fine.”

  “Is Mr. Stanwyk in good health?”

  “Yes. Terrific. I wish I hadn’t let myself go so long.”

  “And has he indicated any change in your relationship in the foreseeable future?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Has he indicated to you that you might be taking a trip together?”

  “No. I think I’m kept pretty much in the background. And I’ve never asked for any such thing.”

  Fletch closed his notebook. He had written nothing in it.

  “Very well, Mrs. Faulkner. I’ll make my report to Greene Brothers. I will ask them not to take any action on this matter, as it seems to be a discreet, adult affair.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There aren’t any other men who use this facility, are there?”

  “By ‘this facility,’ do you mean this apartment, or me? The answer is no to both.”

  “I see.” Fletch stood up. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Faulkner.”

  She said, “You have a lousy management company.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you have a lousy management company. Not only are you nosy parkers, but these apartments are not adequately protected against burglary.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I was robbed last night.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes. All my cosmetics.”

  “Your cosmetics?”

  “All of them.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Come. I’ll show you.”

  In the bathroom, she opened the medicine chest.

  “This morning, that window was open, and all my cosmetics were missing.”

  The medicine chest was bare, as were other shelves in the bathroom.

  “Only your cosmetics were missing?”