“No way. He hates them. Alan always has. I’ve never even-met them.”
“How can that be so?”
“You must be thinking of someone else.”
“I’m sure Alan used to fly home to see his parents whenever he could. Every six weeks or so.”
“Not Alan. His parents were very pushy toward him. The crisis came, I think, at the Golden Gloves.”
“The Golden Gloves? I remember Alan had boxed.”
“Alan boxed because his father made him. Pushed him right up the ladder or whatever into the state Golden Gloves. When he was fifteen. Every day after school he had to spend in the basement at home, boxing until supper time. He hated it. He refused to go into the nationals. He and his father have never spoken since then.”
“I must be confused.”
“You must be. And he’s always said his mother is a sickly, neurotic thing. Spends most of her time in bed.”
“Aren’t you interested in these people? Alan’s parents? Aren’t you curious to meet them yourself?”
“Not if what Alan says is true about them. And I’m sure it is. Why wouldn’t it be? Believe me, honey, I have enough difficult people around me to not want to add in-laws.”
“I see.”
There was a stir in the pavilion as a handsome, distinguished-looking man in his fifties entered, dressed in white tennis slacks and blue blazer. People reacted like children in a sandbox catching sight of someone coming with a box of popsicles. They waved from their tables. Men nearest the entrance stood up to shake hands. Women beamed. The headwaiter welcomed with happy bows of his head.
“There,” Joan said, “is Dad.”
Fletch said, “Yes, I remember him.”
“Don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t remember you.”
“Why should he remember me?” Fletch said.
“Because you’re beautiful,” she said. “You really turn me on. Are you sure you have to leave town today?”
“I’ve got to be back tonight.”
“But tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Listen,” Fletch said, “you and Alan ought to have a place you can go and be by yourselves once in a while. I mean, a place of your own.”
“The ranch.”
“What?”
“Alan is buying a ranch. In Nevada. For us.”
“Great.”
“No, it isn’t great. It’s awful. Who wants a ranch in Nevada?”
“Most people.”
“I spent a summer on a ranch when I was a kid. Hot, dusty, dirty. Boring. Incredibly boring. All the men look like pretzels. And when they talk they sound like a Dick-and-Jane book. It comes out slow and it ends up obvious. And you don’t talk about anything that hasn’t got four legs. I mean, sitting around looking at a cow is not my idea of pleasure.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Alan wants to. He thinks the ranch is a great idea as an investment. I haven’t even been out to look at it. He insists he’s taking me next weekend.”
“Next weekend?”
“I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to it.”
“It’s a place you could be alone together.”
“Like hell. There’s an airstrip in the back yard. I know that already. As long as there’s an airplane in the back yard, Alan will be off on an important business deal somewhere and I’ll be left staring at cows with a bunch of pretzels in blue jeans.”
“So stop it. Stop Alan from buying it.”
“Supposedly, he’s taking the down payment, the cash, out himself next weekend.”
“The cash? As cash?”
“Yes. Isn’t that crazy? Cash. He said cash, visible cash is the only way to do business with these people. If he shows up with cash in a brown paper bag or something, flashes the real stuff, he might save percentages from the purchase price.”
“They must be more sophisticated than that.”
“This is deep in Nevada, honey. How do you know what appeals to a pretzel in blue jeans with a cow on its mind? Oh, Dad.”
Fletch stood up.
“This is an old friend of Alan’s. They were in the Air Force together. John—”
Shaking hands, Fletch said, “Yahmenaraleski.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Yahmenaraleski,” John Collins said. “Stay and have lunch with us.”
Fletch brought a chair from a neighboring table and sat in it. John Collins sat facing his daughter. At one o’clock, the sunlit tennis courts were empty. The pavilion was full.
Joan had moved the Polaroid camera.
“John’s in the furniture business, Dad. From Grand Rapids, Michigan.”
“From Butte, Montana,” Fletch said.
“Oh?”
Fletch was correct. Besides no one’s being able to remember for long the name he gave, no one cared to inquire too deeply into either the furniture business or Butte, Montana. He believed himself absolutely unmemorable.
“Martinis before lunch?” John Collins said.
“I mean to take a nap this afternoon.” Joan stared at Fletch.
“I’m glad to see at least John is drinking orange juice.”
“It’s a screwdriver.”
“Ah. Well. If you drink enough of those, they’ll make your head hammer.” John Collins beamed at them both. His daughter groaned softly. “You play tennis, John?”
“Just hack about, sir. I enjoy the game, but I have so little time for it…”
“You must make time in life to enjoy yourself and be healthy. It’s the best way to get a lot done.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course it also helps if you have a very able son-in-law to take over your business and run it for you. Sometimes I feel guilty that I’m playing and Alan is working. How do you know Alan?”
“We were in the Air Force together. In Texas.”
“John said that Alan buzzed a house once, in San Antonio. Did he ever mention that to you, Dad?”
“He certainly didn’t.”
“We were lieutenants then,” Fletch said. “He was severely reprimanded. I guess I talked out of school.”
“Delighted you did,” John Collins said. “Time we had a bit of dirt on Alan. I’ll put his nose in it. Got any more dirt?”
“No, sir.”
“He’s off flying someone’s idea of an airplane in Idaho this weekend,” John said. “Do you still fly?”
“Only with a ticket in my hand.”
“Good for you. I wish Alan would give it up. He’s too important to too many people to be taking such risks. Were you overseas with him?”
“No, sir. I was sent to the Aleutians.”
“Oh.”
Fletch smiled. No one cared about the Aleutians, either.
