Fletch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “Some aspirin. My toothpaste.”

  “Your towels are here.”

  “No. One towel is missing.”

  “One towel is missing. They must have used it to carry off the cosmetics.”

  “That’s what I figure.”

  “Surely, Mrs. Faulkner, that window is not large enough for an adult.”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Some child in the neighborhood must have broken in and stolen your cosmetics.”

  “I would say so.”

  “Probably afraid to venture farther into the apartment.”

  “I’m glad you’re so busy protecting the morals of the children in this neighborhood, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is, Greene Brothers Management. I’d hate to have them thinking dirty thoughts while they’re in jail for burglary.”

  23

  It was lunch time. The corridors of the News-Tribune were cool and empty.

  Fletch dropped two wrapped sandwiches and a carton of milk on his desk and took off his suit jacket.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the managing editor.

  “This is Fletcher. I want to talk to Frank.”

  “Are you in the office, Fletch?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s at lunch. He’ll be back at two o’clock. Can you wait till then?”

  “I’ll twiddle my thumbs. Please make sure I see him at two.”

  Fletch loosened his tie and sat down.

  While eating the sandwiches, he found the subpoena. Ordered to appear in court Friday morning at ten o’clock. Failure to pay alimony to Barbara Ralton Fletcher. Contempt of court. Failure to appear will cause instant arrest.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Friday morning he had the choice of receiving a Bronze Star and thus being arrested, or facing contempt charges in court and thus being fired.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  The phone rang.

  “Hello, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Is this Mr. Fletcher?”

  “If you insist.”

  “What?”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Mr. Gillett, of Gillett, Worsham and O’Brien.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Mr. Fletcher, I regret to tell you that the check you gave me the other day as payment of back and present alimony to Mrs. Linda Fletcher, in the amount of three thousand, four hundred and twenty-nine dollars, is no good.”

  “You bastard. I asked you not to cash it for ten days.”

  “I didn’t try to cash it, Mr. Fletcher. However, I did take the precaution of making an inquiry at the bank. You don’t even have an account in that bank, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “What?”

  “You do not now, you never have had an account in the Merchants Bank. Not a checking account, not a savings account. Nothing.”

  “Nice of you to tell me.”

  “Where did you get that check, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. I was clearing my throat.”

  “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I warned you when we met in your office last Friday that if you didn’t play straight with us from now on, I would lower the boom on you. I would bring you back to court. You have provided me with ample opportunity for doing precisely that.”

  “Mr. Gillett—”

  “You listen to me. This morning I have gone into court and seen to it that contempt charges are filed against you. A subpoena ordering you to appear in court Friday morning at ten o’clock will arrive within minutes.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

  “I can’t be there Friday morning.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve already been subpoenaed to appear in court Friday morning at ten o’clock to answer contempt charges for not paying alimony to my first wife, Barbara.”

  “Mr. Fletcher, I can’t care about that.”

  “Well, I can’t be in two places at the same time.”

  “At least we know Friday morning you will not be before a justice of the peace getting married again.”

  “Anyway, Friday morning at ten o’clock I’m also supposed to be in the marine commandant’s office receiving a Bronze Star.”

  “Really, Mr. Fletcher. I’ve had enough of your stories.”

  “It’s true. If I don’t pick up the damned Bronze Star, I’ll get fired. Then where will all my wives be?”

  “They’ll still be in court, Mr. Fletcher, hopefully represented by able attorneys.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What’s more, Mr. Fletcher, in further implementation of my threat to lower the boom on you, this morning I also filed criminal charges against you for fraud.”

  “Fraud?”

  “Fraud, Mr. Fletcher. It is against the law, Mr. Fletcher, to present checks against bank accounts that don’t exist.”

  “How can you do this to me?”

  “I’m obliged to. As an attorney practicing law in the state of California, I am an officer of the court, and I would be derelict in my duty to know that a crime has been committed without reporting it to the authorities.”

  “You reported me. Criminal charges.”

  “I was obliged to, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “You just bit the hand that feeds you. How can I support my ex-wives if I’m in jail?”

  “I have bitten the hand which has refused to feed us. You haven’t yet supported your ex-wives.”

  “Mr. Gillett.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “I wonder if you and I might not meet in some quiet, out-of-the-way place, a bar, or take a ride in the country, spend a night or two …”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious.”

  “I think that’s a delightful idea. I don’t know how you guessed, but I am rather attracted to you, Mr. Fletcher. But I really think we had better put these legal matters behind us first, don’t you?”

  “I was thinking this might be a very good way of putting our legal matters behind us.”

  “Your legal problems, Mr. Fletcher, are between you and your wives. And now, of course, a criminal court. Any relationship you and I might have should have nothing to do with your legal matters.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Mr. Fletcher. Are you pulling my leg?”

