Fletch

“What do you mean?”

“Thanks for inviting me to witness your receiving the Bronze Star.”

“I didn’t invite you.”

“I got an invitation from the promotion department of the News-Tribune.”

“I didn’t send it.”

“You must have made up the invitation list.”

“I made up no invitation list.”

“I’m coming anyway. All us old comrades-in-arms are very proud of you, you know. All I ever won in the marines was a disease coffee doesn’t cure.”

“Do you still have it?”

“No. I lost it on a toilet seat.”

“At City Hall, I hope.”

“Probably. I thought you picked up the Bronze Star years ago.”

“I never picked it up.”

“Will you pick it up tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Fletch said. “Sure, sure, sure.”

“I’ll be there.”

“You be there. Better look pretty—there will be photographers.”

“I’ll wear a smile. See you then, Fletch.”

“See you then.”

***

“Fletcher!”

It was nine-thirty in the morning, and Fletch was going home for the day. He had waited to see the front- page proof at nine-fifteen. It was beautiful. Both stories began above the fold, with pictures of Bobbi and Cummings. The jumps, with more pictures, would be on page three, with full reproductions of the affidavits and handwritten note and more pictures. A blockbuster. Copy editors had changed very little of his copy. A veritable one-two helluva blockbuster.

He had the key in the ignition of the MG.

“Oh, hello, Clara.”

She had parked her gray Vega station wagon down the line of cars waiting to take their owners home again.

“How are you, sweetheart?”

“Fletcher, this is Thursday.”

“I know.”

She was leaning over his car door like a traffic officer.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“I haven’t seen the beach-drug story yet.”

“I know.”

“I told you you’re to have that story in by four o’clock this afternoon.”

“When would you run it?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to do some work on it first.”

“Would you run it tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. It depends on how much work we have to do on it.”

“Would you run it in the Sunday paper?”

“I don’t know. Frank said something about holding it for a week or two. He said he wanted to see it too. He said you had some crazy idea Graham Cummings is implicated.”

“Did I say that?”

“They’re friends.”

“Oh.”

“Is Cummings implicated?”

“His name is mentioned in the story.”

“It’s up to Frank and me when the story runs in the paper. It’s your job to get the story on my desk by four o’clock this afternoon.”

“Have I ever disappointed you yet, Clara?”

“I’m serious, Fletcher.”

“Have no fear. You’ll see the story this afternoon.”

“You’re sure?”

“Clara: I’m absolutely sure. This afternoon you’ll see the drug-beach story.”

“I’d better.”

“You will.”

“And you’d better plan on being in the marine commandant’s office at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t worry about that, either.”

“Okay. Your job is on the line.”

“I’d hate to lose it,” Fletch said. “You know how I love working with you.”

Fletch turned the ignition key.

“Fletch, I’ll see you by four o’clock at the latest.”

“You’ll see the story by four o’clock,” Fletch said. “Maybe even a little earlier.”

30

Fletch spent most of Thursday alone in his apartment.

He ate.

He slept.

He destroyed the Stanwyk tape.

He typed a letter to John Collins. He typed an original and a single carbon copy of the letter. And threw the original of the letter away. The copy he placed folded in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

He emptied the wastebaskets.

At eleven-thirty, the phone began ringing persistently. He knew it was Clara Snow and/or Frank Jaffe or any one of several other News-Tribune executives who characteristically became excited, one way or the other, in pleasure if they were real professionals, in anger if they were not, when a staff member had snuck a genuine, unadulterated piece of journalism over on them. In all newspapers Fletch had seen there was always a hard core of genuinely professional working staff which made it possible to commit genuine journalism occasionally, regardless of the incompetence among the executive staff. The afternoon newspaper was on the streets. The excited callers apparently went out to lunch at one o’clock. The phone did not begin ringing relentlessly again until two-thirty.

At three o’clock the lobby doorbell rang. Fletch pressed the buzzer to unlock the downstairs lobby door and waited.

In a moment his own apartment doorbell rang.

He opened the door to Joan Collins Stanwyk.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Stanwyk.”

“Fletcher, as I said, is a name I can remember.”

“You know who I am?”

“Thank you, I do.”

“Won’t you come in?”

She entered and sat on the divan.

“May I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Fletcher. But you may offer me an explanation.”