“Gee, boss, no wonder she set me up to be murdered.”
“You’re being rude now. Clara didn’t know she was setting you up to be murdered, and I don’t believe it yet. Graham Cummings is a decent guy.”
“You have me saying Clara’s an idiot, and Clara saying I’m an idiot. Doesn’t that lead you to some conclusion?”
“What conclusion?”
“Separate us. If you insist on her being an editor, let her go make someone else’s life miserable.”
“I won’t do that. You’ll live with her.”
“No. You live with her.”
Frank’s full face snapped to Fletcher. He tried to glare. Instead, his face just turned redder.
Frank said, “You’re hanging on here by a thread now, boy.”
“I sell newspapers.”
“If it weren’t that you’re scheduled to pick up a Bronze Star Friday, I’d fire you in a minute.”
“What I’m really saying, Frank, is that I am on a story, an investigation of the source of the drugs at The Beach. I’m not being dramatic, but I might be killed. If I am killed, some superior ought to know why. I believe the chief of police at The Beach, Graham Cummings, is the source. Clara Snow has tipped him off that I am on his heels. This morning he called me in to ask me what I know. This was after I tried to get arrested Sunday night. I tried very hard to get arrested. I belted three cops, in the chief’s presence. I got a crack on the head, but I did not get arrested. This morning I played dumb. Very, very dumb. I told him I know nothing but the obvious. He told me to get out of town. It’s reasonable to expect that if he begins to believe I’ve got hard evidence on him, he might want to kill me. You and your incompetent idiotic Clara Snow will have killed me.”
“You’re dramatizing yourself.”
“Maybe.”
“So what are you saying? You don’t want to finish the story?”
“I’ll finish it.”
“When will you have it finished?”
“Pretty soon.”
“I want to see it.”
“You’ll see it.”
“You’d better pick up the Bronze Star Friday morning.”
“By all means, Frank. Have reporters and photographers there. I look forward to having my face splashed all over the newspaper Saturday morning. That would surely get me killed.”
“You collect that medal.”
“Definitely, Frank. Friday morning, ten o’clock, the marine commandant’s office.”
“You pick up that medal, Fletcher, or Friday’s will be your last paycheck.”
“I wouldn’t think of disappointing you, Frank.”
“By the way, Clara also says you’ve got sleazy divorce lawyers all over this office. Keep them out of here.”
“Right, Frank.”
Fletch stood up and changed his tone of voice entirely. “What do you think of Alan Stanwyk?”
“He’s a shit.”
“Why?”
Frank said, “Stanwyk has fought every sensible piece of noise pollution legislation brought up in the last five years.”
“And he’s won?”
“Yes, he’s won.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“Nothing. He’s a shit. Go get killed. Then maybe we’d have a story.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
“Anytime.”
25
“Good afternoon, sir.” The headwaiter recognized him, even dressed in a full suit. The man was wasted on a tennis pavilion. “Are you looking for the Underwoods?”
“Actually, I’m looking for Joan Stanwyk,” Fletch said.
“Mrs. Stanwyk is playing tennis, sir. Court three. There’s an empty table at the rail. Shall I have a screwdriver brought to you?”
“Thank you.”
Fletch sat at the round table for two. Along the rail were flower boxes. In the third court away from Fletch, Joan Stanwyk was playing singles with another woman.
“Your screwdriver, sir. Shall I charge this to the Underwoods?”
“Please.”
Half of court three was in the shade of the clubhouse. This made serving difficult half the time for both players. One would think Joan Collins Stanwyk could get a better court at the Racquets Club.
Half the people on the tennis pavilion were still dressed in tennis whites. The other half were dressed for the evening. It was five-twenty.
Joan Collins Stanwyk played tennis like a pro, but utterly without the flash of passion that made a champion. She was smooth, even, polished; a well-educated, well-experienced tennis player. It was difficult to get anything by her, or to outthink her, yet she didn’t seem to be deeply involved—paying attention. She was also without the sense of fun and of joy that a beginning tennis player has. She was competent, terrifically competent, and bored.
She won the set, walked to the net, shook hands with her opponent and smiled precisely as she would have if she had lost. They both collected sweaters and ambled up to the pavilion.
Fletch turned his chair to face the entrance.
She had to greet many people, using the same shake of the hand and smile as she used at the net. It was a moment before her eyes wandered along the rail and found Fletch.
He stood up.
She excused herself and came over immediately.
“Why, John. I thought you were in Milwaukee.”
“Montana,” Fletch said.
“Yes, of course. Montana.” She sat at the table.
“Just before leaving for the airport Saturday, my boss called and asked me to stay a few more days. Some customers to see.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I was busy seeing customers.” He was sitting at the table, finishing his drink. “Besides, I thought I would come by on Tuesday.”
“Why Tuesday?”
“Because you said Tuesday was the day your husband came home from the office at a reasonable hour.”
