“For this service to Stanwyk, he has agreed to pay me fifty thousand dollars. He will have the cash in the house, in the opened safe, in tens and twenties when I arrive next week.
“Originally, he offered twenty thousand dollars. I pressed the price to fifty thousand dollars, in an effort to gauge his seriousness.
“He appeared serious.
“His investigation of me he believes to have been adequate. He watched me a few days and saw precisely that image I had been assigned to project: that of a drifter and a drug addict.
“He did not know my name or anything else about me.
“What Stanwyk doesn’t realize is that I am the great hotshot young reporter, I.M. Fletcher of the
“The questions at this point appear obvious enough.
“Is the man who commissioned me to murder him Alan Stanwyk?
“Does he have terminal cancer?
“Is he insured for three million dollars?
“Does he really mean for me to murder him?
“In the answer to any one of these questions, there is probably a helluva story.
“And although I admit to having been in the killing business for a while, in Indochina, I am now back in the helluva story business.
“Any story concerning Alan Stanwyk is worth getting.
“Therefore, I have agreed to murder Alan Stanwyk.
“My agreeing to murder him gives me exactly a week, in which I can be fairly sure he will not commission anyone else to murder him.
“Dishonest of me, I know.
“But as Pappy used to say about violating virgins, ‘Son, if you’re not the first, someone else will be.’‘
“Carradine.”
“This is I.M. Fletcher.”
“Yes, Mr. Fletcher.”
“I write for the
“Oh.”
“You are the financial editor, aren’t you?”
“Are you that shit who wrote that piece saying we are headed for a moneyless state?”
“I did write something of the sort, yes.”
“You’re a shit.”
“Thanks for buying the Sunday paper.”
“I didn’t. I read it Monday in the office.”
“You see?”
“What can I do for you, Fletcher?”
A head peered through the door of Fletch’s cubicle and smiled victoriously. The head was about forty years old, male, with bleached blond hair. Seeing Fletch on the telephone, it withdrew.
“I need some information about a man named Stanwyk. W-Y-K.”
“
“Yes.”
The picture file on Fletch’s desk was clearly of the man he had met yesterday. Alan Stanwyk in business suit, Alan Stanwyk in black tie, Alan Stanwyk in flight gear: Alan Stanwyk who wished to end his life—a murder mystery.
“He married Collins Aviation.”
“All of it?”
“He married the only daughter of the president and chairman of the board.”
“Job security.”
“You should be so lucky.”
“Frank, our supreme boss, doesn’t have any daughters. Just sons of bitches.”
“I believe Stanwyk is executive vice president of Collins Aviation.”
“Will wonders never cease.”
“I believe he’s due to be president, once he gets a little more age on him.”
“His future was made with the bed.”
“No, I understand he’s a competent fellow in his own right. Graduated from Harvard or Wharton—one of those places. A bright fellow who, as far as I know, is a perfectly nice man.”
“How is Collins Aviation doing?”
“Very well, as far as I know. He runs the place. His father-in-law is virtually retired. Spends all his time running tournaments at the Racquets Club down at The Beach. And paying for them. The stock is solid. I don’t know. I’d really have to look into it more. It’s not a very active stock. It is publicly traded, but mostly it’s held by Collins and a few of his cronies who are directors.”
“So anything could be true, eh?”
“Almost anything. Do you want me to look further into this?”
“Yes.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Everything. I want to know everything about Stanwyk, his wife, Collins, Collins Aviation, personal and professional.”
“Why the Christ should I do your work for you?”
“You’re the financial editor of the
“Yes.”
“I’d hate to make a mistake and have it reflect on you.”
“Me? How could it reflect on me?”
“I’ve talked with you already.”
“Clara Snow said you’re a shit.”
“My extension is 705. Many thanks.”
“Christ.”
“No. I.M. Fletcher.”
The telephone book was stuffed into the bookcase behind his desk. While he was pulling it out, ignoring the papers that spilled on the floor from above and below the telephone book, the man who was not blond came in and sat down in Fletch’s side chair.
“Mr. Fletcher?”
The man wore an open shirt and love beads.
“Yes.”
“I’m Gillett, of Gillett, Worsham and O’Brien.”
“No foolin‘”
“Your wife’s attorneys.”
“Which wife?”
“Mrs. Linda Fletcher, as she is now known.”
“Oh, really? Linda. How is she doin‘?”
“Not well, Mr. Fletcher. Not well at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. She’s a nice kid.”
“She is very distressed that since the divorce you have not paid her one cent in alimony.”
“I took her to lunch once.”
“She has told me about the King-size Relish Burger several times now. Your generosity has been marked. The
