Fletch, Too

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “Over there is Koobi Fora.” Carr tipped his head to the east side of the lake as he poured. “Where they found the remains of extinct elephants, both African and Indian. Explain to me how the skeletons of Indian elephants come to be here. Also seven human footprints, dated a million and a half years old. And, although some debate it, the remains of our first human ancestor, Homo erectus. First man. The papa of us all.”

  To the eye, the other side of the lake was just rolling sand. Fletch said, “Lots to be explained.”

  “I’ll say.”

  A small, naked boy with a tall stack of aluminum pots on his head was trudging straight-backed through the sand from the village behind the lodge toward the lake.

  “One can’t imagine what the landscape might have been like here when it first cradled human life,” Carr said. “Sure makes one curious.”

  Fletch tried his shandy. “Is the research why McCoy flew here?” Then he took a thirst-quenching drink.

  “I don’t know.” Carr blinked. “I didn’t ask him. Science wallah named Richard Leakey is in charge of all.”

  “I can see why you’re digging around, looking for a lost Roman city.”

  “What I’m doing is nothing. I’m just trying to go back a few thousand years.” From the terrace, Carr was scanning the horizon. “The landscape sort of calls for it. Here, in East Africa, you have sort of a time capsule, or time map. All of animate life before our very eyes, much of it still walking around, the rest being ghosts calling to us to be discovered. Here we all want to read the bones.”

  Using only their hands as paddles, the fishermen straddling logs were coming in toward shore.

  Fletch took another long swallow. “Carr, I was sort of surprised when you left our wounded man at the police station.”

  Flying in, Carr had buzzed the lodge in the plane, signaling the manager, Hassan, to send a car for them. He had not been able to get the lodge on the radio.

  While they were waiting at the airstrip, a man looking more ancient than Fletch had ever seen, longevity walking briskly in a loincloth, carrying a spear, marched out from under a bush. Carr said this man would be in charge of the airplane while they were at the fishing lodge.

  “I’ve never seen anyone so old,” Fletch said. “How old is he?”

  “Right,” Carr said. “About my age.” Fletch figured Carr to be in his late forties.

  The Land-Rover which brought them to the village was driven so fast over the packed sand road Fletch was sure it would fall apart. He was sure the man’s split skull would fall apart.

  “Did you see a hospital?” Carr upended his glass. “The colonists were better at building police stations than hospitals.”

  They had left the wounded man propped on a wooden bench inside the police station. Carr had explained everything to the only officer there. When they left, the police officer was still working on papers at his school-sized desk. He had only glanced at the wounded man when Carr had said he was a thief.

  And the wounded man had watched them leave with eyes of weary patience.

  “What will they do with him?” Fletch asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe put him back in the bush. Or into the lake.” Crossing Ferguson Gulf to the lodge in an aluminum outboard boat, they went through a herd of crocodiles. Flamingos stood in the shallower water. “McCoy is right, you know. One shouldn’t meddle too much. I was indulging my own conscience.”

  “You were being kind,”

  “Kind to myself. That’s the hell of original sin, you see. One can never be quite sure what is kindness to another.”

  Near the water’s edge, the little boy with the pots on his head was doing a crazy dance in the sand. None of the pots fell off his head.

  Watching Fletch watching the boy, Carr said, “Once in a small village way out in the bush, I saw a woman buy a postage stamp. She put the postage stamp on her head facedown, and then placed a rock on the stamp, to walk home that way. Made great sense. That way the glue on the stamp wouldn’t get sweated away, and the stamp wouldn’t blow away.”

  “I doubt I could walk two meters with a rock on my head,” Fletch said. “Or a postage stamp.”

  Carr said, “My witch friend in Thika says you’re carrying a whole box of rocks.”

  Fletch said nothing.

  One of the fishermen who had emerged from the lake, shoving his log ashore, grabbed up the small boy. Holding the boy to his chest, the man danced in circles. The pots flew off the boy’s head and scattered everywhere in the sand.

