“Part of the C.I.A. training, I expect,” Fletch said. “Trespass and Coffee-Making. A Bloody Mary? Something to raise the spirits on this Sunday noon?”
“Cool it, Fletcher,” said Eggers. “You don’t need time to think.” He put the tip of his index finger against Fletch’s chest, and pressed. “You’re going to do what you’re told. Get it?”
Fletch shouted into his face, “Yes, sir!”
Suddenly Eggers’ right hand became a fist and smashed into precisely the right place in Fletch’s stomach with incredible force, considering the shortness of the swing.
Fletch was hunched over, in a chair, trying to breathe.
“Enough of your bull, Fletcher.”
“I caught a fish like him once.” Fabens was relighting his cigar. “In the Gulf Stream. He was still wriggling and fighting even after I had him aboard. I had to beat the shit out of him to convince him he was caught. Even then.” He blew a billow of cigar smoke at Fletch. “Mostly I beat him on the head.”
“Yuck,” said Fletch.
“Shall we beat you on the head, Fletcher?” Eggers asked.
Fletch said, “Anything’s better than that cigar’s smoke.”
Eggers’ voice turned gentle. “Are you going to listen to us, Irwin?”
Fletch said, “El Cheap-o.”
Turning from the French doors, El Cheap-o in mouth, Fabens asked, “What happened to your girl friend? Where’d she go?”
“Home.” Fletch squeezed out breath. “She lives next door.” He sucked in breath. “With her husband.”
He raised his head in time to see Eggers and Fabens glance at each other.
“Husband?”
“He sleeps late,” Fletch breathed. “Sundays.”
“Jesus,” said Eggers.
“Wriggle, wriggle,” said Fabens.
Fletch straightened his back in the chair. He ignored the tears on his cheeks.
“Okay, guys. What’s the big deal?”
“No big deal.” Eggers rubbed his hands together. “Easy.”
“You’re just the right man for the job,” said Fabens.
“What job?”
“You know the American Journalism Alliance?” Eggers asked.
“Yes.”
“They’re having a convention,” Fabens said.
“So?”
“You’re going.”
“Hell, I’m not a working journalist anymore. I’m unemployed. I haven’t worked as a journalist in over a year.”
“What do you mean?” said Eggers. “You had a piece in
“That was on the paintings of Cappoletti.”
“So? It’s journalism.”
“Once a shithead, always a shithead,” said Fabens.
“May your cigar kill you,” said Fletch.
“You’re going,” said Eggers.
“I’m not even a member of the A.J.A.”
“You are,” said Eggers.
“I used to be.”
“You are.”
“I haven’t paid my dues in years. In fact, I never paid my dues.”
“We paid your dues. You’re a member.”
“You paid my dues?”
“We paid your dues.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” Fletch said.
“Think nothing of it,” said Fabens. “Anything for a shithead.”
Fletch said, “You could have spent the money on a better grade of cigars. Preferably Cuban.”
“I’m a government employee.” Fabens looked at the tip of his cigar. “What do you expect?”
“Peace?”
“The convention starts tomorrow,” Eggers said. “Outside of Washington. In Virginia.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We didn’t want you to have too long to think about it”
“No way.”
“Tomorrow,” Fabens said. “You’re going to be there.”
“I’m having lunch with this guy in Genoa tomorrow. Tuesday, I’m flying down to Rome for an exhibition.”
“Tomorrow,” said Fabens.
“I don’t have a ticket. I haven’t packed.”
“We have your ticket.” Eggers waved his hand. “You can do your own packing.”
Fletch sat forward, placing his forearms on his thighs.
“Okay,” he said. “What’s this about?”
“At the airport in Washington, near the Trans World Airlines’ main counters, you will go to a baggage locker.” Fabens took a key from his jacket pocket and looked at it. “Locker Number 719. In that locker you will find a reasonably heavy brown suitcase.”
“Full of bugging equipment,” said Eggers.
Fletch said, “Shit, no!”
Fabens flipped the key onto the coffee table.
“Shit, yes.”
“No way!” said Fletch.
“Absolutely,” said Fabens. “You will then take another airplane to Hendricks, Virginia, to the old Hendricks Plantation, where the convention is being held, and you will immediately set out planting listening devices in the rooms of all your colleagues, if I may use such a term for you shitheads of the fourth estate.”
“It’s not going to happen,” said Fletch.
“It’s going to happen,” said Fabens. “In the brown suitcase—and forgive us, we had trouble matching your luggage exactly—there is also a recording machine and plenty of tape. You are going to tape the most private, bedroom conversations of the most important people in American journalism.”
“You’re crazy.”
Eggers shook his head. “Not crazy.”
“You are crazy.” Fletch stood up. “You’ve told me more than you should have. Bunglers! You’ve given me a story.” Fletch grabbed the key from the coffee table. “One phone call, and this story is going to be all over the world in thirty-six hours.”
Fletch backed off the carpet onto the marble floor.
“Blow smoke in my face. You’re not going to get this key from me.”
Fabens smiled, holding his cigar chest-height.
“We haven’t told you too much. We’ve told you too little.”
“What haven’t you told me?”
Eggers shook his head, seemingly in embarrassment
“We’ve got something on you.”
“What have you got on me? I’m not a priest or a politician. There’s no way you can spoil my reputation.”
“Taxes, Mister Fletcher.”
“What?”
Fabens said again, “Taxes.”
