some kind of a mean joke?”
“Pretty mean. I guess someone meant to do mischief.”
“Who? Why?”
“Blaine, I guess. He had to know what he was doing, giving me memos from a dead man. Maybe he’s crazy.”
“Have you gone back to him? Tried to get in touch with him?”
“Tried this morning. He’d left his office. Sick with the flu.”
“No.” Moxie shook her head. “That’s too crazy. No one would do a thing like that. As a joke.”
“Not a joke,” Fletch said. “Maybe you’ve heard that some American businesses are waging a clever campaign to get back at the press. Make the newspapers and television look silly.”
“How would I have heard that?”
“It’s a growing thing. They say there are too many liberals in the press. Anti-business liberals.”
“Are there?”
“Probably. More specifically, the
“For what?”
“Influence buying. Wining and dining congressmen, mayors and others on the public payroll in a position to buy shovels and toothpicks from Wagnall-Phipps.”
“Did you write those stories?”
“I wasn’t even working for the
“You’re the fall guy.”
“My own fault. I didn’t care about this Wagnall-Phipps story. I was working on that football story, you know, at the same time. I cared a lot more about that story. I scanned the clips on Wagnall-Phipps, saw the key question was whether the corporation still owned that big ski house in Aspen they used to lend to congressmen and their families, and went off to interview Blaine. I remember I had a hard time staying awake listening to him. He finally put me in an office by myself and let me take notes from this sheaf of memos.”
“So you don’t have the memos, or copies of the memos yourself.”
“No. I don’t. Simple, stupid, unimportant story I didn’t even think the newspaper would print, it was so boring. Who cares about Wagnall-Phipps?”
“I guess Wagnall-Phipps does.”
“I was only assigned the story ’cause the reporter originally assigned to it, Tom Jeffries, broke his back hang-gliding.”
“That’s terrible.”
“That is terrible. I’m no business writer. Shit, I don’t even know how to read stock tables. I’d never heard of Wagnall-Phipps before.”
“But why dump on you?”
“Nothing personal. They weren’t dumping on me. They were making the newspaper look silly. They did a pretty good job.”
“They took advantage of your ignorance.”
“Sure. Along comes bushy-tailed Peter Rabbit with his mouth open and they feed him loaded carrots. They refer to the Chairman of the board, Thomas Bradley, show me memos from him, and I write down,
Moxie shook her head. “Poor Peter Rabbit.”
“Poor Peter Rabbit nothin’. He’s a dope.”
“So you’re fired.”
“Well, the managing editor is breaking it to me gently. He’s talking about a three-months suspension, but that’s only so he can insist later he tried to save my job.”
“No chance?”
“I wouldn’t hire me. Would you?”
“More orange juice? There’s another quart.”
“We’ll need it in the morning.”
“So what were you doing this morning at the Park Worth Hotel?”
“Oh, that’s another story. We’ve got to stop by and see a guy about it in Wramrud tomorrow. Found his wallet.”
“Fletch, I’m cold. If you glance westward, you’ll notice even the sun has found a better place to go.”
Fletch said, “I’ll build a fire.”
She stared at him. “You mean to spend the night here?”
“Sure. Romantic.”
“On the beach?”
“How much money you got on you, Moxie?”
“I don’t know. Maybe fifty dollars.”
“I thought so. You begin rehearsing for the new play Monday. When do you get your first paycheck?”
“End of next week.”
“So you’ve got fifty bucks to live off for a week and I’ve got about the same amount to live off for the rest of my life. Dig?”
“Credit cards, Fletch. You used one last night. At dinner. Even I’ve got a credit card.”
“I’ve got a sleeping bag in the car.”
“You’re getting me to spend the night on the beach with you.”
“I told you. I’m very romantic.” Standing, Fletch brushed the sand off his skin.
“And I told you romance is dead.”
“That’s just wishful thinking,” Fletch said. “I’ll get the sleeping bag.”
6
“T R Y I N G T O F I N D my uncle,” Fletch said.
It had taken the creaky old policeman a long moment to stand up from his padded swivel chair and walk across the main room of the Wramrud Police Station to the counter. There was a hearing aid in his left ear.
“His name is James Crandall.” Fletch spoke slowly and distinctly.
“Live here in town?”
“Supposed to.”
“What do you mean ‘supposed to’? Nobody’s ‘supposed to’ live anywhere. Haven’t you heard this is a free country?”
“My mother gave me this address.” Fletch handed the policeman the piece of note paper he’d had from Jacques Cavalier’s desk.
“I can’t find Courier Drive,” Fletch said.
“47907 Courier Drive, Wramrud,” the old policeman read aloud.
“The man in the drugstore doesn’t seem to know where it is.”
The policeman looked at Fletch sharply. “Bob doesn’t know where it is?”
“I guess not.”
“This Crandall fellow. He your mother’s brother?”
“Yes,” said Fletch.
“You know you have sand on your face?”
Fletch brushed his face with his hand.
“Why do you have sand on your face?”
Fletch shrugged. “I was playing in a sandbox.”
“You ought to shave before you see your uncle.”
“Yeah. I guess I should.”