  “Instead of wondering what the land tells us,” Carr said, “right now, I’m wondering what the sky is trying to tell us. I think we’d better eat.”

  “Okay.” Finishing his drink, moving slowly in the heat, Fletch watched the naked man and boy give the pots a quick rinse in the lake.

  Entering the lodge’s dining porch, Fletch saw the man and boy, hand in hand, begin their trudge through the sand back toward the village. Again, all the pots were stacked tall on the kid’s head.

  “What’s that? What’s happening?”

  Facing the inside wall of the dining porch, Fletch looked to his left. The screens were bending toward him. Paper plates were three meters in the air. An empty beer bottle smashed on the stone floor.

  Suddenly the air had darkened, yellowed.

  “Eat fast!” Carr shouted over the roar. He cupped one hand over his plate. His other hand shoveled food into his mouth rapidly.

  “What is it?” Fletch’s eyes were stinging. He could barely see the great lumps of white fish yellowing on his plate.

  “Sandstorm! My timing was off. The faster you eat now, the less of a peck of dirt you’ll eat all at once.”

  Fletch put fish into his mouth. He coughed. Already his mouth was full of sand. Already a million particles of sand had adhered to the insides of his nostrils.

  His filled plate wobbled on the table.

  He and Carr both shoved back as the table was pulled up by the wind. It flipped over and skittered to the wall of the porch.

  Carr and Fletch sat facing each other, hands in their laps, no table between them.

  Fletch shouted, “Shall we go someplace else for dessert?”

  Carr stood up. “I’ll ask Hassan to get a cabin ready for us. The only thing for us to do in a sandstorm is get between walls and underneath a sheet.”

  As soon as Fletch stood up, his chair fell over. All the porch furniture was sliding by them. “How long does a sandstorm last?”

  “A few hours. A day. A week.”

  “Can I call Barbara? Tell her we’ll be late?”

  “Sure,” Carr said. “There’s a telephone box at the corner. Right next to the pizza parlor!”

  “Carr? I saw a murder.”

  They were in narrow beds in a small cabin. It had grown dark.

  The wind howled. Sand blew through the walls. Lying under the sheet, Fletch had kept his mouth closed. Still, his tongue, teeth were gritty with sand. Occasionally, he had spat into a glass. Carr suggested he stop that, saying his body needed the fluid. Fletch kept his eyes closed until his lips became too heavy with sand. Then he’d roll over and wipe his face against the lower sheet. The sheets became coated with sand centimeters thick. Less than every hour, he would get up and flip the sand off his sheets. Sand was in his eyes, nose, mouth, sinuses, in his skin. He wished he could keep his nostrils closed.

  There was a primitive shower in the cabin. It dripped in loud splats. When Fletch could hear the shower splattering he knew the wind was down somewhat. Mostly he couldn’t hear the shower.

  At the moment, he could hear the shower splattering.

  Carr asked, “Is that the box of rocks you’re carrying?”

  “I guess so.”

  Carr said, “I’ve got strong legs, too.”

  The cabin was hit with another sustained blast of hot, sand-filled wind.

  “At the airport yesterday,” Fletch said when he was hearing the shower splattering again. “Just after we arrived.” Talking
, he realized just how much sand was in his throat, mouth, on his lips.

  “I went into the men’s room while Barbara changed some money. There was a man in there, acting perfectly normal, just washing up. I went into a cabinet. Another man came in. I saw his feet. The two men argued. They were shouting in a language I didn’t understand. Maybe Portuguese. When I came out, there was only one man there, and he was dead. Stabbed. Blood all over the place.”

  “The same man who was there when you entered?”

  “No. The other man.”

  “So you saw the murderer.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Carr, I threw up. I was careful to wipe my fingerprints off the door as I left.”

  “Could you identify the murderer?”

  “Yes. I saw him again, in the parking lot, as we were driving away.”

  “A white man?”

  “Yes. They were both white.”

