Fletch remembered seeing, on the beach at Cagna her toes, with the nails polished.
She said, “If the paintings are in this country, then, how do you say, possession is the first law of nature.”
“Self-preservation is the first law of nature, Sylvia—an instinct you have fully developed.”
“I mean, possession.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Flesh, tell me the truth. You know where the paintings are.”
“Sylvia, I am in Boston working on a biography of Edgar Arthur Tharp Junior.”
She slapped him lightly on the chest.
“You lie. All the time you lie to me.”
“I am.”
“You writing on such a big book, then where the typewriter? Where the papers? I looked all over the apartment last night. Nobody’s writing a book here.”
“I haven’t started yet. I’ve had distractions.”
“‘Distractions!’ You find the paintings.” He could feel breath from each nostril going against his side. “Where are the paintings?”
He was awake. And he was beginning to want it.
He said nothing.
She placed the side of her knee over his crotch and moved it.
She said, “Where are the paintings? Eh, Flesh?”
“You’re a hell of a negotiator, Sylvia.”
“You will help me, Flesh. Won’t you?”
“You help me first.”
“America!” Fletch shouted.
It was at the worst possible moment that the telephone rang.
It was a cable. From Andy. Angela de Grassi.
“ARRIVING BOSTON SUNDAY SIX-THIRTY P.M. TWA FLIGHT 540. IS SYLVIA WITH YOU. MUCH LOVE.— ANDY.”
Fletch said, “Oh, shit.”
She never could keep herself to ten words or less.
He said, “Oh, Christ.”
He said, “What, in hell, am I doing?”
Sylvia said, “Come on, Flesh.
He said, “All right.”
It was a somewhat better moment the next time the telephone rang.
Fletch said, “Hello?”
“Are you drunk?”
It was Jack Saunders. Fletch could hear the city room clatter behind him.
“No.”
“Were you asleep?”
“No.”
“What are you doing?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“I’ve got it. Are you about through?”
“Buzz off, will you, Jack?”
“Wait a minute, Fletch. I’m stuck.”
“So am I ”
“Really stuck. Will you listen a minute?”
“No.”
“Fires are breaking out all over Charlestown. A torch is at work. I haven’t got the rewrite man I need.”
“So?”
“One is drunk and ready for the tank. The other is pregnant and just left for the hospital to have a baby. Nothing I can do about it. I can’t find the day guy. His wife says he’s at a ballgame somewhere. I’m three short on the desk, two with vacations and one with the flu. The guy I’ve got on rewrite now is a kid; he’s not good enough for a big-story like this.”
“Sounds like very poor organization, Jack.”
“Jeez, who’d think all hell would break loose on an October Saturday night?”
“I would.”
“Can you come in?”
“For rewrite?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I can’t handle it myself, Fletch. I’ve got to remake the whole paper.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten minutes to nine.”
“What time do you go to bed?”
“We’ll front-page big cuts for the first edition which goes at ten-twenty.”
“Jack, I’m a murder suspect.”
“Ralph Locke isn’t.”
“I don’t know the city.”
“You know how to put words together.”
“I’m rusty.”
“Please, Fletch? Old times’ sake? I can’t talk much longer.”
Fletch looked through the dark at Sylvia, now on his side of the bed.
“I’ll be right there. Bastard.”
Twenty-six
“Frank?”
“Who do you want?”
The young voice was sleepy.
It was two-twenty-five Sunday morning.
“Inspector Flynn.”
The telephone receiver clattered against wood.
At a distance from the phone, the voice said, “Da?”
After a long moment, Flynn answered.
“Now who might this be?”
“I. M. Fletcher.”
“God bless, my nose. Where are you, lad? Would you be seizing upon this odd hour of the night to confess?”
“I’m at the
“Now what would you be doing there? Have you rejoined the enemy?”
“Charlestown is on fire. Someone is torching it.”
“I see.”
