Fletch, Too

by Gregory Mcdonald

  Fletch chuckled. “Okay. But I’ll be a few minutes. We’ve spent the last several months on airplanes and you won’t want to recognize me if I don’t shave and shower.”

  “Right,” Carr said. “We’ll look for someone clean.”

  “Did I hear the phone?” Barbara came out of the bathroom. Her head and torso were wrapped in towels.

  “Yes.” Shirt off, Fletch was going into the bathroom with his shaving kit.

  “Was it your father?”

  “No.”

  “Was it the police?”

  “Why would it be? A friend of my father’s, someone I guess my father wants present at the meeting for moral support. They’ll be waiting for us downstairs on that veranda.”

  “Why didn’t your father make the call?”

  “He’s not here yet. Barbara!”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “If we’re to be married—”

  “We were married. We are married.”

  “— either I’ll have to grow a beard or be able to see in the mirror so I can shave.”

  “You told me I had first dibs on the shower.”

  “Why steam up the room? Why shower with the door closed?” There was a phone extension in the bathroom. “What century do you belong to, anyway? Why ever shower with the door closed?”

  “The air’s very dry here. See?” She reached her hand into the bathroom, closed her fingers, and threw the steam out. “All gone.”

  “I look lousy,” he said, shaving.

  “Yes,” she said solemnly. “I was trying to spare you that view of yourself.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I’m no more jet-lagged than you are. Well live through the day.”

  “I can go down and say you’re sick. You can meet these … your father, tomorrow.”

  “Why do that?”

  “One shock to your system at a time. Isn’t that what Aristotle said?”

  “Aristotle said, The roast lamb is very good today.”

  “You’re so contemporary.”

  When he came out of the shower, Barbara was still in her towels but there were clothes all over the room. Ski clothes. Sweaters. Ski boots. Ski goggles. Gloves. A kit of ski wax.

  Barbara looked perplexed.

  “Where are my clothes?” Fletch asked.

  “In the laundry.”

  “What laundry?”

  “A man came to the door and said he wanted clothes for the laundry so I gave him yours.”

  “Very generous of you.”

  “Mine, too. Everything we were wearing on the plane.”

  “Do I have any other clothes? I mean, to wear?”

  “No,” she said. “Neither do I. Apparently not.” She waved her hand around the room. “Ski clothes.”

  “Not even jeans?”

  “I told Alston I wasn’t going to see you in jeans on our honeymoon. Or sneakers. Just ski clothes.”

  “Great.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed. Feet still on the floor, he lowered his back onto the bed. He was completely surrounded by ski clothes.

  “You are still wet,” she said.

  “I won’t catch cold.”

  She took off her torso towel. She wiped him down lightly, just once, from his shoulders to his ankles.

  “You missed the soles of my feet.”

  “Raise your legs,” she said. “Seeing everything else is up.”

  She knelt. He put his knees over her shoulders.

  “Maypole,” she said. “Flagpole. Tower of London.” She was waving it back and forth. “There’s nothing quite like it. Rigid, yet flexible.”

  “Millions of things just like it, so I hear.”

  “This is the one I’ve got ahold of.”

  “Right. That’s the one.”

  “What will I do with it?” she asked.

  “As you will. I can always grow another.”

  “Mmmmmm.”

  “My father …”

  “My sneakers?” he asked.

  “I gave them to the laundry man. I doubt you’ll get them back.”

  Fletch stood in the middle of the room, dripping from a second shower.

  “They’ll be crocked by now.” She was lying on some ski clothes on the floor, still looking at the ceiling.

  “Who?”

  “Your father and his friend. They’ll be relaxed. You’re relaxed.”

  “I figured he could wait.”

  Barbara rolled on her side and put her head on the palm of her hand. She bent one knee. “You look much better now. Your color has come back.”

  “Barbara, I have to meet my father, for first the time, dressed in ski clothes, in equatorial Africa. Powder blue or rich yellow?”

  “Wear your blue. It’s sort of a formal occasion.”

  “Ski boots!”

  “Am I coming downstairs with you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I could try to call my mother. She must be worried silly. I was supposed call her—how many days ago?—from Colorado!”

  “Maybe I should meet him first myself. No distractions.”

  “No moral support?”

  “My morals don’t need support.” He was pulling on nylon, formfitting, powder-blue ski pants.

  “She’s probably been bothering the airlines, the police, hospitals, the ski lodge. She must be frantic.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have asked Alston to call her.”

  “What sense would he have made? ‘Hello, Mrs. Ralton. Fletch took your daughter to Africa. Said something about the white slave trade.’” She rolled onto her back. “Oh, God. What am going to say? ‘Hi, Mom. The snow here is not all that great for skiing. We’re in Africa.’”

  “Is one of these sweaters at least lightweight?”

  “Wear the red one.”

  “It looks hot.”

  “Roll up the sleeves. ‘We missed doing what we said we were going to do by two whole continents and one huge ocean!’”

  “Just tell her you’re all right.”

  Keeping her legs straight, she raised them off the floor and held them, tightening her stomach muscles. “You’re not going to talk to the police?”

  He was stomping into his ski boots. “One thing at a time. As you just said.”

