“Will I ever forget?”
“Blaine is sort of a turkey. I’ve talked with him. Always seems sort of confused, lost. Treasurer of the company. You know, one of those guys who wants to do his job nine-to-five and go home. Corcoran’s all right. At least he looks you in the eye and talks straight at you.”
“Alexander Corcoran, president.”
“Good for you, Fletch. Did you talk to him?”
“No. Blaine said he was at a golf tournament somewhere.”
“So Blaine was the only person you talked to?”
“ ’Fraid so.”
“Gee, Fletch. You never do any story with only one source.”
“Tell me.”
“Sorry, Fletch. You don’t need me hitting you over the head, too. Some time I’ll tell you about some of the mistakes I’ve made.”
“As far as I knew I was doing a financial up-date on a little company the
“White people lie,” Tom Jeffries said. “Black people do, too.”
“Jeez, I don’t understand this. Tom, had anyone ever told you Thomas Bradley was dead?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I think if anyone had ever mentioned it to me I would have considered it with complete indifference. I mean, the company employs two, three thousand people at most. It’s not a publicly held company. Wagnall-Phipps is so-what’s-ville. The only reason we did that expose on it a couple of years ago— whenever we did it—was to show that it’s not just the giant corporations that spread the loot around illegally.”
“So if Wagnall-Phipps isn’t a public company, who owns it?”
“I think it’s entirely owned by Bradley. Bradley and his wife. Corcoran might have held some of the stock, but I doubt it. Wagnall-Phipps wasn’t that sort of a company, you know? I never had much of a sense of family, we’re- all-in-this-together kind of feeling you get from some small companies. Bradley was too laid back for that. Too much his own man. And Corcoran—call him president if you like—he was really sales manager. He didn’t run the company at all. Bradley did—as chairman. I think he gave Corcoran the title of president so he’d be more effective as sales manager.”
“What about the rest of Bradley’s life?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how could he die and nobody notice?”
“Lots of people do.”
“Wasn’t he important to anybody?”
“His wife. His kids. His company. Why should anyone else care?”
“Charities. Clubs. I mean, you go hang-gliding, Tom.”
“Used to go.”
“Used to. Didn’t Bradley play golf? Tennis? You said he wasn’t athletic.”
“Well, I don’t know, but he looked soft to me. Not like anyone who jogged, or anything. Maybe he wasn’t well.”
“Politics. Didn’t he have any life other than the company?”
“I didn’t know him that well. I’d see him in his office. Very quiet spoken. He made those mosaics I told you about. They were nice, but I don’t suppose they excited too many people. I don’t know what you want, Fletch.”
“I’m trying to get a handle on this guy.”
“Try the cemetery.”
“Very funny. I want to know why Blaine referred to him as alive when he’s dead.”
“Ask Blaine.”
“I’m going to.”
“Listen, Fletch, screwing the press isn’t exactly a new game. Purposely feeding us false information so they can deny it later and make us look bad? People do it all the time. You know that.”
“Talking about a dead man as being alive?”
“It’s a weird one,” Tom said.
“There were kids involved. Bradley’s kids. People say to them ‘I saw your Daddy’s name in the newspapers the other day. What a fine man he must be!’ Shit, Tom, that’s cruel.”
“That’s sick.”
“Sick and cruel. So why would anyone do it?”
“Go ask the guy who did it.”
“Yeah.” Fletch jumped off the table. “Have a happy wedding.”
“I will,” Tom said. “I told Tina she’ll always be able to say I took this marriage lying down.”
“Anything you need before I go?”
“Yeah. Tell Tina I need her black hands out here spongin’ me off. I’m gettin’ sweaty.”
10
J A M E S S T. E. CR A N D A L L was seventy and stooped.
He stood on the porch of his shabby house in Newtowne, hands in the pockets of his dark green, baggy work pants. His eyes had not left Fletch’s face since Fletch had driven onto the dirt drive-way.
“Morning,” Fletch smiled as he approached the steps to the porch.
“Don’t want any,” Crandall said.
“Any what?”
“Any whatever you got.”
“You don’t know what I’ve got.”
“Don’t care to know.”
“You sure?”
“Absolute sure. You might just as well back that tin can you’re drivin’ back out into traffic and be on your way.”
“Are you James St. E. Crandall?”
“None of your business.”
“Are you James St. E. Crandall or not?”
“Want me to call the cops?”
“Sure,” Fletch said. “I’ll wait.”
The weathered skin around Crandall’s eyes puckered. “What makes you think you have a right to know anything?”
“I have a right to know everything.”
“Who says?”
Fletch grinned. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re a young punk.”
“That may be.”
“Don’t even wear shoes. Standin’ there in the dirt like white trash. Where’d you come from? You go to church? Where’d you get my name?”
“So you are James St. E. Crandall.”
“Maybe.”
“If you are, then I found your wallet.”
“Didn’t lose my wallet.”
“Your passport wallet.”
“Never had a passport. Never had a passport wallet.”
“Have you stayed at the Park Worth Hotel lately?”
