Fletch’s Fortune f-3

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “He drives Upsie to this heavy, ornate Episcopal church Fletch knows about—knows how to get into that hour of Saturday night—and helps him into the church and sits him on the floor, where Upsie passes out.

  “On the floor, Fletch strips Upsie of all his pimp finery.

  “Then he places him spread-eagled on his back in the center aisle, bareass, badass naked, and ties his wrists and ankles to the last few pews—did I say spread-eagled?—in the dark.

  “Then he takes a thin wire and ties it up around Upsie’s balls—around his penis, you know?—and runs that straight and fairly taut to the huge brass doorknob of the heavy front door of the church. There’s a purple velvet drape around the door, and the door is solid oak.

  “He ties the wire nice and tight to the doorknob.

  “Then Fletch goes up to the altar and drags the bishop’s chair over so he can sit in it and see Upsie ’way down the center aisle, but Upsie can’t see him.

  “By and by, Upsie wakes up and groans, obviously not feeling too well, and tries to roll over and finds he’s tied to something, all four points, and wakes up more, and tugs at the ropes, and then raises his head to look down at himself and finds he’s tied at his fifth point, too.

  “He can’t see too well in the dark, probably well enough to see that he’s in a church, and he remains reasonably relaxed, still groggy from the liquor and the drug, probably curious about what’s happening to him, tied spread-eagled and naked, lying on a church floor.

  “It’s dawn, and light comes into the church, all red and blue and yellow in streaks through the big stained-glass windows, and the wire begins to pick up the light and gleam, and Upsie has his head up all the time, now, as much as his neck muscles can stand it, trying to see where the wire leads.

  “In a while there’s enough light in the church to start getting into the draped, recessed doorway, and shortly the big, brass doorknob begins to gleam—even Fletch can see it from the altar—and it’s clear even from where he’s sitting that the wire leads straight from Upsie’s balls to the doorknob of these doors which must weigh a ton.

  “Upsie sees it too, of course, and begins to figure it out, begins tugging at his ropes, flexing one arm, and then the other, pulling each leg up against the ropes.

  “He realizes there’s no way he’s going to get free, unless someone helps him.

  “But he doesn’t get the real point of what’s happening to him—or what’s going to happen to him—until the church bells begin to ring, all over Chicago. It’s then he begins shouting, ‘Oh, no! Oh, God! Oh, no!’

  “He remembers it’s Sunday morning and at some point, sooner or later, those heavy oak doors are going to be swung open by hundreds of joyous Christians, en masse, you might say, strong in their faith.

  “It’s then that Upsie’s body fluids begin leaving him. In sheer terror, he pisses almost to the church door, like a skunk shooting at something he knows is going to destroy him. He’s lying in his own shit, just tons of it, pouring out of him.

  “He’s sweating buckets and shaking and pulling at his ropes.

  “He knows that when those heavy oak doors are swung open, he’s had it.

  “Did I say he was yelling? He’s yelling and screaming, first the words, ‘Help me! Help me, someone!’ in this cavernous church with solid stone walls, and then he’s yelling every obscenity in the book, in furious anger, tugging at the ropes so hard his wrists and ankles burn through, bleeding, and then he begins to blubber, ‘I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve this,’ and, crying. He thinks about this awhile, and then begins twisting his head toward the altar, yelling, ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’

  “Fletch picked the right church.

  “This particular church didn’t have Sunday service until eleven in the morning.

  “But a lot of other churches in town had services before then.

  “And every time one of the other churches’ bells begins to ring, Upsie pulls harder on his ropes, the ropes tying him. He wears the ropes right down to his wrist and ankle bones.

  “He even begins biting his left arm, through the muscle, thinking he would chew his arm off, I guess, until he realizes that would do no good: If he chewed off one arm, he still wouldn’t be able to untie the rest of himself. See?

