bells ring. It was Sunday noon and everyone was shooting up.
Fletch slept past midnight.
When Fletch woke at a quarter to three Monday morning, he found Bobbi lying in the sleeping bag beside him. He had not heard or felt her come in. It took him a moment to realize she was dead.
The back of his scalp tingling, he scrambled out of the sleeping bag.
As he knelt in the moonlight beside her, his scream choked with horror.
Her eyes appeared to have receded entirely into her head. Her left arm was puffy at the elbow and shoulder. She showed no vital signs.
He guessed she had overdosed.
He spent until dawn ridding the room of every sign of her.
Until eleven o’clock, then, he sat cross-legged on the floor in the center of the room. Rock still. Thinking.
Early Monday afternoon, Fletch spent forty minutes under a warm shower in his own apartment. He had driven up from The Beach at about the pace of a hearse. Bobbi was dead and sort of buried. He washed his hair five times. Finally, the blood, the sand, the congealed mess was gone. A crooked, narrow abrasion under his hair was sore to the touch of his fingertips.
Sitting on the divan under the Disderi, he ate two delicatessen sandwiches and drank a bottle of milk. On the coffee table in front of him was the big tape recorder. On the wall across from him was a copy of William James’s
After he had finished his sandwiches and milk, he went into the bedroom and lay on the bed. Facing him was a copy of Fredric Weiss’s 1968 photograph of a boy apparently walking in midair beneath two roofs,
Fletch said, “Bobbi,” and picked up the phone and dialed the Nevada number.
“Swarthout Nevada Realty Company.”
It was the same voice that had answered Saturday.
“Jim Swarthout, please.”
“I’m not sure Mr. Swarthout… oh, here he is, sir. One moment, please.”
Fletch sat up on the bed. He had to put Bobbi out of mind, now. Lighten his voice. Be convincing.
“Jim Swarthout speaking.”
“Hi, Jim. This is Bill Carmichael.”
‘’Bill Carmichael?“
“I’m a stockbroker for a bunch of thieves out here on the Coast known as John Collins and all. The John Collins family.”
“Oh, yeah. How are you, Bill?”
“I think we’ve met,” Fletch said.
“Well, if you’ve ever in your life seen an overweight, bald-headed man who was probably drunk at the time, we’ve met.”
“Alan tells me you’re doin‘ a deal with him.”
“Alan who?”
“Alan Stanwyk.”
“Who’s Alan Stanwyk?”
“The guy who married Joan Collins.”
“Oh. John’s son-in-law.”
“Yeah. Anyway, Alan told me about his buying the ranch, and as I might be interested in buying a little piece of real estate out your way myself, I thought I’d give you a ring. The stock market, you know, Jim, isn’t all it might be.”
“I’ve never heard from him.”
“From whom?”
“Alan what’s-his-name. John Collins’s son-in-law.”
“You’ve never heard from him?”
“Never. You said he’s buying a ranch through me?”
“A big spread. Fifteen million dollars’ worth.”
“Nope. It’s not happening.”
“Golly. I thought he said it was quite definite.”
“Maybe he’s just thinking about it. What’s his phone number?”
“Could he be dealing with someone else?”
“No. If there’s a fifteen-million-dollar ranch for sale anywhere in Nevada, I’d know about it. There isn’t one.”
“Amazing.”
“I’d know if such a property were available anywhere in the state. And right now there just isn’t one. Let me say that over. I can almost perfectly guarantee you that nowhere in the state of Nevada at the present time is there a piece of real estate of such value being sold or bought. Of course there is always the chance of a private deal, between friends or family, where a broker isn’t being used or consulted. But even then, I would be very much surprised if I hadn’t heard about it.”
“In any case, Alan Stanwyk is definitely not using you or your office to buy any real estate in Nevada?”
“Definitely not. As I say, we’ve never heard from him. I’m sure we could find something for him, though.”
“Do me a favor, Jim?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t call him. You’d just be embarrassing me, and him, too. He mentioned it by the pool last night. He’d had a drink.”
“Talking big, huh?”
“I suspect so.”
“That’s the way it is with these professional in-laws. Always talking about what they’re going to do with somebody else’s money.”
“I guess so. He’d had a drink.”
“Well, if he ever gets serious, and if he ever gets his hands on any of his father-in-law’s money, send him out to me.”
“I will, Jim.”
“Now, Bill, you said you were interested in a piece of property yourself.”
“I don’t know what to say, Jim.”
“You were just checking on the old boy.”
“Something like that, Jim.”
“What are you, the family financial nursemaid?”
“Let’s just say I asked a question.”
“And you got an answer. I understand. My own daughter is taking art lessons in Dallas, Texas, for Christ’s sake.”
“Families, Jim. Families.”
“I wouldn’t trade jobs with you, Bill. But call anytime you want. If old John’s hired you to nursemaid Alan what’s-his-name, it’s all right with me. Just wish I could hire you myself.”
“You’re a sharp man, Jim. I owe you a drink.”
“John Collins does. And from him, I’ll accept.”
***
Fletch returned to the living room and sat heavily on the divan. He continued to have a mild headache.
