At the end of the bar near the windows overlooking the greens was a large and noisy group of men dressed casually. Two couples in the room, at tables, were dressed for dinner.
“Pebble Beach,” said one of the noisy men. “Nobody believes what I did at Pebble Beach. Even I don’t believe what I did at Pebble Beach!”
And they said this and they said that and they laughed at almost everything. Fletch sipped his beer.
His glass was nearly empty when one of the men turned to another, a heavily built man wearing bifocals, and said, “Alex, I thought you’d never really get over your bug-a-boo about approaching the seventh green.”
“Well,” Alex smiled. “I did. Just in time.”
Fletch picked up his beer, moved down the bar and, laughing with the men, looking interested at the next thing to be said, insinuated himself into the group. He nodded in appreciation at their slightly drunken inanities. He stood next to the man called Alex.
After many minutes, at a fairly quiet point in the conversation, Fletch said to the man, “You’re Alex Corcoran, aren’t you?”
“Sure,” the man said.
“Second place winner of not the biggest but surely the friendliest golf tournament in the U.S. of A.,” slurred one of the group.
“Congratulations,” Fletch said.
“It’s you young guys who beat me now,” Corcoran said. “And you don’t even go to bed at night to sleep.” He pulled on his gin and tonic. “I said, to sleep.”
“You and I met briefly before,” Fletch said. “What’s the name of that club over there …?” He pointed vaguely to the East.
“Euston.”
“Yeah. Euston.”
“Did I play you?”
“No, I wiped out in the first round. Watched you. We talked in the bar, later.”
Alex Corcoran laughed. “Pardon me for not remembering.”
“We talked about Wagnall-Phipps. You work for Wagnall-Phipps, right?”
“No!” said a golfer. “He doesn’t work for Wagnall-Phipps. He’s the president!”
“He doesn’t work at all,” said another.
Fletch nodded. “Yeah, I thought we talked about Wagnall-Phipps.”
“Been with W-P seven years,” Corcoran said. “Didn’t become president, though, until the company suddenly decided to get out of the ski house business.”
Everyone laughed.
“Jerry was really screwed by that.” A golfer shook his head. “Jeez. Business entertaining. Suddenly it becomes illegal, or un-American or something.”
“Depends on who you entertain.”
“Depends on who you bribe.”
Everything was funny to these golfers after the tournament.
“Alex, what happened to Jerry?”
“He’s gone skiing,” one of them joked.
“Yeah. Retired to Aspen.”
“The ex-president of Wagnall-Phipps,” said the current president, “is living in Mexico on a pension bigger than my salary.”
“Really?” marveled one of the men. “The wages of sin.”
“Pretty big pension,” Alex said. “The scandal did him no harm. Wish I could work up a good scandal myself. Then I’d never have to go to the office.”
“You hardly ever go now, Alex.”
“You can’t sell our crap from behind a desk,” Alex said. “You gotta get out there and dazzle by foot-work!” The big man shuffled his feet in a boxer’s step. None of his drink spilled.
“Thomas Bradley,” Fletch said. “Your boss. Didn’t he die?”
All the men guffawed.
“Depends on which paper you read,” one of them said. “Another round of drinks, Mike,” he said to the bartender. “What for you?” he asked, looking into Fletch’s glass. “I don’t know your name.”
“Mike,” Fletch said. “Mike Smith.”
“And a beer for Mike, Mike.”
“Mike Smith? You were on the U. at Berkeley golf team, weren’t you?”
“Is Thomas Bradley dead or not?” Fletch asked.
“Everywhere but in the
Fletch looked confused.
“Yes,” Alex Corcoran said in a more serious tone. “He died. About a year ago. Did you know him?”
“I knew his sister,” Fletch said. “In New York. Francine.”
“Oh, yeah?” Corcoran’s face expressed great interest.
“Well, met her once,” Fletch said. “At a party, you know?”
“What’s she like?” Alex asked.
“You mean you’ve never met her?”
“No. She’s coming out to take over the company, and I’ve never met her. Tom used to say she was brilliant. Never came West, as far as I know.”
“How did Tom die?” Fletch asked.
“Went to France for some medical treatments and didn’t survive them, is what I understand.”
“France?”
“Never knew he was as sick as he was. He used to be moody, and act down-in-the-dumps once in a while. Jeez, I didn’t know the guy was fatally ill—dyin’!”
“But you did know he was sick?”
“No. Not really. The only comment I made about it to my wife was that he seemed to be getting smaller. Don’t ask me what I mean, because I don’t know. I guess his shoulders got thinner. He must have lost weight. He wasn’t very big to begin with. Poor ol’ Tom. Here’s to you, Tom.” Alex raised his glass and tipped it like a censer before drinking.
“Nice trophy,” Fletch said, nodding to it on the bar.
“Say, so you know his sister, Francine Bradley, eh?” Alex Corcoran said.
“Well, as I said, I only met her once.”
“Enid says she’s a real clever business woman, that this Francine and Tom used to talk all the time. Some of Tom’s best ideas came from Francine, Enid said.”
“I guess she’s pretty clever,” Fletch said.
“Tom left it in his Will that Francine was to take over operation of the company—if she was willing and able. Tell you—what’s your name?”
“Mike.”
“I’ll tell you, Mike, I’ll welcome her with open arms.”
“You will? Company not running so well?”
“Well, you know, a company needs a head—someone to make the people-decisions, give it a direction. I’m president, by the grace of Tom Bradley, but I’m not good that way. What I’m very good at is selling things to people. That’s all I can do; that’s all I want to do. I mean, really, my wife says I could sell snowballs to Siberians. Long-range corporate planning, the day-to-day stuff—I’m not good that way. Enid tries, but, you know …”
“Enid is Tom’s wife?”
“Yeah. Nice lady. Once in a while she has a good idea, but, you know … long-range planning. Listen, anything Tom Bradley decided to do with his company is all right with me. He could have left it to his horse, and I’d say, sure, fine, good idea.”
“Tom rides?”
Alex looked at him. “A figure of speech. Don’t you know your Roman history?”
“Oh.”
