art works that caused me to pause.”
“Do you know about paintings?”
“A little bit.”
“Of course you do. Foolish of me to ask. Look at the clever way you’ve dressed yourself.”
“Why would a person, especially, as you say, not socially prominent, and who does not have an immediately obvious interest in art, be giving five million dollars to an art museum?”
“I find the generous impulse generally inexplicable.”
“What was he buying?”
“Respectability? That’s as good an answer as any I can give, in this case. Here’s this man, Habeck, whom society has been using like a tissue, employed only when one has sneezed, or, to mix metaphors, like a high-priced prostitute, picked up, used, and dropped off, without ever an invitation to visit hearth and home. He’s getting older. Or, he was, when his aging was concluded this morning. Wouldn’t such a person, at the age of sixty, have the instinct to do something that says, ‘Eh! I’m as good as you are! I can give away five million bucks, too!’ ”
“Would society then accept him?”
“No. Especially if society knows there isn’t another five million bucks to be gotten from him. But it might make him feel better.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“I’m always very interesting. That’s my job, you see.” Amelia glanced at her phone again. Clearly, Amelia’s phone not ringing made her nervous.
“So.” Fletch took a step backward toward the door.
“Ann McGarrahan and Biff Wilson were married once.”
“I forgot that,” Amelia answered. “Yes. Years ago.
One of the greater mismatches in my experience. They were married for about three weeks perhaps as many as twenty years ago. Why do you ask?”
“What happened?”
“Who ever knows what happens in someone else’s marriage, let alone one’s own? My opinion would be, if I were rudely asked, that Ann is a strong, intelligent, good, and decent woman who found herself married to a violent, nasty scumbag.”
“Phew! I’m glad I didn’t ask.”
“But you did. You and I are in a rude business, Mr. Fletcher.”
“Did Ann ever marry again?”
“To someone who died. She’s not now married. If you’re interested in Ann McGarrahan, who’s old enough to be your mother, dare I cherish hope for me?”
“And Biff Wilson?”
“I shudder to think. Somewhere in Biffs background there lurks a succubus he calls wife. Named Aurora, or some such dim thing. Now, unless you have more social notes regarding sleazy lawyers, or fashion notes regarding jodhpurs—”
“I do, in fact.”
“Out with it.”
“I’m getting married Saturday.”
“To whom?”
“Barbara Ralton.”
“I never heard of her.”
“She sells jodhpurs. At Cecilia’s.”
“I should have figured that. Now, darling, the Stanwyks are giving their annual bash for Symphony next week, and I’m absolutely desperate to find out which colors Joan’s using for her table settings. You wouldn’t happen to know, would you?”
“Me? I don’t even know what Stanwyks are.”
“Hey, what are you doing at my desk?”
“All right if I use your computer terminal?”
“You’re probably screwing it up.” Clifton Wolf, religion editor, looked over Fletch’s shoulder at the screen.
“ ‘Habeck,’ ” he read. “You doing research for Biff Wilson now?”
“We all work for the same newspaper.”
“Like hell we do. I work for my inch of space, you work for your inch. Biff Wilson works for his foot and a half. If you’re not on the story, buddy, you’d better get off it.”
Fletch turned off the terminal. “Just curious.”
“Curious will turn you into dog food. Also, get off my chair.”
“I don’t have a terminal of my own.” Fletch stood up, picking up a sheaf of notes he had made.
“We always wondered why you were hired. Now we know: to cover whorehouses. I don’t want anyone who spends his time in whorehouses sitting in my chair.”
“Haven’t gone to the whorehouse yet. Haven’t got my mother’s permission.”
“No tellin ‘what you might be givin’ out. Al!” Clifton Wolf yelled across the city room to the city editor. “Call the disinfectant guys! Fletcher’s been using my stuff!”
“I bet you’d like this assignment,” Fletch said. “Only place they send you is church.”
“Scat!”
“Do you know of a poet named Tom Farliegh?” Fletch asked.
Fletch suspected that, without much deliberation, people who wrote for the various sections of the newspaper dressed like the people about whom they wrote. People in the business section wore business suits; in the society section they always seemed dressed for a lawn party; in the sports section, white socks and checkered jackets seemed to be the style.
Mentally they identified with their subjects, too. Business writers thought in terms of power, profit and loss; society writers cherished an incredible web of lines of the acceptable rudeness of old money versus the crudeness of new money, attractiveness versus beauty, style versus ostentation; sportswriters thought in terms of winners and losers, new talent versus has-beens, and the end-of-life standings.
Standing before him in the dark part of the corridor was Morton Rickmers, the book editor. He wore thick glasses, a chalet tie, tweed jacket, baggy trousers, and soft, tire-tread shoes. It was clear from his book reviews that he loved people and their stories honestly told, loved words and putting them together in their most magical, concise form, and considered the good book humans’ most noble achievement, perhaps our only raison d’etre.
Frequently his reviews were more interesting and better written than the books he was reviewing.
“Why, have you met Tom Farliegh?” Morton asked.
“No.”
“I might like to meet him,” Morton mused. “I’m not sure.”
“Just heard of him.”
“First,” Morton said, “I might enjoy knowing why you’re dressed that way.”
His notepapers in hand, Fletch held his arms out to his sides. “I’ve been assigned to investigate an escort service. Is that an answer?”
“I see. Trying to disguise yourself as an out-of-town businessman? You look more like the victim of a raid, obliged to grab someone else’s clothes.”
“You’re nearly right. I lost my clothes this morning, and had to borrow this rig.”
Morton smiled. “I’m sure there’s a story behind how you lost your clothes.”
“Not much of a one.”
“It’s been years since I’ve lost my clothes. In fact, have I ever lost my clothes?”
“I don’t know. It’s easy to do.”
“Make an interesting short story.