  “That’s what I’m pulling. Yes.”

  Gillett breathed three times before speaking again.

  “Mr. Fletcher, I don’t know whether you are a very, very cruel boy, or just thoroughly confused. I would prefer to think the latter. I am a member of the Anglican faith. If you are confused, I would be extremely pleased to continue our relationship more affectionately at some future time. For the moment, however, I advise you that a subpoena to face contempt of court charges Friday morning is immediately forthcoming. And I also advise you that criminal charges for fraud have been filed against you, and, although I am not your attorney, I would suggest to you that you present yourself at the main police station this afternoon, identify yourself, and allow yourself to be arrested. This should permit you to be out on bail in time for your other court appearances Friday morning.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Gillett. See you in church.”

  Fletch was chewing the second half of his first sandwich, feeling guilty about what he had done to Sandra Faulkner, when the phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “Fletch? This is Barbara.”

  “Barbara, my first wife?”

  “I’ve been calling you every half hour for days. I was hoping to talk to you before the subpoena arrived.”

  “I’m having it for lunch.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Fletcher.”

  “Tut, tut, my dear. Think nothing of it. What’s a little contempt of court charge between old friends?”

  “It’s the lawyers who are doing it, Fletch. They insist. They are real worried about the eight thousand dollars you owe me.”

  “Is it that m
uch?”

  “Eight thousand four hundred twelve dollars.”

  “Golly. I should have taken care of that. How careless of me.”

  “It really isn’t my fault, Fletch. I mean the contempt of court thing. I didn’t do it.”

  “Not to worry, Barbara. A little enough matter. Easy to straighten out. I’ll pop down to court Friday morning and straighten things out in a switch of a lamb’s tail.”

  “You’re wonderful, Fletcher.”

  “Tut tut.”

  “I mean, it’s not the money I care about, or anything. I know how much you earn from the newspaper. You can’t afford it.”

  “I understand precisely.”

  “You do?”

  “Certainly, Barbara.”

  “Fletcher, I’m still in love with you.”

  “I know. Isn’t it awful?”

  “It’s been two years.”

  “That long?”

  “I never even see you around town anymore. I’ve put on weight.”

  “You have?”

  “I’ve been eating too much. I heard you got married again and divorced again.”

  “Just a temporary defection from my one true love.”

  “Really? Why did you get married again?”

  “It came over me one day. With chills and prickly heat.”

  “Why did you get divorced?”

  “Well, Barbara, it came down to a question between the cat and me. One of us had to go. The cat went first.”

  “I didn’t call you all the time you were married.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I just heard you got divorced last week. I bumped into Charlie.”

  “How’s Charlie?”

  “Fletcher, do you think you and I could make it together again?”

  “How much weight did you say you’ve gained?”

  “A lot. I’m really gross.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I don’t like the place I’m living. Are you still in the apartment on Clearwater Street?”

  “I still live on the Street of Magnificent Plumbing.”

  “I’m sorry I divorced you, Fletch. I really regret it.”

  “Ah, well. Easy come. Easy go.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m trying to eat a sandwich.”

  “What I’m trying to say is, I’m trying to apologize to you. For divorcing you.”

  “Don’t give it a thought.”

  “I’ve grown up a lot.”

  “It comes with gaining weight, I think.”

  “The girls really bothered me, you know.”

  “Girls? What girls?”

  “Oh, Fletch. You were just making love to everybody in town. All the time. You’d be gone for days on end. Sometimes I think you were making love to five or six different girls a week. I mean, you never hesitated.”

  “I get seduced easily.”

  “I thought it was awful. Every girl I looked at on the street, complete strangers, their eyes would say: I’ve made love to your husband, too. It was spooky. I mean, you never hesitated to make love to anybody.”

  “It’s good exercise.”

  “Anyway, I think I’ve grown up. To accept that.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes, Fletch. I understand. You’re a male nymphomaniac.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are, Fletch. You just run around the city fucking people.”

  “Well …”

  “You can’t deny it.”

  “Well …”

  “I think it’s cute. I can accept it, now. You do understand that at first it bothered me.”

  “I don’t know why it should.”

  “It did. But it won’t anymore. I’m all grown up now, and you can play with anybody you like.”

  Fletch drank from the carton of milk.

  “Fletch?”

  “Yes, Barbara?”

  “What I mean is: can we live together again?”

  “What a wonderful idea.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Sure, Barbara.”

  “My lease runs out the end of this week—”

  “Move in Friday.”

  “Really?”

  “Friday morning. Sorry I won’t be able to help you, but as you know, I have to run down to court for a few minutes.”

  “I know. How awful.”

  “But it would make everything all right, if you’re there at the apartment when I get back.”

  “I’ve got a lot of junk now. I’ll need a whole moving van.”