  “More and more church bells ring around town, calling their congregations to service, and Upsie is screaming more and more incomprehensively, very hoarse by now, convulsively tugging at his ropes, ever one more time, hoping something would give way, blood and shit all over himself, eyes bulging from his head.

  “At ten-thirty—after hours of this—the church bells of that church begin to go off, and Upsie becomes even more frantic. He knows it’s only a few minutes now, at most, before that heavy oak door is swung open.

  “He’s thrashing around the floor, as much as the ropes will let him, twisting and splashing in his own blood and shit.

  “Even Fletch couldn’t hear him yelling over the sound of the church bells. He could just see his mouth open, jaws straining, tongue extended. Upsie’s eyes are rolling in his head, in terror.

  “Then the big brass doorknob begins to turn, slowly, slowly.

  “Upsie stiffens his body, tries to reach his hands down to his balls—of course they don’t reach—actually tries to pull away from the door.…

  “Oh, by the way, will I see you at lunch, Bob? The menu said something about chicken Divan or salad of your choice. Knowing me, I expect I’ll have both.…

  “What do you mean, ‘What happened’? I told you it’s a funny story. Fletch is a funny man.…

  “You can’t figure out what happened?

  “Jeez, Bob, you’re no better than Upsie.

  “The church doors swung inward, Bob. Upsie couldn’t see that, because of the drapes.…

  “Fletcher? Oh, he left through the sacristy door.

  “Gee, Bob, I thought you knew Fletcher.…”

  Sixteen

  From TAPE

  Station 22

  Room 42 (Leona Hatch)

  “Ready for lunch?”

  “Just putting on my hat.”

  “Why do you need a hat? We’re not leaving the building.”

  “If your hair were as thin as mine, Nettie.…”

  “I’d never leave the house,” Nettie Horn said. “You feel you must have a trademark, Leona. As if anybody cared.”

  “I like wearing a hat.”

  “With your vanity, I just don’t understand how you let yourself get so drunk.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t make it to dinner last night, Leona.”

  “You did?”

  “I did.”

  “And what happened to you after dinner, Nettie?”

  “I’m not perfectly sure. I seem to remember singing around a piano.…”

  “Nettie, I put myself to bed in a proper manner last night. I even folded my clothes and removed my corset and got under the covers. In fact, I totally unraveled my corset. That took great concentration and deliberation—although why I felt I had to do it, I don’t know. Had a dickens of a time putting it all together again this morning. Where did you sleep last night?”

  “I woke up in a chair in my room.”

  “Fully dressed?”

  “Well.…”

  “I know you, Nettie. Somebody just dumped you there. Probably a bellman. Well, I was in my bed with my corset off. Now, don’t give me any more of your nonsense about my being drunk in public.…”

  Fletch switched off the marvelous machine to answer his phone.

  “Fletcher, old buddy, old friend!”

  “Don?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m here.”

  “If this is Don Gibbs, I thought we established when I called you from Washington that we are not buddies, not friends, but, at the most, useless acquaintances.”

  “How can you say that? Come on. Didn’t we learn the Northwestern fight song together?”

  “I never learned beyond the first
verse.”

  “What could be verse?” Don Gibbs said.

  “Learning the second verse. Golly, Don, you sound full of bonhomie.”

  “Does that taste anything like Wild Turkey bourbon?”

  “You government guys drink good stuff.”

  “Seldom do I personally get the opportunity to squeeze the taxpayer’s wallet. How goes the convention?”

  “If I ask where you are will I get an answer?”

  “Try it and see.”

  “Where are you, Don?”

  “Here.”

  “Terrific. Can you be a little more precise as to where ‘here’ is, geographically, at the moment?”

  “Hendricks Plantation. Hendricks, Virginia. U. S. of A.”

  “Here?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought we’d come along to see how you’re doing.”

  “‘We’?”

  “Bob is with me.”

  “Who’s Bob?”

  “Bob Englehardt, my honored and beloved department head.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “This Walter March murder, Fletch. It sort of worries us.”