  “I saw about it in The Nation.”

  “I forgot to look in the newspapers.”

  “Murders still make headlines here. Unless it’s just Dan Dawes doing his nocturnal duty.”

  “It wasn’t Dan Dawes.”

  “No. That’s not how Dan executes people. Whom have you told?”

  “Only Barbara. Now you.”

  “I see. You made your decision to shut up about this pretty fast.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You wiped your fingerprints off the door handle.”

  “Carr, I had just arrived in a foreign country. I knew very little about Kenya.”

  “There is justice here.”

  “A murder investigation is apt to take a long time.”

  “Right.”

  “Soon, I’ve got to go home, back to work, start my married life. You know?”

  “Of course.”

  An extraordinary wall of wind slammed against the cabin. Fletch said, “Committed, but not involved.”

  After that thick wall of wind passed, Fletch said, “Did the newspapers say who the murdered man was?”

  “I didn’t really read it. Did you recognize either man from your airplane?”

  Fletch thought a moment. “I don’t know. The airplane was so crowded.”

  “Well,” Carr said, “it seems to me you made your decision. You were a witness to a murder, and you chose not to come forward.”

  “Yeah, but, Carr? Suppose they convict the wrong guy?”

  “There’s always that possibility. They’ll hang him. You’ll never know. You’ll be in the United States downing hot dogs and beer.”

  “I don’t want to live with that possibility.”

  After a while, Carr said, “That’s a box of rocks, all right. You can’t wait around Kenya for a year or more serving as police witness. And you have a natural disinclination against letting the powers-that-be hang the wrong chap.”

  Carr didn’t say any more.

  “Carr?” It was hours later, but Fletch knew Carr wasn’t asleep. Shortly before there had been another loud burst of wind. Now the splattering shower could be heard again. “Tell me about my father.”

  “What? Sorry. My ears aren’t that perfect, you know.”

  “My father. Tell me about him.”

  “We’re talking about the man Fletcher.”

  “Please.”

  “Well. He’s a pilot. Like the rest of us, he’s flown light planes here and there in the world. Somewhere in South America for a while, and then I know he flew in India. He was well off, for a while. He owned three airplanes, his own little airlines, in Ethiopia. Then that new administration took over, and took over his airlines.”

  “Just took them over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t pay him for them, or anything?”

  “Because they wanted his airplanes, they also took over his house and his car, to get rid of him. Everything. That government enterprises freely only on its own behalf.”

  “Oh.”

  “So he arrived in Kenya broke. Flew for me for a while. Now he has his own airplane again.”

  “You have more than one airplane?”

  “I have two.”

  The wind made conversation impossible for a few moments.

  “Carr?” Fletch finally asked. “Is he a happy man? Does he give the impression life satisfies him?”

  “Pretty much. Flying around is a great life. Aren’t you having fun?”

  “Carr?” It was the time of night any dawn would seem a wearisome blessing. The wind was down for the moment, but Fletch knew it would rise again. He felt like a stocking stuffed with sand. “We didn’t anchor down the airplane. What’s to keep it from flipping over?”

  “Remember that little guy at the airstrip you thought was so old?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s out there in the wind, hanging on to a wing holding the airplane down.”

  “You serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious.”

  “That skinny little old guy will get blown away, too.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “So you two finally decided to show up?”

  Barbara was in a long chair by the swimming pool at the Norfolk Hotel.

  “What?” Carr said.

  “What?” Fletch said.

  Even the sky over Nairobi still wasn’t that clear.

  “Safe and sound.” Carr rubbed his hands together. “But not home on the same day. Anyone else want a beer?”

  Fletch stooped to kiss Barbara.

  “You look all puffy,” Barbara said.

  “What?”

  “Puffy!”

  “We’re full of sand.”

  “Don’t shout.”

  Fletch sneezed.

  “I want a beer.” Carr signaled the pool bwana on the upper terrace.

