“Didn’t have anything else to do with it, I suppose. A man in his sixties…”
Fletch wrinkled his nose in the sunlight. “He had children, I think. Grown, of course. Grandchildren. The impostor I interviewed this morning, the weird lady who said she was Mrs. Habeck and wasn’t, mentioned children and grandchildren. The gardener at the Habeck house said the real Mrs. Habeck is young. I don’t get it.”
“Expiate guilt. Maybe Habeck was trying to rid himself of his own guilt.”
“He sounds like a man who spent his life rationalizing away guilt. Professionally. His own and others’.”
“Yeah, but he was getting older.”
“With a young wife. I don’t get it. His home just doesn’t look like the home of someone who can give away five million dollars. I mean, if you’ve got one hundred million dollars, giving away five can be a casual experience. It needn’t interrupt the flow of one’s life, the rhythm of one’s coming and going. But giving away five million when maybe you have six million, a young wife, probably grandchildren…”
“Which of you gentlemen would like the bill?” the waiter asked.
“He would,” Alston said solemnly.
“No,” Fletch said. “Give it to him.”
“You invited me to lunch,” Alston said.
“You asked me to.”
“Shall I pay it?” asked the waiter. “I had the pleasure of serving you.”
“He’s got a point,” Fletch said.
“It would be the ultimate service,” agreed Alston. “I mean, it would indicate this waiter did everything possible for us.”
“It is the one possibility you haven’t considered,” concurred the waiter.
“But what about the tip?” Fletch asked. “That presents a moral dilemma. Also practical confusion.”
The waiter looked around the outdoor cafe. “Oh, to work in a grown-up restaurant,” he sighed. “One with walls.”
“I’ll pay the bill,” Alston said to Fletch, “if you answer me a question.”
“Anything.” Fletch watched Alston pay the bill.
“Gee,” Alston said after the waiter went away. “Over lunch we talked about philanthropy, murder, and the law, and we didn’t get any respect even from the waiter.”
“No one respects the young,” mourned Fletch. “Not managing editors, crime writers, society editors, liquor- store-counter help—”
“Fiancees.”
“Fiancees.”
“Waiters.”
“Now that you’ve paid the bill,” Fletch said, “I’ve got a question for you.”
“Then why didn’t you pay the bill?”
“Will you be my best man?”
“You mean, better man? How many of us do you expect there to be?”
“Saturday morning. Whenever you wake up.”
“Did you get that suit for your wedding?”
“Don’t you like this suit?”
“Gray doesn’t suit you.”
“Barbara said something about our getting married naked.”
“Stark naked?”
Fletch nodded. “She said it would be honest of us. Fitting. She says a marriage is the coming together of two bodies, male and female….”
“You sure you want to marry Barbara?”
“No.”
“Wearing anything, or wearing nothing, would be better than wearing that dumb-looking suit.”
“So, will you be my best man?”
“My question is: Where did you get that suit? I want to never go there.”
“I thought you’d recognize it.”
“Why should I recognize it?”
“I thought you might have seen it before.”
“Fire hydrants don’t usually wear suits.”
“Walking along the corridors at Habeck, Harrison and Haller.”
Alston’s eyes widened. “Habeck? That’s Habeck’s suit?”
“Now you’ll have respect for this suit. Habeck wasn’t screwing jurisprudence to get his suits from Goodwill.”
“You stole a dead man’s suit?”
“I guess you could say that. If you insist.”
“I don’t know, Fletch. I worry about you.”
“So, will you be my best man?”
“Fletch, ol’ buddy: you shouldn’t go anywhere without a lawyer. Especially to your own wedding.”
“Frank?” Fletch said.
At the urinal, the managing editor jumped. He did not turn around. “Who wants me?”
“That’s a different question.”
“Different from what?”
In the men’s room, empty except for them, Fletch stepped to his own urinal three away from Frank Jaffe’s. “Matters in hand,” Fletch said.
“Oh, it’s you. Nice suit.” Frank flushed. “Didn’t know the tide came in already this morning.”
“Have I invited you to my wedding yet?” Fletch asked.
“God, no.”
“It’s Saturday, you know.”
“Which day is Saturday?” Frank was washing his hands.
“End of the week. Day between Friday and Sunday.”
“Yeah: that’s the day I try to get away from employees.”
Fletch followed Frank to the washbasin. “I’m pleading a case, Mr. Jaffe.”
“A case of what? Have you confessed yet to what’s-her-name you have a case of something-or-other?”
“That’s my point, Frank. Don’t want a case. Don’t want a dose. Don’t want to go near that place.”
“What place is that?”
“Frank.” Fletch shook his wet hands over the basin and then held them in front of him. “I’m getting married Saturday. And you’ve got me investigating a whorehouse!”
“Every nook and cranny.” Frank dried his hands on a paper towel.
“Is this some kind of an office joke?”
“Not yet,” Frank said. “But I’m sure it will be.”
“Dump on the kid, is that it?”
“Fletch, you need the experience. Don’t you?”
“Not that kind, I don’t. Not to get married, I don’t.”
“Come on. You asked for a job, a real job, so I gave you one.”
“A whorehouse the week before I’m married?”
“Gives you a chance to show your stuff. Let us see what you can do.”
“Very funny.”
“We want you to give it your all, kid. Get to the bottom of things. Really get into the crux of the matter. What we want is a penetrating report. We want everybody to get your point.”
“You forgot something.”