  “‘Hey, Mom! You know those aquamarine shorts of mine? Could you send them to Nairobi?’ How’s that for starters?”

  “Sounds good.” He clicked his boots shut and knelt on the floor. He leaned over and kissed Barbara.

  She ran her hand along the inside of his leg. “Ummm. You feel good, even with pants on.”

  “The customs official thought they felt good, too.”

  “Strange customs.”

  At the door, he said, “You’ll come down in a while?”

  She rolled onto her stomach. “Sure. What did I say?”

  “‘Don’t be disappointed’?”

  She winked at him. “You got it, babe.”

  There was only one proper-looking gentleman with a drink in front of his face, eyes on the front door of the hotel, when Fletch appeared on Lord Delamere’s Terrace in ski boots, powder-blue ski pants, red sweater (sleeves rolled up), and sunglasses. At least there was only one proper-looking gentleman with drink in front of his face, eyes on the front door of the hotel, who gulped at the sight.

  Others glanced and continued chatting.

  That man began to rise, so Fletch went over to him.

  The man held out his hand. “I’m Carr. The four-door model.”

  Shaking hands, Fletch said, “My father not here yet?”

  “Can’t think what happened to him.” The man sat down again. His beer glass was half empty. It was a round table, with four chairs. Fletch sat across from him. Carr said, “You’re a dazzler. Absolutely a dazzler. Is that what they wear in America these days?”

  “When they’re skiing.”

  At a table near them sat two paunchy men in short safari suits, balding,
florid-faced, wearing competitive handlebar moustaches. At another table sat a woman in black, with a black picture hat. The man with her was in a double-breasted blue blazer, white shirt, and red tie. His hair was brilliantined. Jammed around another table were six students, male and female, black and white, jabbering excitedly, dressed in cutoffs and T-shirts. Two businessmen, briefcases on the floor beside them, talked earnestly at another table. Their white shirt cuffs and collars were between the perfectly matching blackness of their skins and suits. Many tables away three women sat together in brilliantly colored saris. Almost everyone else on the terrace was dressed in long or short khakis.

  Carr asked, “Do you play guitar?”

  “No,” Fletch answered. “No talents.”

  Carr himself was dressed in khaki shorts, long khaki stockings, a short-sleeved khaki shirt. He was a solidly built middle-aged man with big knees, big forearms, big chest, and not too much gut. His hair was thinning, sandy. Even though his skin was deeply tanned, there was a light sunburn on top of it, and a few freckles on top of the burn. His hands were large, strong, heavily callused. His eyes were perhaps the clearest Fletch had ever seen.

  “How do you like the Norfolk?” Carr asked.

  “It seems authentic,” Fletch said. “Perhaps the most authentic place I’ve ever been.”

  Carr chuckled. “I expect it is. In the old days, you know, the cowboys would come in so dusty and thirsty they’d ride their horses straight into the bar. The bar used to be through there in those days.” He pointed to a blocked-off door. “Now that’s a posh dining room. They’d be so dehydrated half a drink would make them looped, and they’d start shootin’ the place up.” He chuckled again. “I’ve been thrown out of here more times than I can recall.”

  “I bet.” Fletch doubted it.

  “Red, white, and blue.”

  Fletch looked down at his powder-blue pants and red sweater. “What’s white?”

  “You are.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

  A young waiter said to Fletch, “Jambo.”

  “Jambo. Habari?”

  “Habari, bwana?”

  “Mzuri sana.”

  “Good God!” Carr said. “You speak swahili?”

  “Why not?” Fletch checked his watch. “I’ve been here two and a half hours.”

  Carr gave Fletch a long look. Then he said to the waiter, “Beeri mbili, tafahadhali.” He felt his glass. “Baridi.”

  Very carefully, Fletch said, “Baridi.”

  Laughing, Carr said, “You’re a dazzler!” The waiter went away. “Americans never used to make an effort at languages.”

  Fletch looked across Harry Thuku Road to Nairobi University. “Does my father speak Swahili?”

  “Oh, yes. Plus God knows what else. Has to, you see, flying small planes around the world. Here, ninety percent of the people speak English, ninety percent Swahili, and ninety percent speak at least one other, tribal language.”

  “What are you?” Fletch asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You could be English, American, South African, I suppose, Australian, from the way you sound.”

  “Not Australian,” Carr said. “Not Australian. That takes too much bloomin’ work. I’m Kenyan. Turned in a British passport for a Kenyan passport, and never regretted it. Live here awhile, and you’re apt to sound like anything, I suppose. A cosmopolitan wee place.”

  “You’re a pilot?”

  “Still flying, as they say.”

  “The man who appeared at my wedding, last Saturday, said nothing, but handed me the package with the tickets in it to come here was probably a pilot, yes?” Fletch was hot. The red sweater was prickling his skin. “He was a little guy, dressed in khaki, a blue tie.”

  “The international brotherhood of bush pilots.”

  “Where else have you flown?”

  “Latin America, India. Some in the States. Other places in Africa.”

  “Smuggle?”

  “That’s not my business.”

  “Does my father?”

  “That’s not his business, either.”

  The waiter brought the beer.

