***
“Mr. Stanwyk? This is Casewell Insurers of California, subinsurers of the subsidiary carriers of a partial policy listed by Alan Stanwyk, who is your son?”
“Yes.”
“Glad to catch you in, sir.”
“I’m always in.”
“Just a few questions, sir. Are you and your wife currently alive?”
“Last time I looked, you damn fool.”
“And you’re both in good health?”
“Except for a pain in the ass from answering damn fools on the telephone.”
“Thank you, sir. And you are the parents of Alan Stanwyk, executive vice president of Collins Aviation?”
“Unless my wife knows somethin‘ she never told me.”
“I see, sir.”
“I don’t think they should let people like you dial long-distance.”
“Very amusing, sir.”
“I mean, you must be costing someone a passel of money.”
“It’s all paid for by the premiums, sir.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Some other damn fool, like my son, is paying those premiums just so you can be a jackass coast-to-coast.”
“Quite right, sir.”
“It’s damn fools like you who make me invest in telephone stock.”
“Very wise of you, sir, I’m sure.”
“The telephone company’s the only outfit in the whole country making any money. It’s because of fools like you some other fool lets near a telephone. Notice the way I’m keeping you talking?”
“I do, sir. You must own telephone stock.”
“I do. Plenty of it. You didn’t reverse the charges, did you?”
“No, sir. I didn’t.”
“Well, you’ll be glad to know that both my wife and I are alive. Thanks to telephone stock and damn fools like you.”
“When was the last time you saw your son, sir?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“A few weeks ago?”
“He drops by every six weeks or so.”
“Alan?”
“That’s his name. My wife thought it was an improvement on Marvin, although I’ve never been sure.”
“Your son, Alan, visits you in Pennsylvania every six weeks?”
“About that. Give or take a week. He has his own Collins Aviation planes. Jets. A nice young copilot comes with him who just loves Helen’s buckwheat cakes. He puts away three plates of them a morning and wants them again for lunch.”
“Your son, Alan Stanwyk, flies across country every six weeks in a private jet to visit you?”
“He never was much of a letter-writer. Sometimes he’s on his way in or out of New York or Washington.”
“Not always?”
“No. Not always. Sometimes he just comes by.”
“Then why weren’t you at his wedding?”
“How do you know we weren’t?”
“Insurance men know some funny things, Mr. Stanwyk.”
“They must.”
“Why weren’t you at the wedding?”
“It’s none of your business, even if you are an insurance man, but the answer is that the time got mixed up. We were supposed to go to Antigua for a vacation. Alan was paying. He was doing all right at Collins Aviation. A vice president of sales while he was twenty-something. That didn’t surprise me any. I’ve always been strong in sales myself. So we said all right. We’d never had a real get-on-an-airplane vacation before. The wedding was supposed to be a week after we returned. Smack dab in the middle of our vacation, we get this telegram saying the wedding had been moved forward because of some big business shift in her Daddy’s schedule. I think his name is John. We checked the airport, and no connection could be made until the next morning. The wedding was over. We missed it. I sorely would have loved to be there, though. The wife cried a little, but I figure she would have spilled a few tears even if she were there.”
“You’ve never met the Collinses?”
“Never had the pleasure. I’m sure they’re nice folks. I’ve never even met my daughter-in-law. Alan says she hates to fly. Isn’t that the damnedest? Her Daddy owns an airplane company and her husband’s a pilot and she won’t get on an airplane.”
“You’ve never been to California?”
“Nope. But we see a lot of it on television. Especially San Francisco. That place must be an awful pain in the ass to walk up and down. Hills and hills. Everybody in San Francisco must be either slope-shouldered or pigeon- breasted. Now, son, what did you call for?”
“That’s all, sir.”
“What’s all?”
“Just inquiring about you and your wife.”
“Seems to me we haven’t had a conversation at all.”
“If I think of anything more, I’ll call back.”
“Look here, son, if you think of anything at all, call back. I’d be relieved to hear you’re thinking.”
“I do have one other question, sir.”
“I’m breathless waitin‘.”
“As far as you know, is your son in good health?”
“When he was fifteen years old, he fought the state Golden Gloves. He’s been in better shape every year.”
“You think he could win the Golden Gloves championship now?”
“That’s not even funny, son.”
“Mr. Stanwyk?”
“I’m still listening.”
“I won the Bronze Star.”
Fletch listened to the silence.
“I take back everything I said, son. Good for you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It’s a pleasure being called by you. Is there any chance of your coming east with Alan?”
“He doesn’t know me.”
“He should. He won a Purple Heart. That doesn’t mean as much. He just got in the way of something.”
“So did I.”
“I bet. I bet you did.”
“Where was he wounded?”
“He crashed. A helicopter picked him up. The helicopter crashed. Busy snipers, that part of the woods. In the second crash a piece of metal went into his stomach. He told me it looked like an Amish door hinge. No one ever knew where it came from. Maybe the helicopter. I think it’s possible it came from the first crash. A man can carry a door hinge for a while without knowing about it. It’s okay. Recovering from it has kept him slim.”
“Mr. Stanwyk?”
“Yes, son.”
“If you were my dad, I’d pick up the Bronze Star next week.”
“You never picked it up?”
