“So?”
“You said I wouldn’t be. You cast aspersions at Clara Snow’s cooking.”
“You must have a goat’s stomach, Frank. I know you’ve got his horns.”
“Actually, I was thinking, Fletch.”
“I can smell the smoke.”
“You write pretty well.”
“When I have a chance.”
“You have the chance. I’m giving it to you. What I’m thinking is, this is a perfect opportunity for a first-hand account, you know? Big feature.”
“You mean, like, HOW I TALKED THE SUICIDE OFF THE BRIDGE BY I.M. FLETCHER?”
“You got it.”
“No, thanks, Frank.”
“Why not? You got something else to do today?”
“Yes. I have.”
“We’ll pay you. Guest writer’s rates.”
Guest writer’s rates were on the lower side of adequate.
“Gee, thanks, Frank. But I don’t work for you anymore, remember?”
“Might clean up your reputation a little.”
“Might sell you a few newspapers.”
“That, too.”
“Know what, Frank? You’re not a bad managing editor—even if you are burying that story about the Governor’s Press Secretary’s brother selling cars to the state police.”
“Know what, Fletch? You’re not a bad kid—even if you do interview dead people.”
“See you, Frank.”
“See you, Fletch.”
When Moxie came into the livingroom, she looked at the newspaper and said, “You’re not twenty-four.”
Still sitting on the divan, Fletch shook his head sadly. “Goes to show you. You should never believe everything you read in a newspaper.” He looked up at her, dressed only in his old, torn denim shirt. “Come on. Get dressed. I’ll drive you to the theater.”
“Where’s breakfast?” she asked.
“Same place that thousand dollar bill is, you stole from the wallet yesterday.”
She looked at him sharply. “Where’s that?”
He shrugged. “I wish I knew.”
23
“A R E Y O U T H E manager of this bank?” Fletch asked the skinny man in a worn out suit who sat at a big desk the other side of a railing.
“Indeed I am.” The man smiled at him warmly. “You look like someone who could use a car loan. We can do very well for you on a car loan.”
“No, thanks. I have a car loan.” Fletch waved a thousand dollar bill. “I want to know if this is real.”
The manager saw the bill and gestured Fletch around the railing to his desk. The manager took the bill in the fingers of both hands and felt it as would a clothing merchant feeling material. He examined it closely through his eye-glasses. Especially did he examine closely the engraving of Grover Cleveland.
“Do you have any reason to doubt its authenticity?” the manager asked.
“Sure. I’ve never seen one before.”
“You don’t see too many pictures of Grover Cleveland.”
“Is that who it is? I thought it might be Karl Marx.”
The manager looked at him in shock. “Karl Marx?”
Fletch shrugged. “Don’t see too many pictures of him, either.”
The manager chuckled. “It looks okay to me.”
“Will you cash it for me?”
“Sure.”
Fletch took another thousand dollar bill out of the pocket of his jeans. “This one, too?”
The manager examined the second thousand dollar bill even more closely. “Where did you get these?”
“My employer is a little eccentric. Hates to write checks.”
“You must be well paid.” The manager looked closely at Fletch. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“Have you?”
“Your picture. I’ve seen your picture—very recently.”
“Oh, that,” said Fletch. “I’m on the five-thousand dollar bill.”
“Maybe on a Wanted Poster?” The skinny man laughed. “How do you want these bills broken up?”
“Hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens, fives.”
The manager stood up. “You just want it spendable, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll be right back.”
The fistfulls of money the manager brought back to Fletch were bigger than Fletch expected. The manager counted it out again, on the desk in front of Fletch.
“Thank you.” Fletch was having difficulty stuffing the bills into the pockets of his jeans.
“I’m just slightly uneasy.” The manager looked closely again at Fletch’s face. “I’ve seen a picture of you somewhere—I think, this morning.”
“Did you read the funnies?”
“Yes,” the manager answered. “I read the funnies on the bus.” Fletch said, “That must be it, then.”
“When will the suit be ready?”
“Ten days.”
“Not soon enough.”
“When do you need it?”
“Wednesday.”
“This is Monday.”
“Thursday morning then.”
“We’ll see what we can do.”
Besides the well-cut, serious blue business suit, Fletch had bought, in the very expensive men’s shop, shirts, shoes, neck-ties, tennis sneakers, shorts, sport shirts, and, a suitcase.
“Going on a vacation?” the salesman asked.
“Yes,” answered Fletch. “I’d like to take everything with me, except the suit.”
“Certainly, Mister Fletcher. How do you choose to pay? We’ll accept your check.”
“Cash.” Fletch took a mess of bills from the pocket of his jeans.
“Very good, sir. I’ll have everything wrapped for you.”
“No need. I’ll just put everything in the suitcase.”
“If that’s what you wish.”
While the salesman added up the bill and made change, Fletch packed the suitcase.
“Mister Fletcher,” the salesman said slowly. “I wonder if you’d accept a gift from the store.”
“A gift?”
“That was quite a wonderful thing you did last night—talking that woman off the bridge.”
“You know about that?”
“Everyone knows about that.” The salesman’s eyes studied the deep carpeting. “Our cashier, last year, found herself in similar straits. You see, no one knew, understood …”
“So people do read newspapers.”
“We’re proud to have you a customer of our store.”
Other salespersons, Fletch now noticed, were standing around watching him.
