Biff Wilson stood in the door, shaved and suited as well as ever, wrinkled and rumpled.
“Oh, hi, Biff,” Fletch said. “Did you bring the coffee?”
Biff snorted. “I guess I was a wise guy once. Was I ever this much of a wise guy, Gomez?”
“You were never a wise guy,” Gomez said. “Always the altar boy.”
“I thought so.” Biff closed the door. “I’m not even sure I remember precisely what it is one does to a wise guy.”
“On the police, we break his balls,” Gomez offered. “Do all the guys in journalism have balls?”
Biff stood closer to Fletch. “Hi, kid. I heard you were incarcerated.”
“Case of mistaken identity,” Fletch said. “Robber named Liddicoat. Apparently his picture had been circulated to all the liquor stores, pizza parlors—”
Biff said to Gomez, “Can we make the charge stick awhile?”
“Awhile,” said Gomez.
“You can’t,” Fletch said. “Booking desk has already checked the identity in my wallet. That’s how you know I’m here, right?”
“Wallet?” Biff asked Gomez.
“He didn’t have a wallet,” Gomez said. “Just a stolen wristwatch.”
Biff nodded at Fletch.
“We were talking about a gun,” Fletch said.
Biff looked at Gomez. “What gun?”
“A gun I found,” Fletch said. “Outside the
“I don’t know about a gun,” Gomez said.
“You’re a good boy.” Biff stroked Fletch’s leg with the palm of his hand. “A real good boy.”
Fletch moved his leg.
“Muscle.” Biff dug his fingers into Fletch’s thigh. “Look at that muscle, Gomez.”
Fletch got off the table and moved away.
“And what do those shorts say?” Biff squinted. “I can’t quite read it, can you, Gomez? Some high-school track team?”
“Ben Franklyn Friend Service,” said Gomez.
“Football,” said Biff. “I think that means a football team.”
“That’s another story,” Fletch said.
“I sure would like to know what you’ve found out,” Biff said.
“Lots,” Fletch said. “You write lousy obituaries, Biff.”
“Why do you say that, Liddicoat?”
“For one thing, Jasmine and Donald Habeck never married. He never divorced Louise.”
“Yeah? What else?”
Fletch looked from Gomez to Wilson and shook his head.
“What else?” Biff asked.
“Have you talked with Gabais yet?”
“Who?”
“Felix Gabais. Child molester. An ex-client of Habeck. Served eleven hard years. Released from prison last week.”
“Have you talked with him yet?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ve been bird-doggin’ me all week, kid. Talked with everybody in the Habeck family, as far as I know, even the brother in the monastery. You’re stealin’ our thunder. What for, Liddicoat?”
Again, Fletch shook his head. “This was no gangland slaying, Biff. You’re on the wrong track.”
“You know better than we do, uh? The newspaper assign you to this story?”
“The museum angle.”
“Oh. The museum angle. That make sense to you, Gomez?”
“No sense whatever, Biff.”
“I think this kid ought to get lost.”
Gomez said, “We can lose him.”
“Some sort of bureaucratic tangle,” Biff said. “You know, kid, once you get entangled with the cops, any damned fool thing’s liable to happen.”
“Sure,” said Gomez. “We’ll put him in the van for the funny farm this morning. It will be a good ten days before anyone straightens out that bureaucratic tangle.”
“What will that get you?” Fletch asked. “A few days. You think I’d shut up about it?”
“Can’t blame us for a bureaucratic tangle,” Biff said.
“I’m not even in this building this morning. You’re not here either, are you, Gomez?”
“Naw. I’m never in this early.”
“This is a real wise guy. Our offer of a few days’ vacation at the funny farm doesn’t frighten him. We should stick a real charge on him, Gomez. Get him off my back forever. Is that what you do with wise guys? I forget.”
“Generally, Biff, if you’re going to hit somebody, you should hit him so hard he can’t get up swinging.”
“Yeah.” Although speaking softly, the veins in Biff’s neck and temples were pulsing visibly. His eyes glinted like black pebbles at the bottom of a sunlit stream. “I’ve heard that somewhere before. Let’s hit him with a real charge, so he can’t get up again swinging. Let’s see. He was picked up as Alexander Liddicoat. While he was being booked, it was discovered he had a seller’s quantity of angel dust in his pocket. You got any spare PCP, Gomez?”
“Sure,” said Gomez. “For just such an occasion.”
Fletch was hot. “All because I’m bird-dogging your story, Biff?”
“Because you’re a wise guy,” Biff said. “There’s no room for wise guys in journalism. Is there, Gomez?”
“You were always an altar boy,” Gomez said to Biff.
“We play by the rules, kid. You get convicted for possession of a seller’s quantity of PCP, Fletcher, and somehow I doubt John Winters and Frank Jaffe are going to want to see you around the
“What am I supposed to say?” Fletch asked. “That I’ll back off and be a good boy?”
“Too late for that,” Biff said. “I’ve decided you’re a real wise guy. We want you gone.”
“I’m supposed to say I’ll go away?”
“You’ll go away,” Gomez said. “At taxpayers’ expense. We’ll see to it.”
Fletch laughed. “Don’t you think I’ll ever come back, Biff?”
Biff glanced at Gomez. “Maybe. Maybe not. Who cares?”
“You’ll care.”
“I doubt it. You spend a few years inside now, and, what with one thing and another, you won’t even be able to walk straight when you get out. Not much of a threat.” Biff said to Gomez: “Find out about this gun he’s talking about. Where’s the PCP?”
“Got some in the locker.”
“Get it. We’ll go to your office and rewrite this kid’s booking sheet.”
“Got some real coffee in the office. We’ll have some real coffee.”
“I could use some.”
Fletch said, “Jesus, Biff! You’re serious!”
“Have I ever made a joke?”
“Ann McGarrahan said you’re a shit.”
“She should know. Biggest mistake of her life was marryin’ me. Everybody says so.”
Gomez laughed. “You the reason she never had any kids, Biff?”
“Had something to do with it. The lady didn’t like to be screwed by anybody with whiskey on his breath.”
Fletch said, “Jesus!”
“Guess I won’t be seeing you around anymore, kid,” Biff said. “Can’t say I’ll miss ya.”
