The policeman looked again at the piece of paper in his hand. “Bob don’t know where Courier Drive, Wramrud, is because there is no Courier Drive, Wramrud.”
“There isn’t?”
“Your mother lie to you often, son?”
“First time ever.”
“Far as you know. Nope. No Courier Drive. Fact is, we don’t have anything called a Drive around here. Lots of roads and streets but nothing as fancy as a Drive.”
“You have any street like Courier?”
“How do we know?”
“I mean, a street that sounds like Courier, or might look like Courier written out.”
The man’s rheumy eyes gazed through the plate glass window. “Century Street. Cold Water Road. We don’t have any address numbers that run that high, either. Forty-seven thousand something. We only got nineteen hundred households this whole town.”
“You know a man named Crandall?”
“You mean, your uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Nope. Man named Cranshaw, not your uncle.”
Fletch smiled. “How do you know?”
“ ’Cause I’m Cranshaw and my sister don’t lie.”
“Okay,” Fletch said. “I give up. You’ve never heard of a man named Crandall in this town.”
“Nope. And we’re the only town named Wramrud I ever heard of, too. You ever heard of another town named Wramrud?”
“No.”
The policeman’s eyes were inspecting Fletch’s neck and sweater. “You got sand all over you, boy. You want a shower?”
“What?”
“You want to take a shower? Shave?”
“Where?”
“Back in the lock-ups. I can give you a fresh razor.”
“Mighty nice of you.”
“Well, seems to me you have a long way to go to find your uncle.” The policeman lifted a section of the counter to let Fletch through. “Any boy whose mother tells whoppers like your’s—ain’t no tellin’ where you might end up.”
Fletch followed the policeman toward the door to the jail cells.
“Why do you suppose your mother would tell you a lie like that?” the old policeman asked. “Do you suppose you have an uncle at all? ’pect she told you he’s rich …”
“Your hair is wet,” Moxie said. She was waiting by the car. “And you shaved.”
“I got cleaned up.”
“Where?”
“In the jailhouse. Want a shower? Nice old policeman.”
“How’d it smell?”
“Terrible.”
“No, thanks. I’d rather shower at your apartment.”
Fletch started the car and took the road back toward the freeway. “There is no James St. E. Crandall in Wramrud. Never has been.”
Moxie rubbed her back against the back of the car seat and then scratched her elbow. “I am itchy. We are going straight to your apartment, aren’t we?”
“No.”
“Oh, lord. Fletch, I can understand your natural reluctance to get back to the city—we can hear the general laughter from here—but I do want a proper meal and a proper shower.”
“Thought we’d stop at Frank Jaffe’s house first.”
“Who’s he? Does he exist, or did he die?”
“He’s my managing editor. My ex-managing editor.”
“You think you can find his house?”
“I know where he lives. We go right by it.”
“Boy, Fletch. Someone told me you’re a great reporter. Can’t even find a person in a little town like Wramrud, or wherever we just were.”
“Who told you I’m a great reporter?”
“You did.”
Coming onto the freeway, Fletch stepped on the accelerator, hard. “Guess I was wrong.”
7
“M Y G O D.” M O X I E stood on the front walk looking at the lit facade of the house. It was an English tudor styled house with established shrubs. “This is where the managing editor of the
“Yeah.”
“I’ll bet those wooden beams are fake.”
Fletch was ringing the doorbell.
“Moxie? Where are you going?”
Clara Snow opened the door. She had a half-empty martini glass in her hand.
“Fletch!”
“Evening, Clara. Didn’t expect to find you here.”
Clara did not smile. “Didn’t know you were expected, Fletcher.”
“You know, when Frank gives an at-home party for his employees—”
“This is not an at-home party.”
“Well, Frank must be home, and you’re at home with him, and you are an employee …”
“Come in, Fletch.”
“Wait a minute. I have a friend.”
Fletch looked along the side of the house, to the right, where Moxie was coming out of the established shrubbery.
“How do you do?” she said, shaking hands with Clara. “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Jaffe.”
“This isn’t Mrs. Jaffe,” said Fletch.
Closing the door behind them, Clara said, “Fletch, you’ve got some balls.”
“I’ve got Moxie,” Fletch said.
Frank was in the livingroom, dressed in a ski sweater. He was putting another log on the fire. Fletch could feel the air-conditioning in the house was on.
“Evening, Frank,” he said.
Frank looked over his glasses at Fletch. “You’re fired, Fletcher. If you weren’t before, you certainly are now.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s Friday night and this is my home and fired employees aren’t supposed to come to their boss’s home uninvited on Friday nights. Or ever. It just isn’t polite.”
“Even if I’m in pursuit of a story?”
“What story?”
“That’s what you’re going to tell me.”
Frank was staring at Moxie. “You’re a beautiful girl,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” Moxie said prettily.
“Really beautiful.”