Beneath her tan, her cheeks turned red.
“I see.”
“Didn’t you say your husband has Tuesdays reserved for you?”
“You’re rather putting it to me, aren’t you, John?”
“I hope to.”
Joan Collins Stanwyk, keeping her eyes in his laughed. She had a lovely throat.
She said, “Well, now…”
He said, “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink.”
“You ask a great many more questions than you appear to ask, John. And what’s more, you listen to the answers. You must be very good at what you do.”
“What do I do?”
“Why, sell furniture, of course. Isn’t that what you said?”
“I’m really quite expert on beds.”
She said, “Would you believe that I have one?”
***
She had one, at the Racquets Club, a three-quarter-sized bed in a bright room overlooking the pool area. She said it was her “changing room”. It had a full bathroom and a closet full of tennis dresses, evening gowns, skirts, sneakers and shoes.
She had given him directions to the door on the corridor above the dining room.
By the time he arrived, she was out of the shower and wrapped in an oversized towel.
Joan Collins Stanwyk was more interested in making love than in playing tennis. But again, she was educated and experienced without the flash that makes champions. And she was without the playful joy of the beginner.
“It’s really remarkable, John.”
“Isn’t it?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What’s remarkable?”
“Your bone structure.”
“I have one.”
“One what?”
“One bone structure. I’m very attached to it.”
“I should think you would be.”
“Yes, yes.”
“But you never noticed.”
“Never noticed what?”
“Never in the showers in Texas, or whatever.”
“It’s been a long time since I took a shower in Texas.”
“Al’s bone structure.‘”
“Al’s bone structure? What about it?”
“It’s identical to yours.”
“My what?”
“Your bone structure.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the width of your shoulders, the length of your back, your arms, your hips, your legs are identical to Alan’s.”
“Your husband’s?”
“Yes. Didn’t you ever notice? You must have been in shower rooms with him in Texas, or something. The shape of your head—everything.”
“Really?”
“You two don’t look a bit alike. You’re blond and he’s dark. But actually you’re just alike.”
“Something only a wife would notice.”
“He weighs ten or twelve pounds more than you do, I’d say. But your bone structures are the same.”
“That’s very interesting.”
She rolled onto her elbows and forearms, looking closely at his mouth.
“Your teeth are perfect, too. Just like Alan’s.”
“They are?”
“I’ll bet you haven’t a cavity.”
“I haven’t.”
“Neither has he.”
“How very interesting.”
She said, “Now I bet you’re insulted.”
“Not a bit.”
“I don’t suppose it’s polite to compare you to my husband just after we’ve made love and made love.”
“I find it interesting.”
“You’re saying to yourself, ‘The only reason this broad was attracted to me is because I have the same bone structure as her husband.’ Is that right?”
“Yeah. Actually, I’m terribly hurt.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I’m going to cry.”
“Please don’t cry.”
“I’m dying of a broken heart.”
“Oh, don’t die. Not here.”
“Why ‘not here’?”
“Because if I had to have your body taken away, I’d be absolutely stuck trying to pronounce your last name. I’d be so embarrassed.”
“Is it embarrassing being in bed with a man whose last name you can’t pronounce?”
“It would be if he died and had to be taken away. I’d have to say at the door, ‘His name is John, an old friend of the family, don’t ask me his last name.’ What is your last name again, John?”
“Zamanawinkeraleski.‘’
“God, what a moniker. Zamanawink—say it again?”
“—eraleski. Zamanawinkeraleski.”
“You mean someone actually married you with a name like that?”
“Yup. And now there are three little Zamanawinkeraleskis.”
“What was her maiden name? I mean, your wife’s?”
“Fletcher.”
“That’s a nice name. Why would she give up a nice name like that to become a Zamabangi or whatever it is?”
“Zamanawinkeraleski. It’s more distinguished than Fletcher.”
“It’s so distinguished no one can say it. What is it, Polish?”
“Rumanian.”
“I didn’t know there was a difference.”
“Only Poles and Rumanians care about the difference.”
“What is the difference?”
“Between Poles and Rumanians? They make love differently.”
“Oh?”
“Twice I’ve made love Polish style. Now I’ll show you how a Rumanian would do it.”
“Polish style was all right.”
“But you haven’t seen the Rumanian style yet.”
“Why didn’t you make love Rumanian style in the first place?”
“I didn’t think you were ready for it.”
“I’m ready for it.” It was eight-thirty. In forty-eight hours Fletch was scheduled to murder her husband.
26
Wednesday morning, Fletch had a great interest in not being seen by the police at The Beach. Doubtless, Chief Cummings had told his officers to pick up Fletch on sight. The man could not bear investigation. And he had enough ammunition to use against Fletch to make life very difficult for him. Possession of marijuana. Possession of heroin. Physical assault upon three separate police officers. And when Chief Cummings ran out of charges at The Beach, he could turn Fletch over to the city police to face a charge of fraud. Fletch was careful in his stepping.
