she say they are. Forgive my bad grammar. Enough of that he-or-she shit. And, wham-o, in one minute over a drink or something you discover they’ve been living this whole life, having thoughts, doing things, being someone you never knew about, never even dreamed possible.”
Cindy said, “I think with orthodontics and psychiatry, health care, clothing fashions, too, with the great American idealization of normalcy, which doesn’t exist, people think they want to love people similar to themselves.”
“All that’s the mother of prejudice,” said Barbara. “Economics is the father.”
“It’s the differences between people that we ought to love,” said Cindy.
“If we were just exactly what people think we are,” Fletch said, “we wouldn’t have much of ourselves to ourselves, would we?”
“Yeah,” Cindy giggled. “Hypocrisy is our last bastion of privacy.”
“My.” Barbara waved her glass in front of her mouth. “Pour a little booze into this trio and we pick up a philosophical text fast enough, don’t we?”
“It wasn’t much of a decision,” Cindy said. “I’m leaving Ben Franklyn Friday. I don’t mind letting the Ben Franklyn Friend Service know I have a sting in my tail.”
Fletch said, “And there’s Marta’s fondness for Carla….”
Cindy smiled at him. There was light coming through the window from the living room. “The human element is in everything we do. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?” She plopped two ice cubes into her glass. “Anyway, that’s no way to run a business. People should not be allowed to win career advancement in bed.”
Barbara giggled into her glass. “You’re talking about a whorehouse here, Cindy! I’m sorry, old pal, but that’s funny.”
“My business has less to do with sex than you think,” Cindy said.
“I’m sure.”
“So what have you really decided?” Fletch asked.
“I’ve decided to help you get your story,” Cindy said. “Let’s expose Ben Franklyn.”
“Great!”
“It will be my wedding present to you and Barbara. I was going to give you a collie when you come back from your honeymoon….”
“A collie!” Barbara exclaimed. “If Fletch doesn’t keep his job, we won’t be able to feed ourselves!”
“Tell me what you need,” Cindy said to Fletch.
“I need to know who owns the Ben Franklyn Friend Service.”
“Something called Wood Nymph, Incorporated.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“Nymphs would,” Barbara giggled.
“Who owns Wood Nymphs?” Fletch asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Nymphomaniacs always would,” Barbara said. “Isn’t that the point?”
“I need to know that. I need to know specifically and graphically what services you provide, and the specific fees for those services.”
“I can tell you that right now.”
“Please don’t,” Barbara said. “Not while I’m drinking.”
“I’ll need some sort of a deposition from you regarding the performances you put on for voyeurs. And that the man frequently doesn’t know he’s being watched, that his ass is being sold.”
“Oh, charming!” said Barbara.
“Also, a description of the whole escort service, that you’re really operating as call girls, call people. The parties at which you have performed, how that works, how much it costs. The whole blackmail thing, the cameras —”
“Cameras!” clucked Barbara. “Hypocrisy is the last bastion of privacy.”
“Listen,” Fletch said to Barbara, “a week ago you suggested you and I get married naked in front of everybody.”
“I was kidding.”
“Were you?”
“I thought I could lose eight pounds.”
“Can you get all that by tomorrow?” Fletch asked Cindy.
“I’ll try.”
“Pizza,” Barbara said. “I am feeling a distinct need for pizza.”
Cindy looked fully at Fletch and asked, “What about a list of our clients?” She watched him closely as she waited for his answer.
“Sure,” he said evenly. “Prostitution can’t exist without the Johns.”
“Will you publish their names?” Cindy asked.
“I don’t know,” Fletch said. “I honestly don’t know. I will present their names for publication.”
“Uh!” Cindy said. “It’s still a man’s world, Master!”
“Will you please go get some pizza, Fletch?” Barbara asked. “Better make mine pepperoni. Right now I don’t think I could look an anchovy in the eye.”
“We called ahead,” Fletch said to the counterman. “Three pizzas in the name of Ralton.”
The sweating counterman did not smile at him. “It will be a few minutes.”
The counterman then picked up a phone between two ovens. He dialed a number, and turned his back.
There were six other people waiting for pizzas. Four men, two in shorts, one in work clothes, one in a business suit. A teenaged boy in a tuxedo. A young teenaged girl in shorts, a halter, and purple high-heeled shoes. She also wore lipstick and eye shadow.
“Aren’t you afraid of spilling pizza on your dinner jacket?” the man in running shorts asked the teenaged boy.
The boy answered him, apparently courteously, in rapid French.
“Oh,” the man said.
Fletch opened the door to the vertical refrigerator and took out a six-pack of 7-Up. He put it on the counter.
“Schwartz?” the counterman called.
The boy in the tuxedo paid for his pizza and left.
The man in working clothes got his pizza next. Then one of the men in shorts. A woman in tennis whites entered and gave the name Ramirez. The young girl clicked out of the store on her high heels carrying her pizza like a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
“We must have called a half-hour ago,” Fletch said to the counterman. “Name of Ralton?”
Again the counterman did not smile at him. “It will be a few minutes.”
The man in the business suit picked up his pizza.
Two policemen strolled in. Their car was parked just outside the front door. They didn’t give a name.
They looked at the counterman.
The counterman nodded at Fletch.
The cops jumped at Fletch, spun him around, pushed him.
Fletch found himself leaning against the counter, his hands spread, his feet spread. One cop had his hand on the back of Fletch’s neck, forcing his head down. The other’s fingers felt through Fletch’s T-shirt, his shorts, checked the tops of his atheltic socks.
“What did he do?” the man in running shorts asked.
The eyes of the woman in tennis whites widened. She stepped back.
“He was robbing the store,” a cop answered.
“He was not!” the man said. “He’s been standing here fifteen minutes!”