  “Why should it? What’s the C.I.A. got to do with it? The murder of a private citizen within the United States is a purely domestic matter.”

  “March Newspapers has foreign bureaus, hasn’t it?”

  “Boy, you guys have elastic minds.”

  “By the way, how much poop have you got on the murder?”

  “I’ve got it solved.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Out with it.”

  “No.”

  “Wait a minute, Fletch. Bob wants to speak to you. I’ll come back on the line.”

  “Mister Fletcher?” Robert Englehardt was trying to lighten his ponderous tone. “May I call you Fletch?”

  “I don’t know why you call me at all.”

  “Well, to answer that question, we need you to cover for us. Don has been calling your room since we arrived, so you wouldn’t express surprise at seeing us at the various functions here at the hotel and blurt out our actual employer.”

  “I was playing tennis with What’s-her-name.”

  “Who? What is her name?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Fletch, we’re here as observers from the Canadian press.”

  “Anyone in Canada know that?”

  “No. Our official story is that we’re thinking of setting up a similar convention, next year, in Ontario. Naturally, we expect you to allow no one here, now or ever, to know whom we actually represent.”

  “Why in hell should I cover for you guys?”

  “For all of the above reasons.”

  “Again?”

  “Failure to file federal tax returns, evasion of federal taxes, deporting United States currency illegally.…”

  “I’ve always heard it’s more difficult to keep a fortune than to make one.”

  “Then we have your complete cooperation?”

  “How could you think otherwise?”

  Robert Englehardt said, “Good. Here’s Don.”

  After a pause in which the clink of an ice cube against a glass was audible, Don Gibbs said, “Fletch?”

  “Gee, Don. Your superior didn’t say he was looking forward to meeting me.”

  “Actually, Fletch,” Don said, “he’s not.”

  “Gee, Don.”

  “How’s the taping going? Got much dirt yet?”

  “It’s a marvelous machine. Very sensitive.”

  “What do you have so far? Anything good?”

  “Mostly toilets flushing, showers running, typewriters clacking, and a lot of journalists talking to themselves in their rooms. I never realized journalists are such lonely people.”

  “That all?”

  “No, I also have a complete tape of the New World Symphony from somebody’s radio.”

  “You must have more than that.”

  “People snoring, coughing, sneezing.…”

  “Okay, Fletch. Expect we’ll see you around.”

  “Never saw you before in my life. By the way, Don, what room are you in?”

  “Suite 3. They had to give us the suite in which Walter March was murdered. They didn’t have any other place to put us.”

  “Really living it up, uh?”

  “The rule book says we can take a suite if nothing else is available.”

  “I’m glad I’m not a taxpayer,” Fletch said. “Bye.”

  Fletch switched his marvelous machine to Station 5—Suite 3.

  “… Turkey in school,” Don Gibbs was saying. “Always out doing his own thing.”

  “More?” Robert Englehardt said.

  “No one could ever figure out what it was. Gone night after night. Never came to the parties. Used to make jokes about Fletch. They always began with, ‘Where’s Fletch?’ and then someone would make up something ridiculous, like, ‘Sniffing the bicycle seats outside the girls’ dorms.…’ ”

  “Come on. Finish your drink. Let’s go to lunch.”

  “Hey, Bob. We’re supposed to be journalists, aren’t we? Journalists live it up. I saw a movie once.…”

  Seventeen

  1:00 P.M. Lunch

  Main Dining Room

  Arriving late at lunch, Fletch put his hand out to Robert McConnell, who was already looking warily at him from his place at the round table, and said, “Bob, I apologize. Let me buy you a drink.”

  Robert McConnell’s jaw dropped, his eyes bugged out, and he turned white.

  Robert McConnell bolted from the table, and, from the room.

  Crystal Faoni was staring at Fletch.

  Fletch said to her, “What’s the matter with him? Just trying to apologize for accusing him of murder.…”

  Freddie Arbuthnot looked clean and fresh after their tennis. Clearly she had sung her “Hoo, boy” song again.