In jeans, shoeless and shirtless, he started shortly after sunrise looking for Gummy.
It was a quarter to nine when July said he had just seen Gummy parking a Volkswagen minibus on Main Street.
Fletch found the flower-decorated bus and waited in the shadow of a doorway.
At twenty to ten Gummy appeared. While he had been waiting, Fletch had counted five police cars passing on Main Street.
Gummy was unlocking the driver’s door to the bus.
Fletch stepped beside him and said, “Take me around to my pad, will you, Gummy? I need to talk to you.”
Gummy’s face pimples twitched.
“Come on, Gummy. I’ve got to talk to you. About Bobbi.”
***
In the room, Fletch said, “Bobbi’s dead, Gummy.”
Gummy said, “Oh.”
Fletch smashed him in the face with his fist.
Gummy’s head snapped back and turned, his long hair twirling. His feet moved slowly. He did not fall. He turned back, his head low, looking at Fletch through watering eyes. The look was resentful. The kid had never been hit before.
“I said Bobbi is dead, Gummy, and ‘Oh’ is not a proper response. You killed her. And you know it.”
Gummy stepped toward the door.
Fletch said, “I’ve got bad news for you, Gummy. Bobbi’s death means the heat’s on. Fat Sam is turning state’s evidence.”
“Bullshit.”
“He has written me a nice little deposition naming Chief Graham Cummings as the source. Everything is in the deposition, including your Hawaiian shirt. He’s pinning the actual sale of drugs on you. He insists he was just a receiver.”
The kid had stopped moving toward the door. His eyes were wide and innocent.
“I never pushed. I was just carrying.”
“You were transferring, baby.”
Gummy had blood at the corner of his lip.
“I never sold any of the stuff.”
“Fat Sam is laying it on you.”
“The bastard.”
“And he has signed the deposition in big, flowing handwriting with his real name which I forget for the moment.”
“Charles Witherspoon.”
“What?”
“Charles Witherspoon.”
“That’s right.”
“Where is this what-do-you-call-it?”
“Deposition. I left it in the city. Do you think I’d be crazy enough to bring it down here? He signed it Charles Witherspoon.”
“Shit.”
“Let me help you, Gummy.” Fletch opened the case of his portable typewriter. He placed an original and two carbon sheets in the carriage. “You need help.”
Gummy stood in the dark room with his hands in his back pockets.
“By the way, Gummy, I’m I.M. Fletcher of the News-Tribune.”
“You’re a reporter?”
“Yeah.”
“I knew there was something funny about you. I saw you riding in a gray Jaguar last week—I think Thursday night.”
“Did you tell anybody you saw me?”
“No.”
Gummy sat on the floor. He leaned his back against the wall.
“Does this mean I go to jail?”
“Maybe not, if you turn state’s evidence.”
“What does that mean? I fink?”
“It means you write a deposition and sign it. You say what role you played in supplying the beach people with drugs.”
“I carried the drugs from the chief of police to Fat Sam.”
Fl
etch was sitting on the floor cross-legged before his typewriter.
“You’ve got to tell us more than that. Tell me everything. I’ll write it down. And you sign it.”
“You know everything.”
“I need to hear it from you.”
“What are you going to do with the deposition?“
“I’m going to turn it over to a friend of mine who works in the district attorney’s office. We were in the marines together. He’ll know what to do.”
“I’ll get killed. Cummings is a mean son of a bitch.”
“I’m going to ask for police protection for you.”
“‘Police protection’? That’s funny.”
“Not the local police, Gummy. I agree Cummings is a dangerous man.”
“Who then? The state police?”
“Probably federal narcotics agents. Or the district attorney’s office. I don’t know. You’ll be taken care of. I want you to nail Cummings.”
“All right.” The light from the dirty window was white on Gummy’s long face. “Cummings was the source of drugs.”
“All the drugs?”
“Yes. All.”
“What is his source?”
“I don’t know. He goes back and forth to Mexico every few weeks. He tells people he’s building a house down there, or something. For when he retires. He brings the drugs back with him. No one questions the chief of police going through customs.”
“How does customs know he’s a police chief?”
“Aw, hell, have you ever seen his car? I mean, his own car? Plates front and back say ‘chief of police.’ He has a bubble machine on top. A police radio. He even has a Winchester rifle hanging from brackets under his dashboard.”
“I’ve seen it. He uses that car to get through customs?”
“Yes.”
“Does he wear his uniform going through customs?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been with him. With that car, he doesn’t need a uniform.”
“Does he take his wife to Mexico with him?”
“I know he has. And his teenage daughter.”
“How do you know he has?”
“I’ve seen them leaving town. When I’ve known where they were going.”
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