Fletch Won

sometimes she slurs a little, and it sounds more like, ‘You want to, friend?’ ”

“You call them often?”

“The guys on the desk played a joke on me one night. They told me to phone out for pizzas and that was the number they gave me. The girl on the phone was trying to set up an appointment for me, and I kept asking if she had anchovies and pepperoni. I guess she thought I was a pervert. You ought to call them sometime.”

“I need a friend.”

“So I looked into ’em. Big business. Beautiful girls. All of ’em in great physical condition. They’re made to work out, you know?”

“What’s the story?”

“They were running yesterday. In the race. All of ’em. A flotilla of call girls. About twelve of them, all together. Running through the city streets. Downtown. Wearing T-shirts that read in front, YOU WANT A FRIEND?, and in back, BEN FRANKLYN. They all made it to the finish, too.”

“So what’s the story? Don’t tell me. I’ve got it.” Frank put his hands to his forehead. “STREETWALKERS JOG—”

“Joggle.”

“CALL GIRLS COME RUNNING?”

“Consider their leg muscles, Frank.”

“I’m all excited.”

“They were advertising their business, Frank.”

“So where did you finish in this race?”

“Right behind them. I was following a story, you might say.”

“Faithful to the last.”

“You’re not getting the point.”

“I’m not?”

“These call girls were using a city-run health and sports event to advertise their service.”

“So a few prostitutes ran in the city footrace yesterday. Why shouldn’t they? Not against the law. They wore T-shirts advertising their services. Gave thrills to a few dirty old men leg-watchers standing on the curbs. So where’s the story?”

“You ran pictures of them today. On your sports pages. Coming and going. Front and back.”

Frank paled. “We did?”

“You did.”

“Jeez!” Frank grabbed the News-Tribune off the floor and turned to the sports pages. “We did.”

“There’s the story.”

“You mean, we’re the story.”

“Gave a call-girl service a nice big spread. Lots of free publicity. Have you heard from the archbishop yet? How about the district attorney? Any of your advertisers object?”

“Damn. Someone did this on purpose.”

“You need me on the sports pages, Frank.”

“Look at the caption. Oh, my God. Physical beauty and stamina exemplified by employees of the Ben Franklyn Service Company who ran together yesterday in the city’s Sardinal Race. Group finished near end of race … I can’t stand it.”

“They weren’t in any hurry.”

“Neither were you, apparently.”

“You were just telling me never to get ahead of my story.”

“Get up and come into the office early Monday morning …” Frank was tearing through the competing newspaper, the Chronicle-Gazette, on his desk, trying to find the sports pages. “… Have to waste the damned day firing people …”

“The Gazette didn’t run pictures of the call girls, Frank. Front or back. They just ran pictures of the winners. Jeez, they practice tired old journalism over there.”

Frank sat back in his chair. He looked like a boxer between rounds. “Why did I have to start off the week by seeing you?”

“Bring a little freshness to your life. A few laughs. Shake you up a bit. Make you see a few things differently, like a couple of photos on your sports pages.”

“You own a necktie?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s holding one end of my surfboard off the floor.”

“I suppose you’re serious. What’s holding up the other end?”

Fletch looked down at the top of his jeans. “A belt someone gave me.”

“I decided over the weekend to give you one more chance.” Frank looked at his watch.

“You’re going to try me out as a sportswriter!”

“No. After all, what companies do is expect youth, energy, and experience all from the same person. That’s not fair.”

“The police beat? Fine!”

“Thought we might try knocking a few of the rough edges off you.”

“City Hall? I can do it. Just give me a score card.”

“So I figure it’s experience, polish, you need. You do own a suit, don’t you?”

“The courts! Damn, you want me to cover the courts. I know how the courts work, Frank. Remarkable how little they have to do with the law, you know? I—”

“Society.”

“Society?”

“Society. Seeing you’re so quick to identify deceased people who never accomplished a damned thing in their lives, and point out to the public first cousins who intend to marry each other, I think you might have a little talent for covering society.”

“You mean society, like in high society?”

“High society, low society, you know, lifestyles: all those features that cater to the anxieties of our middle- class readers.”

“Frank, I don’t believe in society.”

“That’s okay, Fletch. Society doesn’t believe in you, either.”

“I’d be no good at it.”

“You might be attractive, if you combed your hair.”

“Little old ladies slipping vodka into their tea?”

“Habeck. Donald Edwin Habeck.”

“Didn’t he once try out as goalie for the Red Wings?”

“If you read anything other than the sports pages, Fletcher, you’d know Donald Edwin Habeck is one of this neighborhood’s more sensational attorneys.”

“Is he on an exciting case?”

“Habeck called me last night and said he and his wife have decided, after much discussion, to give five million dollars to the art museum. You’re interested in art, aren’t you?”

“Not as poker chips.”

“He wants the story treated right, you know? With dignity. No invasion of their privacy, no intrusion into their personal lives.”

“Frank, would you mind if I sit down?”

“Help yourself. I forgot you ran slowly in a footrace yesterday.”

Fletch sat on the rug.

“Sit anywhere.”

“Thanks. La-di-da philanthropy.”

“Finish the verse and you may have a hit song.”