  “That’s all right. You just back the moving van up to the service elevator and get yourself moved in. Arrange things as you like. And then when I get back from court, we’ll have a nice lunch together.”

  “Terrific. Fletcher, you’re beautiful.”

  “Just like the old days, Barbara.”

  “I’d better get packing.”

  “See you Friday. Maybe I’ll take the weekend off.”

  “Fletcher, I love you.”

  As Fletch was reaching for the second half of the second sandwich, the phone rang again. It was almost two o’clock.

  “I.M. Fletcher’s line.”

  “Fletcher, that’s you.”

  “Linda—my second wife.”

  “What happened to you the other night?”

  “What other night?”

  “Friday night. You told me to rush right over. To the apartment. You weren’t there.”

  “I got held up.”

  “It wasn’t funny, Fletcher. I mean, if that’s your idea of a joke.”

  “Are you sore?”

  “Of course not. At your apartment, I got all ready. I washed my hair and everything. It took me a while to find the dryer. The hair dryer.”

  “You washed your hair?”

  “And I waited and I waited. I slept on the couch.”

  “Poor Linda.”

  “It wasn’t very funny.”

  “I told you I was stoned.”

  “What happened to you.”

  “I ended up at The Beach.”

  “Couldn’t you have waited for me?”

  “I didn’t know I was going.”

  “Did you spend the night with a girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re something else.”

  “Linda, I’ve been thinking …”

  “Doesn’t sound it.”

  “I mean, since the other night. I had to go think.”

  “I understand. You always had to go think.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you since the other night. What I mean is, you know, I don’t earn much here on the newspaper.”

  “I know. By the way, Mr. Gillett says there was something funny about your check.”

  “I know. He has me in court Friday morning.”

  “Poor Fletch.”

  “I agree. We must do something, Linda.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I mean, I’m not earning much, and you’ve lost your job at the boutique, and it just doesn’t make sense for us to be running two apartments.”

  “We’re divorced.”

  “Who cares about that? You wanted to move back in last Friday night.”

  “I still do.”

  “So why don’t you? Give up your apartment, and move in?”

  “I want to.”

  “So okay. Do it.”

  “When?”

  “Friday morning. That way we can spend the weekend together.”

  “You mean, move in permanently?”

  “I mean, give up your apartment, get a moving van, and move your junk back into our apartment Friday morning, put everything away, arrange things as you like, and be there when I get back from court.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Will you do it?”

  “Sure. That’s a wonderful idea.”

  “I think it makes great sense, don’t you?”

  “I hate this place I’m living in, anyway.”

&
nbsp; “Maybe you’ll even have lunch ready when I get back. Maybe we’ll go to The Beach for the weekend.”

  “Wonderful idea. I really do love you, Fletch.”

  “Me, too. I mean, I love you, too. See you Friday.”

  24

  “Clara Snow is an incompetent idiot. She knows nothing about this business. She is too stupid to learn.”

  Frank Jaffe, editor-in-chief of the News-Tribune was sober only a few moments a day. Two o’clock in the afternoon was not one of those moments. At nine in the morning he was bleary-eyed and hung over. At eleven he was reasonable, but also reasonably nervous: he saw everyone as being in the way between him and his first luncheon martini. At eleven-thirty he would dash through the city room to commence drinking his lunch. From two to four-thirty he was coherently drunk. At five he was impatient, irascible. Evening drinking began at six. By nine he was incoherently drunk. In the evening he would phone the office frequently shouting orders no one could ever understand. He would spend much of the next day countermanding the orders he could remember which nobody had understood anyway. From the editor-in-chief’s office would flow daily a sheaf of oblique “clarifications” which disturbed everyone and made no sense to anyone.

  Fletch wondered how he had the energy for Clara Snow.

  From across his oak desk, Frank’s eyes behind glasses appeared to be trying to focus on him from the bottom of a jar of clam juice.

  “What?”

  “Clara Snow is an incompetent idiot. She knows nothing about newspapering. She is so stupid she can’t learn.”

  “She’s your boss.”

  “She is an incompetent idiot. She almost got me killed. She might yet.”

  “What did she do?”

  “I’ve been working on this drugs-on-the-beach story—”

  “For too goddamn long a time, too.”

  “Clara Snow reported to the chief of police at The Beach that I was there on an investigation and getting close to something.”

  “What’s wrong with that? You might need police protection.”

  “What’s wrong with it is that I believe the chief of police is the source of the drugs on the beach.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Chief Graham Cummings? I’ve known him for ten years. Fifteen years. He’s a wonderful man.”

  “He’s the drug source.”

  “The hell he is.”

  “The hell he isn’t.”

  Frank found it difficult to focus on people. “Fletcher, I think I’m taking you off this assignment.”