Fletch yelled back, “I parked my car up here.”
As Fletch handed the denim shirt back to the gardener, Fletch said, “Sorry I can’t give it back to you washed, dried, and pressed, but that’s how I lost my last clothes. They were headed for a wash.”
As the gardener stood up and put back on his shirt, his eyes crinkled at the sight of the clothes Fletch was wearing.
Fletch shrugged. “Found this suit in Habeck’s closet. He’ll never miss it.”
“The suit is short and fat.”
“I got a belt. Nice tie. The necktie should distract the eye from the rest of the ensemble, right?”
“You’re ready to boogie, man.”
“Thanks again. The cook yelled at me.”
“I heard. I thought it was the noon whistle.”
“What would she have done if you hadn’t lent me your shirt?”
“Scrambled eggs while they were still in the refrigerator.”
“Where did you learn your Spanish?” Fletch asked.
“BHHS.”
“BHHS?”
“Yeah,” the gardener said, stooping to his work. “Beverly Hills High School.”
“Cecilia’s Boutique. Cecilia speaking. Have you considered jodhpurs?”
“I’m thinking very seriously about jodhpurs,” Fletch said into his car phone.
“They’re just coming in, sir. In another month they’ll be all the rage. I’m sure your wife would be really impressed if you bought her jodhpurs now. Impressed by your prescience.”
“So should the jodhpurs be impressed. I haven’t got a wife.” Waiting at the red light at the intersection of Washington and Twenty-third, Fletch saw that all was peaceful at the liquor store. Plywood had been nailed over the shattered breakproof glass of the door. They were ready for their next attack. “May I speak with Barbara Ralton, please?”
Cecilia hesitated. “Sales personnel are not to take personal phone calls. May I take a message for her?”
“Sure. This is Fletcher. Tell her I can’t see her for lunch today. Please also tell her I look forward to buying her a pair of jodhpurs, at Saks.”
“Here I am,” Fletch said.
“Here who is?” Ann McGarrahan, society editor of the
“I thought you people in Society knew everyone.”
“Everyone who is anyone,” Ann said softly. The corners of her mouth twinged with a smile. “Which obliges me to repeat: Who are you?”
“I.M. Fletcher.” Fletch looked at the dead, brown fern on Ann’s windowsill. “A nobody. Beneath your attention. May I go now?”
“Where have you been?”
“Oh, I changed clothes.” Fletch held out the skirts of Donald Habeck’s suit coat. “Frank said something about my needing a suit and tie for this job.”
Ann studied him over her half-lenses. “And that’s the suit? That’s the tie?”
“Good material in it.”
“I daresay. Clearly you made your investment in the material, and not the tailoring.”
“I’ve lost weight.”
“Gotten taller, too. Your trouser cuffs are a half-foot above your ankles.”
“Have you heard that in another month jodhpurs will be all the rage? Lord, what I bring to this department.”
“I see. Your sleeves are modified knickers, too, are they? They stop halfway down your forearms.”
“I’m ready to cover the social scene.”
“The young women around here call you Fletch, don’t they?”
“When they call me at all.” Fletch sat in a curved-back wooden chair.
“Why don’t they use your first name?”
“Irwin?”
“What’s wrong with Irwin?”
“Sounds like a hesitant cheer.”
“Your middle name then. Don’t you have a middle name?”
“Maurice.”
“I know lots of nice people called Maury.”
“I’m not one of ’em.”
“Okay. You’re a Fletch. It just sounds so much like a verb.”
“To fletch, or not to fletch: that is the copulative.”
“Guess I’ll have to fletch. Well, Fletch. Not only has Frank Jaffe sent me you, with warnings regarding your appearance which, however dire, were still insufficient, he also sent me a strong suggestion as to what your first assignment might be.”
“I know what it is.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Stay on this story concerning the five million dollars Donald Habeck and his wife decided to donate to the art museum. To stay right on it until I get to the bottom of it and everything else concerning the Habecks. Right?”
“Wrong. Of course.”
“That was my assignment, for about a minute and a half this morning.”
“Wasn’t Donald Habeck the man murdered in our parking lot this morning?”
Fletch shrugged. “Just makes the story more interesting.”
“Oh, we have an interesting story for you to work on, Fletch. It was Frank’s suggestion. In fact, he mentioned the suggestion originally came from you.”
“From me? A story for the society pages?”
“We don’t really think of this section as being society anymore, Fletch. Although, of course, there’s always the social aspect of it. We think of it more as human interest, with the emphasis on women’s interests.”
“That’s why I brought up the latest scoop on jodhpurs.”
“It’s not just fashion anymore, it’s more lifestyle. It’s not just beauty, it’s health.”
“Right: women’s healthy lifestyles.”
“You’d be surprised at some of the topics some of our younger women writers want to discuss these days.” Ann picked up some copy off her desk. “Here’s an article comparing the relative merits of manufactured dildos. With pictures, supplied by the manufacturers, I expect. Do you think we should run an article comparing dildos, Fletch?”
“Uh…”
“Which do you think is the best dildo in the world today?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I couldn’t be disinterested. I’m attached to it. It would be a subjective opinion.”
“I see.” Again Ann McGarrahan struggled to keep the corners of her mouth straight. She dropped the copy onto her desk. “Ah, the woes of being an editor. Needless to say, I’ve had that story on my desk for some time.”
“Dildo?”
“Yes.”
