“Yes. Why?”
“I’ll call the office,” Fletch said, “and tell Janey you won’t be in Monday.”
8
“Y O U S U P P O S E D T O be here?” The
It was a quarter to eight Saturday morning.
Looking up from the microfilm consol, Fletch said, “I can be.”
“I heard this newspaper no longer requires your services.”
“I heard that, too.”
“So you should no longer have access to this newspaper’s excellent services. Such as our microfilm library.”
Fletch turned the consol off and gathered up his note papers. “Come on, Jack. Gimme a break.”
“Wait a minute.” The barrel-chested man stepped in front of Fletch and held out his hand. “Let me see what you’re takin’ out of here.”
“Just some notes.”
“On what? Come on, I want to see.”
Fletch handed Jack his notes and waited while he scanned them.
“James Saint Edward Crandall. Address Newtowne. Who’s he?”
“I don’t know.”
Jack’s eyes flickered high-beam at Fletch.
“Charles Blaine. Address Bel Monte. You quoted him in that marvelous story of yours Wednesday. Everyone around here has given that story another real close read—as you might expect.”
“I expect.”
“Thomas Bradley. Chairman of the Board, Wagnall-Phipps. Married Enid Riordan. Two children. Address Southworth. You quoted him in that story too, didn’t you?” He grinned at Fletch. “You don’t give up easy, do you?”
“Should I?”
Jack handed Fletch back his notes. “I guess everyone has a right to try to save his own ass—even when his ass has already been whipped.”
“May I use your phone, Jack?”
“Get out of here now and I won’t have you arrested for trespassing.”
“Okay, okay.” At the door, Fletch turned and said, “Jack?”
“I’m still seeing you. Trespasser.”
“Want to know something interesting?”
“Yeah. Who’s going to win the third race at Hialeah this afternoon? Tell me so I can make points with Osborne. Knowing you you’ll probably say Trigger.”
“No obit.”
“Trigger had a nice obit. Just before Roy Rogers had him stuffed.”
“Yeah.” Fletch pointed to the consol. “But there is no obit for Tom Bradley in there.”
“Lots of people die we don’t print the obit. We’re not properly notified. Bradley was no captain of American industry.”
“I just find it interesting.”
“Write a nice story about how they stuffed Tom Bradley. Only get the competition to print it this time, willya, Fletch?”
Standing over his own desk in the city room, Fletch dialed his own home number. The phone rang seven times.
Nearby, drinking coffee, sat four reporters and one photographer. They were gathered around Al’s desk. Leaning back in his chair, Al had his feet on his desk. Al was a middle-aged reporter who complained of feet trouble and back problems and always managed to be the last one sent out on assignment. Mostly he held court, passed rumor and gossip in the city room.
They had grinned broadly at each other when Fletch had entered the city room from the library.
“Mornin’, Irwin,” Al sang to Fletch. “Don’t remember ever seeing you here this early on a Saturday morning before. What happened? You get thrown out of bed, too?”
“Telephone,” Moxie said. “I mean, hello?”
“Good morning, sunshine,” Fletch turned his back on the reporters.
“Fletch? Why are you always waking me up in the morning?”
“Because that’s the time of day people get up. Bounce out of bed. Do their breathing exercises.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“You were asleep when I left.”
Moxie yawned into the phone. “I lay awake a long time after you went to sleep. Thinking about the play. Watching you sleep. Thinking about how much trouble you’re in. I mean, Fletch, you’re ruined.”
“Down but not out, old thing.”
“Those people last night, your managing editor, Frank, and that dreadful woman, what’s her name—”
“Clara Snow.”
“They wouldn’t have let you into the house, if I hadn’t been there. Frank would have thrown you through the door and that Clara person would have stomped on your head with a high-heeled shoe.”
“If that’s a question, the answer is: yes—I was using you. Do you object?”
“ ’Course not.”
“Frank has an eye for beauty. His left one, I think.”
“By the way, I was right.”
“ ’Bout what?”
“You know those wooden beams on the outside of his house? They’re plastic.”
“No! And here he’s supposed to be some kind of a tastemaker. Stylesetter. Trendspotter. Managing editor.”
“Some kind of synthetic. A hollow synthetic at that. I knocked against them.”
“You have the makings of a reporter, Moxie. Wish I had.”
“Courage, Fletch.”
“Listen, I have to do a lot of driving around today. Want to come?”
“Where?”
“No place interesting. The suburbs. Got to see people.”
“Just spent two days in a car with you. Two days in a car and one night on a beach. Six peanut butter sandwiches, three quarts of orange juice, and home to your apartment for wet spaghetti made wetter by a can of tomato soup.”
“Candlelit dinner.”
“Yeah. Thanks for dragging out your hurricane lamp. Real romantic. Like being on a sinking ship. At least I got a shower. Had a hell of a time not scratching myself at Frank’s house.”
“You did very well. Hardly twitched.”
“Wasn’t going to scratch in front of that Clara person.”
“You don’t want to come with me?”
“No. I’ll go back to sleep for another few minutes. Should study the playscript.”
“I might not be back until late.”
“I’ll take a walk, if I get bored.”
“Right. Give the neighborhood a treat. See you.”
“Hey. Is there any food in this house?”
“See you.”
Fletch turned around and found the group of reporters watching him. Naturally, they had been trying to listen.
