“I’m sure you’ll find space for it.”
“So, you see, we’re into all sorts of areas of interest to you. We are not just concerned with little old ladies who slip vodka into their tea.”
“Big-mouth Frank.”
“So you haven’t yet figured out what your assignment is? I was hoping it would come to you, on your own.”
“Something about sexual aids? I know: you want me to do a report on what sexual aids do two out of three gynecologists recommend.”
“You ran in the Sardinal Race yesterday.”
“Oh, no.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Frank told me you ran behind a group of about a dozen women you couldn’t bring yourself to pass.”
“Oh, no.”
“These same women received rather wide publicity, it seems, on this morning’s sports pages of the
“Not too shabby.”
“For some reason, Frank takes this spread on his sports pages as some sort of personal affront. Also, I suspect he is in his office right now getting considerable flak for it, from the usual groups.”
“Oh, boy.”
“ ‘Ben Franklyn Friend Service. A service company,’ ” Ann appeared to read from the newspaper. “What sort of service do you suppose they provide, Fletch, to have Frank so upset?”
“You’re kidding.”
Ann jutted her large face across the desk and asked, “Does it have something to do with men?”
“I suspect so.”
“Tell me what.”
Fletch felt the back of his chair pressing against his shoulder blades. “It’s an escort service of the traveling- whorehouse variety, and I suspect you know that.”
“Ah! Sounds like there’s a story here.”
“What? No story …”
“As I’ve outlined to you,” Ann said, “on these pages we’re concerned with women’s interests, their health, how they make their livings—”
“This is a family newspaper!”
“Nice to hear you say so. Your investigation, of course, will be discreetly reported.”
“You want me to investigate a whorehouse?”
“Who better?”
“I’m getting married, Saturday!”
“Have you already passed your blood test?”
Fletch took a deep breath.
Ann held up the flat of her hand to him. “This is a new thing, as I understand it: prostitutes who are obliged to stay in prime physical condition. Goes along with several articles we’ve run on organic gardening, I think. How does this Ben Franklyn Friend Service operate? What is the source of their discipline? How do they entertain men professionally without having to drink a lot themselves? If they are not dependent upon drugs themselves, why are they prostitutes? How much money do they make?” Ann continued to hold up her hand. “Of most importance, who owns Ben Franklyn Friend Service? Who derives the profit?”
Fletch let out his breath, and said nothing.
Ann said, “I think we could have a story here.”
“Best way to do it,” said Fletch, “might be to send one of your young women writers in to apply for a position with Ben Franklyn Friend Service.”
“Ah, but it was your story idea, Fletch. Frank said so himself. It wouldn’t be right for us to take it away from you. Of course, we may send a young woman in, too, for a preliminary investigation, that side of the story.”
“I said I’m getting married Saturday.”
“Doesn’t give you much time, does it?”
“Ann—”
“Besides that,” Ann said, refolding the newspaper on her desk, “I think Frank feels that such a story—well done, of course—would go a long way toward getting him off the hook for these unfortunate pictures that ran on the sports pages this morning.” She folded her hands on the desk. “Not all is tea and biscuits on the lifestyle pages, Fletcher. Definitely, you’re the man for the job.”
Fletch was looking out the window. “P.S., your fern is dead.”
“I happen to like brown fern,” Ann said, without looking around. “I feel they make a statement: despair springs eternal.”
“Oh, boy.”
“Happy to have you in the department, young Mr. Fletcher. At least you won’t have your purse snatched.”
“It’s not my purse I’m worried about.” He stood up.
“It will be interesting to see what you turn in.”
“You’re asking me to ‘turn in’ under wicked circumstances.”
“Oh, and, Fletcher…?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Be careful of Biff Wilson. Don’t get in his way. You do, and he’ll run over you like a fifty-car railroad train. He is a mean, vicious bastard. I ought to know. I was married to him, once.”
“Fletch, there’s a call waiting for you.” The young woman outside Ann McGarrahan’s office jangled her bracelets at him. “Line 303. Nice suit. ‘Fraid you’re goin’ to get raped ’round here?”
“Hello,” Fletch said into the phone.
“Hello,” said Barbara. “I’m furious.”
“I’d rather be Fletch.”
“What the hell do you mean by chewing out my employer?”
“Did I do that?”
“Cecilia’s very serious about jodhpurs just now. She overbought.”
“I care. She wouldn’t let you come to the phone.”
“Company policy. The phone’s for the business, not for the employees.”
“But I’m the fianc? of her number-one salesperson.”
“And what do you mean you can’t have lunch with me?”
“Things are a little confused here.”
“This is Monday, Fletch. We’re getting married Saturday. We have things to discuss, you know?”
“Anyway, I’d already agreed to have lunch with Alston. We want him as my best man, don’t I?”
“That’s the least of my worries. We don’t have much time. You’ve got to get with it.”
“I’m with it.”
“I mean, really with it. Look at all you’ve got to do. Cindy says—”
“Barbara! Cool it! Don’t chew me out now!”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve just been chewed out by absolutely the best. Next to her, you sound tin-horn.”
“Then why don’t you marry her, whoever she is?”
“I would,” answered Fletch, “except she has other ambitions for my proclivities.”