  Lewis Graham had taken one of the empty seats at the table, and Fletch shook hands with him, saying, “Slumming, eh?”

  The man shook hands as would an eel—if eels were familiar with human social graces.

  Lewis Graham was a television network’s answer to the newspaper editorial.

  A gray man with a long face and narrow chin, who apparently confused looking distinguished and intellectual with looking sad and tired, every night for ninety polysyllabic seconds he machine-gunned his audience with informed, intellectual opinion on some event or situation of the day or the week, permitting the people of America to understand there were facts they didn’t have yet and probably wouldn’t be able to comprehend if they did have them, without his experience, and understandings they could never have, without his incisive intelligence.

  Trouble was, his colleagues read the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Atlanta Constitution, the Los Angeles Times, Time, Newsweek, Foreign Affairs, and the Old Testament as well as he and could identify the sources of his facts, insights, and understandings, precisely, night after night.

  Other journalists referred to Lewis Graham as “the Reader’s Digest of the air.”

  It was questioned whether behind his grayness he had any personality he had not lifted from newsprint.

  Lewis Graham said, “I didn’t know where to sit. I expect lunch is the same at all the tables.”

  Crystal Faoni was still staring at Fletch after he sat down.

  Freddie said, “A fairly even match, if I may say so. Six-four you; six-four me; seven-five us.”

  “Me,” said Fletch.

  “It was just your chauvinist pride.”

  “Me,” said Fletch. “Me.”

  “Not a clear victory. Your arms and legs are longer than mine.”

  “The thing about tennis,” Lewis Graham said, “is that someone has to win, and someone has to lose.”

  Crystal turned her stare at Lewis Graham.

  They all stared at Lewis Graham.

  “Tennis always provides a c
lear victory,” Lewis Graham said.

  Fletch asked, “Did you read that somewhere?”

  Crystal said to Fletch, “I ordered you both the chicken Divan and the chef’s salad.”

  “Thank you for thinking of me,” Fletch said. “I don’t want both.”

  “You want one of them?”

  “Yes. I want one of them.”

  “Then I’ll have the other one. Well, why should I embarrass myself by ordering two meals for myself—when I can embarrass you instead? You need a little embarrassing.”

  “Why should you be embarrassed?”

  “Oh, come off it, Fletch,” Crystal Faoni said. “Have you ever made love to a really fat girl?”

  Graham shifted his elbows uncomfortably on the table.

  “I’ll weigh the question,” Fletch said.

  “As fat as I am?”

  Fletch said, “It’s a heavy question.”

  Lewis Graham cleared his throat and said, “You appear to be giving light answers.”

  During the lunch (Fletch ate the salad; Crystal ate two Divans, which caused Lewis Graham to quip that all she needed more to entertain was a fireplace and a coffee table), the topic of Walter March’s murder arose, and, after listening awhile to Graham’s reporting what he had read in the morning newspapers, complete with two Old Testament references to the transitory nature of life, Crystal raised her large, beautiful head from the trough and said, “You know, I heard Walter March announce his retirement.”

  “I didn’t know he had,” said Graham.

  “He did.”

  “So what?” Freddie asked. “He was over seventy.”

  “It was more than five years ago.”

  “Men look forward to their retirements with mixed feelings,” said Graham. “On the one hand, they desire retirement in their weariness. On the other, they shirk from the loss of power, the vacuum, the … uh… retirement which is attendant upon uh…,” he said, “… retirement.”

  Crystal, Freddie, and Fletch stared at Lewis Graham again.

  “Was it a public announcement?” Fletch asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Crystal answered. “A deliberate, official, public announcement. It was at the opening of the new newspaper plant in San Francisco. I was covering. There was a reception, you see, big names and gowns and things, so of course the darling editors sent a woman to write it all up. There were scads of those little hors d’oeuvres, you know, chicken livers wrapped in bacon, duck and goose pates, landing fields of herring in sour cream.…”