  Fletch said, “Thanks, bwana.”

  Carr smiled. He put his half-empty glass of beer onto the waiter’s tray.

  “How is my father?” Fletch asked.

  Carr looked across the road. “We’ve all seen better days.”

  “He must be rich.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Tickets here, for two, plus a thousand bucks, this hotel. That’s a lot.”

  “Not over a lifetime. Have you ever had anything else from him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you come here only because you thought he might be rich?”

  “No. I was ‘mildly curious.’”

  “He’s not rich.”

  “How do you suppose he knew I was getting married? Exact time, odd place … I barely made it myself.”

  Carr seemed to be studying his rough hands. “I suspect your father’s been hearing from you all your life.”

  “Not from me.”

  “Hearing of you. I’ve seen pictures of you.”

  “Of me?”

  “In a school yard. Walking along a street. In a football jersey. On a beach.”

  “All those dirty old men taking pictures of me.”

  “Pilot friends, I expect.”

  Fletch grinned. “And all these years I thought it was because I was so pretty.”

  “I take it you’ve never seen a picture of him?”

  “No.”

  “What were you told?”

  “I was allowed to think he was dead. He was declared dead, legally, when I was in the second year of school. I didn’t know until last Saturday that my mother has always allowed for the possibility that he is alive. I guess she didn’t want me to go off on some half-baked father search, you know, only to be disappointed.”

  Carr’s eyes opened wider. He shook his head. “Absolutely,” he said, “this has to be Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Fletch looked around.

  Outside the door of the hotel stood Barbara, in ski boots, powder-blue ski pants, and a red sweater, sleeves rolled up.

  “Three rabbits.” Carr said to the waiter, “and I guess a beer for the lady.”

  “Rabbit,” Barbara said softly. “Americans don’t eat rabbits.”

  Carr had said they might as well have lunch.

  After he ordered, Carr was interrupted by a man who came by the table. There was a brief introduction. The man and Carr talked about flying some glass specimen boxes to Kitale.

  “This isn’t your father?” Barbara whispered.

  “A friend of his. Another pilot. Name of Carr. First name unknown.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He doesn’t know. I think he’s rather embarrassed. He’s here as moral support, and the old man isn’t here at all. He’s trying to be very nice.”

  The conversation about glass specimen boxes was ending.

  “Peter Rabbit,” Barbara said. “Peter Cottontail. The Easter Bunny. ‘What’s up, Doc?’”

  Carr said to Fletch, “My first name is Peter. People call me Carr.”

  “Peter.”

  “I can’t eat Peter Cottontail,” Barbara said.

  Carr said, “What?” as does a man who suffers some permanent hearing disability.

  “Where’s Fletch’s father?” Barbara said.

  Carr looked at the entrance in obvious pain. “I wish I knew.”

  “Isn’t there someplace you can call him?”

  “This isn’t Europe,” Carr said. “The States. When a person goes missing here, it’s not likely he’s standing next to a phone.”

  “I called my mother,” Barbara said to Fletch.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I said, ‘I’m in Nairobi, Kenya, East Africa, on my honeymoon with Fletch darling, I am very well, and sorry if you were worried when I didn’t call you from Colorado.�
�”

  “That’s the thing,” Carr said. “You can make a trans-world call from here easier than you can call across the street.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She thought I was joking. Then she said, ‘Is that boy you married ever where he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be?’ Then she said, ‘There’s some trick to everything he does. You can’t live your life that way, Barbara.’”

  Carr was trying to watch Fletch’s eyes through Fletch’s sunglasses.

  Fletch put his sunglasses on the table.

  “She said I should come home instantly and divorce you.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I was going to have lunch first. But rabbit?”

  “Don’t make a point in looking,” Carr said, “but there’s a man entering you mustn’t miss.”

  The man went by the table like an aircraft carrier. He was six feet eight or nine inches tall and weighed nearly three hundred pounds. His head was a great, bald nose cone. He and Carr exchanged nods.

  He sat at a table near the railing, back to the daylight, facing the entrance. He took a newspaper out and flattened it on the table.

  Instantly, a waiter brought him a bottle of beer and a glass.

  “He usually doesn’t show here until about four o’clock in the afternoon,” Carr said.

  “Who is he?” Fletch asked.

  Carr hesitated. The waiter was putting their plates in front of them. “His name is Dawes. Dan Dawes.”

  “What does he do?”

  Barbara examined her plate. “They don’t look like rabbits.”

  “He teaches high school.”

  “I’ll bet his students call him ‘Bwana.’ ”

  “I daresay,” Carr said.

  Barbara put her knife into what was on her plate. “Cheese.”

  “Rarebit,” Fletch said.

  “They’re cheese rabbits.” Barbara began to eat happily.

  The waiter was gone.

  “He shoots people,” Carr said. “At night. Almost always at night.”

  Barbara choked.

  “Bad people, of course. Villains. Some say he does it for the police. He kills people the police can’t get sufficient evidence against to bring to trial; people the police feel aren’t worth the expense of a trial, and jail, or hanging.”

  “He just goes out and shoots people?”

  “A blast from a .45 through the back of the head. Always very neat.”