“No, sir.”
“You must have won it a while ago.”
“I did. A long while ago.”
“You ought to pick it up. Give the country a boost.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s your name, son, anyway?”
“James,” Fletch said. “Sidney James.”
RESERVED CAPTAIN PRECINCT THREE
Fletch parked there.
He went straight to the bull room.
“Lupo’s in back,” the sergeant at the typewriter said. “Beating the shit out of a customer.”
“I’d hate to interrupt him. Someone might read the customer his rights.”
“Oh, they’ve been read to him already. Lupo’s interpretation of the Supreme Court ruling has been read to him.”
“How does Lupo’s interpretation go?”
“You’ve never heard it? It’s really funny. I can’t remember all of it. He rattles it off. Something like: ‘You have the right to scream, to bleed, to go unconscious and call an attorney when we get done with you; visible injuries, including missing teeth, will be reported, when questioned, as having occurred before we picked you up, et cetera, et cetera.’ It scares the shit out of people.”
“I bet.”
The sergeant picked up a phone.
“Lupo? Mr. I.M. Fletcher of the
He hung up and smiled happily at Fletch. “Lupo said he made a bust Wednesday especially for you. Three dimes’ worth for twenty dollars.”
“Twenty dollars?”
“He says it’s Acapulco Gold. You should be so lucky. It was a bust on advertising executives.”
“I pity the poor bastards.”
“You don’t need three bags full to convict. It’s in the second left-hand drawer of his desk.”
Fletch took the plastic bag from the second left-hand drawer of the first desk in the third row from the windows. “Thanks very much.”
“The money, Lupo said.”
“Do you accept credit cards?”
“Cash. It’s for the Police Athletic Fund. Believe me, with his new chick, he needs an athletic fund.”
“I believe you. Beating up people all day in the questioning room is a tough way to make a living.”
“It’s hard work.”
“Sweaty.”
Fletch dropped two tens on the sergeant’s desk. “We’re going to try it on you, one day, I.M. Fletcher. Find out what the hell the initials I.M. stand for.”
“Oh, no,” Fletch said. “That’s a secret that will go with me to my grave.”
“We’ll find out.”
“Never. Only my mother knew, and I murdered her to keep her quiet.”
Fletch sat in the sergeant’s side chair.
“Seeing Lupo isn’t here at the moment, and can’t be disturbed,” Fletch said slowly, “I wonder if you would give me a quick reading on a name.”
“What name?” The sergeant put his hand on the phone. “Stanwyk. W-Y-K. Alan. One ‘I.’”
“You looking for anything in particular?”
“Just a computer inquiry. A read-out.”
“Okay.” The sergeant dialed a short number on his phone and spelled the name slowly. He waited absently a moment and then listened, making notes on his pad. He hung up within three minutes.
“Stanwyk, Alan,” he said, “has a six-month-old unpaid parking ticket in Los Angeles. Eleven years ago, Air Force Lieutenant Alan Stanwyk, while flying a training craft, buzzed a house in San Antonio, Texas. Complaint was transferred to Air Force, which reprimanded said Stanwyk, Alan.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. I’m surprised, too. I seem to recognize the name from somewhere. He must be a criminal. The only names I ever see are the names of baddies.”
“You might have seen it in the sports pages,” Fletch said, getting up.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. He tried out for Oakland once.”
***
Fletch went home.
His apartment was on the seventh floor of a building that had everything but design.
His apartment—a living room, a bedroom, bath and kitchenette— was impeccably neat. On the wall over the divan was a blow-up of a multiple
In the bathroom, he dropped his clothes in the laundry hamper and showered. The night before, after being away from his apartment for weeks, he had spent forty-five minutes in the shower.
Naked, he added the day’s mail to the stack that had been waiting for him the night before on the coffee table. Sitting on the divan, he rolled himself a joint from the bag supplied by Police Detective Herbert Lupo.
A half hour later he picked up the stack of mail, unopened, and dropped it into the wastebasket beside the desk in his bedroom. They were all bills.
The phone rang.
Fletch shoulder-rolled onto the bed and answered it.
“Fletch?”
“My God. If it isn’t my own dear, sweet wifey, Linda Haines Fletcher.”
“How are you, Fletch?”
“Slightly stoned.”
“That’s good.”
“I’ve already paid you today ”
“I know. Mr. Gillett called and told me you had given him a great big check.”
“Mr. Gillett? Of that distinguished law firm, Jackass, Asshole and Gillett?”
“Thank you, Fletch. I mean, for the money.”
“Why do you call Gillett ‘Mr.’? His pants don’t even have pockets.”
“I know. Isn’t he awful?”
“I never thought you’d leave me for a homosexual divorce lawyer.”
“We’re just friends.”
“I’m sure you are. So why are you calling me?”
Linda paused. “I miss you, Fletch.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s been weeks since we’ve been together. Thirteen weeks.”
“The cat must have decomposed by now.”
“You shouldn’t have thrown the cat through the window.”
“Anyhow, I bought you lunch more recently than that. You think I’m made of money?”
“Together. I mean together.”
“Oh.”
“I love you, Fletch. You don’t get over that in a minute.”
“No. You don’t.”
