“If it weren’t that you’re scheduled to pick up a Bronze Star Friday, I’d fire you in a minute.”
“What I’m really saying, Frank, is that I am on a story, an investigation of the source of the drugs at The Beach. I’m not being dramatic, but I might be killed. If I am killed, some superior ought to know why. I believe the chief of police at The Beach, Graham Cummings, is the source. Clara Snow has tipped him off that I am on his heels. This morning he called me in to ask me what I know. This was after I tried to get arrested Sunday night. I tried very hard to get arrested. I belted three cops, in the chief’s presence. I got a crack on the head, but I did not get arrested. This morning I played dumb. Very, very dumb. I told him I know nothing but the obvious. He told me to get out of town. It’s reasonable to expect that if he begins to believe I’ve got hard evidence on him, he might want to kill me. You and your incompetent idiotic Clara Snow will have killed me.”
“You’re dramatizing yourself.”
“Maybe.”
“So what are you saying? You don’t want to finish the story?”
“I’ll finish it.”
“When will you have it finished?”
“Pretty soon.”
“I want to see it.”
“You’ll see it.”
“You’d better pick up the Bronze Star Friday morning.”
“By all means, Frank. Have reporters and photographers there. I look forward to having my face splashed all over the newspaper Saturday morning. That would surely get me killed.”
“You collect that medal.”
“Definitely, Frank. Friday morning, ten o’clock, the marine commandant’s office.”
“You pick up that medal, Fletcher, or Friday’s will be your last paycheck.”
“I wouldn’t think of disappointing you, Frank.”
“By the way, Clara also says you’ve got sleazy divorce lawyers all over this office. Keep them out of here.”
“Right, Frank.”
Fletch stood up and changed his tone of voice entirely. “What do you think of Alan Stanwyk?”
“He’s a shit.”
“Why?”
Frank said, “Stanwyk has fought every sensible piece of noise pollution legislation brought up in the last five years.”
“And he’s won?”
“Yes, he’s won.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“Nothing. He’s a shit. Go get killed. Then maybe we’d have a story.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
“Anytime.”
“Good afternoon, sir.” The headwaiter recognized him, even dressed in a full suit. The man was wasted on a tennis pavilion. “Are you looking for the Underwoods?”
“Actually, I’m looking for Joan Stanwyk,” Fletch said.
“Mrs. Stanwyk is playing tennis, sir. Court three. There’s an empty table at the rail. Shall I have a screwdriver brought to you?”
“Thank you.”
Fletch sat at the round table for two. Along the rail were flower boxes. In the third court away from Fletch, Joan Stanwyk was playing singles with another woman.
“Your screwdriver, sir. Shall I charge this to the Underwoods?”
“Please.”
Half of court three was in the shade of the clubhouse. This made serving difficult half the time for both players. One would think Joan Collins Stanwyk could get a better court at the Racquets Club.
Half the people on the tennis pavilion were still dressed in tennis whites. The other half were dressed for the evening. It was five-twenty.
Joan Collins Stanwyk played tennis like a pro, but utterly without the flash of passion that made a champion. She was smooth, even, polished; a well-educated, well-experienced tennis player. It was difficult to get anything by her, or to outthink her, yet she didn’t seem to be deeply involved—paying attention. She was also without the sense of fun and of joy that a beginning tennis player has. She was competent, terrifically competent, and bored.
She won the set, walked to the net, shook hands with her opponent and smiled precisely as she would have if she had lost. They both collected sweaters and ambled up to the pavilion.
Fletch turned his chair to face the entrance.
She had to greet many people, using the same shake of the hand and smile as she used at the net. It was a moment before her eyes wandered along the rail and found Fletch.
He stood up.
She excused herself and came over immediately.
“Why, John. I thought you were in Milwaukee.”
“Montana,” Fletch said.
“Yes, of course. Montana.” She sat at the table.
“Just before leaving for the airport Saturday, my boss called and asked me to stay a few more days. Some customers to see.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I was busy seeing customers.” He was sitting at the table, finishing his drink. “Besides, I thought I would come by on Tuesday.”
“Why Tuesday?”
“Because you said Tuesday was the day your husband came home from the office at a reasonable hour.”
Beneath her tan, her cheeks turned red.
“I see.”
“Didn’t you say your husband has Tuesdays reserved for you?”
“You’re rather putting it to me, aren’t you, John?”
“I hope to.”
Joan Collins Stanwyk, keeping her eyes in his laughed. She had a lovely throat.
She said, “Well, now…”
He said, “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a drink.”
“You ask a great many more questions than you appear to ask, John. And what’s more, you listen to the answers. You must be very good at what you do.”
“What do I do?”
“Why, sell furniture, of course. Isn’t that what you said?”
“I’m really quite expert on beds.”
She said, “Would you believe that I have one?”
***
She had one, at the Racquets Club, a three-quarter-sized bed in a bright room overlooking the pool area. She said it was her “changing room”. It had a full bathroom and a closet full of tennis dresses, evening gowns, skirts, sneakers and shoes.
She had given him directions to the door on the corridor above the dining room.
By the time he arrived, she was out of the shower and wrapped in an oversized towel.
Joan Collins Stanwyk was more interested in making love than in playing tennis. But again, she was educated and experienced without the flash that makes champions. And she was without the playful joy of the beginner.
