Fletch

“Like what?”

“Well, I mean, I’m not earning much, and you’ve lost your job at the boutique, and it just doesn’t make sense for us to be running two apartments.”

“We’re divorced.”

“Who cares about that? You wanted to move back in last Friday night.”

“I still do.”

“So why don’t you? Give up your apartment, and move in?”

“I want to.”

“So okay. Do it.”

“When?”

“Friday morning. That way we can spend the weekend together.”

“You mean, move in permanently?”

“I mean, give up your apartment, get a moving van, and move your junk back into our apartment Friday morning, put everything away, arrange things as you like, and be there when I get back from court.”

“Really?”

“Really. Will you do it?”

“Sure. That’s a wonderful idea.”

“I think it makes great sense, don’t you?”

“I hate this place I’m living in, anyway.”

“Maybe you’ll even have lunch ready when I get back. Maybe we’ll go to The Beach for the weekend.”

“Wonderful idea. I really do love you, Fletch.”

“Me, too. I mean, I love you, too. See you Friday.”

24

“Clara Snow is an incompetent idiot. She knows nothing about this business. She is too stupid to learn.”

Frank Jaffe, editor-in-chief of the News-Tribune, was sober only a few moments a day. Two o’clock in the afternoon was not one of those moments. At nine in the morning he was bleary-eyed and hung over. At eleven he was reasonable, but also reasonably nervous: he saw everyone as being in the way between him and his first luncheon martini. At eleven-thirty he would dash through the city room to commence drinking his lunch. From two to four-thirty he was coherently drunk. At five he was impatient, irascible. Evening drinking began at six. By nine he was incoherently drunk. In the evening he would phone the office frequently shouting orders no one could ever understand. He would spend much of the next day countermanding the orders he could remember which nobody had understood anyway.

From the editor-in-chief’s office would flow daily a sheaf of oblique “clarifications” which disturbed everyone and made no sense to anyone.

Fletch wondered how he had the energy for Clara Snow.

From across his oak desk, Frank’s eyes behind glasses appeared to be trying to focus on him from the bottom of a jar of clam juice.

“What?”

“Clara Snow is an incompetent idiot. She knows nothing about newspapering. She is so stupid she can’t learn.”

“She’s your boss.”

“She is an incompetent idiot. She almost got me killed. She might yet.”

“What did she do?”

“I’ve been working on this drugs-on-the-beach story—”

“For too goddamn long a time, too.”

“Clara Snow reported to the chief of police at The Beach that I was there on an investigation and getting close to something.”

“What’s wrong with that? You might need police protection.”

“What’s wrong with it is that I believe the chief of police is the source of the drugs on the beach.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Chief Graham Cummings? I’ve known him for ten years. Fifteen years. He’s a wonderful man.”

“He’s the drug source.”

“The hell he is.”

“The hell he isn’t.”

Frank found it difficult to focus on people. “Fletcher, I think I’m taking you off this assignment.”

“The hell you are.”

“You’ve spent too goddamn long at it, and you’ve come up with nothing. You’ve just been horsing around at The Beach.”

“If you take me off it, Frank, I will write it for the Chronicle-Gazette and publish it with the statement that you refused to publish it.”

“We’ve been knockin‘ the police too hard lately.”

“Graham Cummings is a drug source.”

“What evidence do you have?”

“I’ll write it.”

“You have no evidence.”

“Besides that, he’s thrown me out of town. If I had been honest with him this morning and told him I have evidence, I think he would have killed me. If he gets one whiff of the evidence, he will kill me. I asked Clara Snow not to call the police.”

“And Clara asked me and I said ‘Go ahead.’ ”

“It was a damn-fool thing to do, Frank. When a man’s on a story, he knows what he’s doing. If I had wanted police protection, I would have sought it. It is not for you guys, you or Clara, to sit back here, setting me up as a clay pigeon.”

“Did you tell Clara you suspected Cummings?”

“No. Because when I was talking to her last Friday I didn’t suspect Cummings.”

“So what are you saying?”

Frank looked like an unhappy frog sitting on a pad. As what Fletch was saying went through his mind, his chest expanded, his cheeks expanded and his eyes widened. His face became red.

He turned his swivel chair sideways to his desk. That way he didn’t have to look at Fletch at all.

“Look, Fletcher, you and I have quite a bit to talk about. Clara says you’ve been pretty obnoxious. She says you dress like a slob, never wear shoes in the office, never answer your telephone, that she never knows where you are, that you’re not working very hard, not working at all, that you don’t accept editing, that you’re sort of rude… She says you’re insubordinate and disobedient.”

“Gee, boss, no wonder she set me up to be murdered.”

“You’re being rude now. Clara didn’t know she was setting you up to be murdered, and I don’t believe it yet. Graham Cummings is a decent guy.”

“You have me saying Clara’s an idiot, and Clara saying I’m an idiot. Doesn’t that lead you to some conclusion?”

“What conclusion?”

“Separate us. If you insist on her being an editor, let her go make someone else’s life miserable.”

“I won’t do that. You’ll live with her.”

“No. You live with her.”

Frank’s full face snapped to Fletcher. He tried to glare. Instead, his face just turned redder.

Frank said, “You’re hanging on here by a thread now, boy.”

“I sell newspapers.”