  “Were you guys up all night?” Barbara asked. “Your eyes are runny.”

  “She wants to know if we spent the night drinking and dancing.”

  “Yes,” Carr said. “We spent the night drinking and dancing.”

  On the other side of the pool were an English couple in string bikinis and straw hats under an umbrella having a proper tea.

  “We were in a sandstorm,” Fletch said.

  “Sure.”

  “We were in a sandstorm.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Not that bad a time.” Carr sat in a poolside chair. “I don’t mind sand.” He was speaking as does a person who can’t hear himself. “Your husband saw the cradle of humanity.” He sneezed. “Perhaps where man first walked.”

  “Sure.”

  Fletch sat on the edge of Barbara’s long chair. “This little old guy, he couldn’t weigh sixty pounds, held the wing of the plane down all night, so it wouldn’t flip in the wind.”

  “Why are you two talking so loudly?”

  “What?” Carr asked. He now had beer in hand.

  “My, you’re gritty.” Barbara’s hand was on Fletch’s forearm. “Don’t they have water in whatever lake you were at?”

  “Crocodiles, too.”

  “Sure.”

  Fletch’s tongue continuously ran over the sand on his teeth.

  Carr said, “Life’s not all roasted goat.”

  Barbara said, “I hope not.”

  “What?” Fletch asked.

  “I’ll admit it wasn’t a very good flight home.” Carr shook his head. “Couldn’t see.”

  “You were supposed to be back in time for dinner last night.”

  “There was a sandstorm, you see,” Fletch said.

  “I had some fruit in my room.”

  “Oh?” Carr said. “Did he leave politely?”

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “Wives always want to know why you don’t call home,” Carr said. “That’s the way it is with wives.”

  “There were no phones, Barbara.”

  “A fishing lodge without phones?”

  “The madame wouldn’t let us,” Carr said. “She said the brothel�
��s phones were for paying customers only.”

  “Did it ever cross your mind I might be worried?”

  “We were almost sanded down a full size.” Fletch sneezed.

  “Did you catch cold?”

  “Air-conditioned brothel,” Carr said.

  “Sand.” Fletch sneezed. “Sinuses.” He sneezed again. “Oh, hell.”

  “Hope that’s all you caught.”

  “Didn’t go fishing.” Fletch sneezed. The English couple looked over at him with concern. “Nile perch there. Crocodiles in the lake and the fishermen go out on it straddling logs, their legs and feet in the water.”

  “What was I supposed to do if you didn’t show up?”

  “We did show up.” Carr sneezed.

  “Any word from my father?”

  “No.”

  Fletch stood up. “I’ve got to take a shower. Start getting this sand off. Thanks for a lovely trip.” Fletch sneezed. “Carr.”

  Barbara came into the bathroom as Fletch was getting out of the shower. He had rinsed his mouth and nose and eyes, washed his hair, and scrubbed his body over and over again. He still felt like the inside of a cement mixer.

  “I was worried,” Barbara said. “Worried sick.”

  “There were no phones, Barbara. No radio that could work.”

  “All day yesterday I sat here feeling sorry for the way I acted yesterday morning. For the things I said. Then you didn’t show up. Didn’t call. All night.”

  “We were in a sandstorm near the Ethiopian border. There were no camels coming this way.”

  “Then I began to get angry all over again. Angry and scared.”

  Fletch banged the side of his head with the heel of his hand. “If my ears don’t pop soon, I’m going to go nuts. I feel like I’ve got a balloon in my head.”

  “Then you two come prancing in this afternoon looking like a couple of kids who had been playing in the sandbox.”

  “We flew home at twelve thousand five hundred feet,” Fletch said, “with the window open. Otherwise, Carr couldn’t see. The sandstorm reached that high. Even the cockpit was full of sand. Can you understand all that? We’re deaf. Our ears hurt. Carr kept having to open the window.”

  “Did you stay away all night because of the way I acted yesterday morning? Were you trying to teach me a lesson or something?”