Fletch’s Fortune f-3
Page 20
“Press the PLAY button,” Fletch said.
Englehardt hesitated a moment, apparently wondering what pressing the PLAY button might do to him, then bravely stepped to the machine and pressed the button.
The volume was loud.
They heard Gibbs’ voice?
“Snow, beautiful snow! Who’d ever expect snow in Virginia this time of year?… Who’d ever think my dear old department headie, Bobby Englehardt, would travel through the South with snow in his attaché case? Good thing it didn’t melt!
“… Well, I’ve got a surprise for you, too, dear old department headie. ‘What’s that?’ you ask with one voice. Well! I’ve got a surprise for you! ’Member those two sweet little things in Billy-Bobby’s boo-boo-bar lounge? ‘Sweet little things,’ you say together. Well, sir, I had the piss-pa-cacity to invite them up! To our glorious journalists’ suite. This very night! This very hour! This very minute! In fact, for twenty minutes ago.”
(Englehardt’s voice): “You did?”
(Gibbs’ voice): “I did. Where the hell are they? Got to live like journalists, right? Wild, wild, wicked women. Live it up!”
(Englehardt’s voice): “I invited someone, too.”
(Gibbs’ voice): “You did? We gonna have four
broads’ Four naked, writhing girls? All in the same room?”
(Englehardt’s voice): “The lifeguard.”
Englehardt turned off the marvelous machine.
“The tape continues,” Fletch said. “All through what I’m sure your superiors will provincially refer to as your drunken sex orgy. Lots more references to cocaine. Et cetera. ‘Switch!’” he quoted Gibbs, but with a drawl. “‘Switch!’”
Englehardt’s shoulders had lowered, like those of a bull about to charge.
His fists were clenched.
The skin around his eyes was a dark red.
“‘Live like journalists,?’ ” Fletch quoted. “‘Disgusting.’ ”
Gibbs was assimilating more slowly. Or he was in a complete state of shock.
His face had gone perfectly white, his jaw slack. Standing, he was staring at the floor about two meters in front of him.
“Of course, this isn’t the original tape,” Fletch said. “But the original isn’t much better. Same cast of characters, same dialogue.…”
Gibbs said, “You bugged our room! Goddamn it, Fletcher, you bugged our room!”
“Of course. You think I’m stupid?”
Englehardt’s shoulders had slumped somewhat, his fists loosened.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“Blackmail you,” Fletch answered. “Of course.”
He picked up his two suitcases.
“Six weeks from today, I want to receive official, formal notification that all charges against me have been dropped,” Fletch said. “Into the Potomac. If not, the careers of Robert Englehardt and Donald Gibbs will be over.”
“We can’t do that,” said Englehardt
“That’s Abuse of Agency!” said Gibbs.
Fletch said, “You’ll find a way.”
The airport limousine had gone, so Fletch had had to send for a taxi.
He was waiting in front of the hotel with his suitcases.
Don Gibbs came through the glass door of the hotel, toward him, still looking extremely white.
“Fletcher.” His voice was low.
“Yeah?”
The taxi was arriving.
“If you had any suspicion at all Eggers and Fabens weren’t from the C.I.A., why did you go through with this job?”
“Three reasons.”
Fletch handed his suitcases to the driver.
“First, I’m nosy.”
Fletch opened the door to the backseat.
“Second, I thought there might be a story in it.”
He got into the car.
“Third,” Fletch said, just before closing the door, “I didn’t want to go to jail.”
Thirty-eight
“FREDDIE!”
Her carry-on bag in hand, she was almost at the steps of the twelve-seater airplane.
“FREDDIE!”
His own suitcases banging against his knees, he ran across the airplane parking area.
“FREDDIE!”
Finally, she heard him, and turned to wait for him.
“Listen,” he said. Standing before her, he was huffing and puffing.
“Listen,” he said. “You’re Freddie Arbuthnot.”
“No,” she said. “I’m Ms. Blake.”
“I can explain,” he said.
In the late afternoon light, her eyes examined him through narrow slits.
“Uh…,” he said.
She waited.
He said, “…uh.”
And she waited.
“I mean, I can explain,” he said. “There is an explanation.”
The pilot, in a white short-sleeved shirt and sunglasses, was waiting by the steps for them to board.
“Uh…,” Fletch said. “This will take some time.”
“We don’t have any more time,” she said. “Together.”
“We do!” he said. “All you have to do is come to Italy with me. Tonight.”
“Irwin Fletcher, I have a job to do. I’m employed, you know?”
“A vacation? You could have a nice vacation. Cagna’s beautiful this time of year.”
“If I had the time, I’d stay here and polish up the Walter March story.”
“Polish it up?”
“So far I’ve only been able to phone in the leaders.”
“Leaders? What leaders do you have?”
“Oh, you know. Lydia March’s suicide. Her confession note. Junior’s murder. Joseph Molinaro.…”
“Oh,” he said. “Ow.”
As if thinking aloud, she said, “I’ll have to do the polishing in New York, before Saturday morning.”
“Then you could come to Italy,” he said. “Saturday.”
She said, “You know the Jack Burroughs trial starts Monday.”
“Jack Burroughs?”
“Fletcher, you know I won the Mulholland Award for my coverage of the Burroughs case last year.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “No, actually, I didn’t.”
“Fletcher, are you a journalist at all?”
“Off and on,” he said. “Off and on.”
“I’d think you’re a busboy,” she said quietly, “except busboys have to get along well with everybody.”
Five heads aboard the plane were looking at them through the windows.
“I have to be in Italy,” he said. “For about six weeks. Or, I should say, I have to be out of this country for six weeks, more or less.”
“Have a nice time.?
“Freddie.…”
“Irwin.…”
“There has to be some way I can explain,” he said.
She agreed. “There has to be.”
“It’s sort of difficult…”
Her eyes were still squinted against the sun.
“In fact, I think it’s sort of impossible to explain.…”
Freddie Arbuthnot’s chin-up smile was nice.
She said, “Buzz off, Fletcher.”
There were only two empty seats remaining aboard the plane, one in front (next to Sheldon Levi) which Freddie took, and one in back (next to Leona Hatch) which Fletch got.
Leona Hatch watched him closely while he took off his coat, sat down, and buckled his seat belt.
“I’ll swear I’ve met you before,” Leona Hatch said “Somewhere.…”
Five rows in front of him, Freddie’s golden head was already buried in a copy of Newsworld magazine.
Leona Hatch continued to stare at him.
“What’s your name?”
“Fletch.”
“What’s your full name?”
“Fletcher.”
“What’s your first name?”
“Irwin.”
“What?”
“Irwin. Irwin Fletcher.
People call me Fletch.”
FB2 document info
Document ID: 001d9cc7-a657-40fb-98d1-f42b7b988cc2
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 31.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.53, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Gregory McDonald
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/