Fletch Won

come to the phone just now—”

“Fletch!” Barbara shouted through the phone. “You don’t have an answering machine!”

“Oh,” Fletch said. “I forgot.”

Fletch didn’t have much. Across from the rickety, secondhand couch where he sat, posters were on the wall of the harbor of Cagna, on the Italian Riviera, of Cozumel, in eastern Mexico, of Belize, of Nairobi, Kenya, of Copacabana, in Rio de Janiero, Brazil. He hoped someday to have some really decent photographs on his wall, a proper collection. Someday, maybe, he’d have walls big enough to hold some decent copies of the paintings of Edgar Arthur Tharpe, Jr., the western artist.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course.” On the chipped plate on the chipped coffee table in front of him there was very little left of his breakfast of scrambled eggs, waffles, and bacon. “Why do you ask?”

“You went out for pizza last night at eleven o’clock! And you never came back!”

“Oh, God! I didn’t! Are you sure?”

“You never even phoned!”

“I did not eat all the pizza myself. I didn’t get any of it.”

“Were you in an accident, or something?”

“Or something. How come you’re free to phone me? Cecilia finally get a customer for her jodhpurs?”

“I’m doing an errand for her, at the drugstore. We damned near starved to death.”

“Did you lost those eight pounds you don’t like?”

“I think I did.”

“What did you and Cindy do?”

“Went to bed, finally. What else could we do? We waited for you until past one o’clock.”

“Did Cindy stay the night?”

“Of course. What else? We’d had drinks, remember? She knew she shouldn’t drive.”

“Yeah.”

“Damned inconsiderate of you. You could have at least phoned.”

“I could’ve?”

Hung from the ceiling across the room was his surfboard, a thing of beauty, a joy forever.

“We were worried. I phoned the pizza store. The man said no one named Fletcher had been there.”

“You ordered in the name of Ralton.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot. Where did you spend the night?”

“Long story. Mind if I tell you later?”

“Does it have to do with Habeck?”

“I guess so.” Fletch looked at his plate. His headache was gone.

“Did you read Biff Wilson’s piece this morning?”

“Yeah.” The News-Tribune was on the couch beside Fletch. It was not reported that a gun, the possible murder weapon, had been turned in to police the night before.

“His piece strongly indicates, Fletch, that Habeck was bumped off by the mob because he knew too much.”

Fletch sighed. “Maybe he’s right.”

“I mean, really, Fletch, how long has he been covering crime for the News- Tribune?”

“A long time.”

“He must have contacts everywhere.”

“He must have.”

“I mean, sure, people must talk to him: the police, mobsters, informants. He probably has it all figured out.”

“Probably.”

“There’s little point in your being up all night, losing sleep over it. There’s no point at all in your losing your job over it.”

“Listen, Barbara, I’ve got to shave and shower and get to work.”

“Ate all the pizza, and slept late. And I’m marrying you?”

With a flick of his fingers, Fletch knocked the News-Tribune onto the floor.

“I’d have second thoughts, if I were you,” Fletch said.

“Too late. I’m on my umpteenth thought. Remember you’re having dinner with my mother tonight.”

“Absolutely.”

“Six o’clock at the beach house. If you disappoint her again, all her doubts about you will turn into certainties, for sure.”

“For sure.”

“You’ll be there?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay. By the way, Cindy said to call her at twelve-thirty sharp at 555-2900. She’ll answer the phone herself.”

“Say again? That’s not the number of Ben Franklyn.”

“No. She said she’ll just be there at that time, waiting for you to call. That’s 555-2900. She’ll have things to tell you then.”

“Okay.”

“Fletch, this is Wednesday.”

“Already?”

“We’re getting married Saturday. You absolutely must be at dinner tonight.”

“Okay.”

“There are things to discuss.”

“Okay, okay.”

“I’ve got to get back to work,” Barbara said.

Fletch said, “Yeah. Me, too.”

“I’m from the News-Tribune” Fletch said. The woman who opened the door of the ground-floor apartment at 45447 Twig Street was in a wheelchair. “Are you Therese Gabais?”

Her eyes were black, her face gray, her hair unwashed, uncombed. “We can’t afford a daily newspaper. I don’t like them, anyway.”

“Has anyone else from the News-Tribune been here?”

She shook her head no.

The car dealership at the corner of Twig Street seemed to be offering special sale prices on rusty, six- passenger sedans. Fletch had parked near the dealership and walked the half-block, scuffing through the waste- paper and empty tins on the sidewalk. He almost stumbled over the legs of a woman asleep in a doorway.

He was watching for a police car, or Biffs car. While he breakfasted, talked with Barbara, shaved and showered, his doorbell had not rung. If it had rung, he planned to go through a back window and down the fire escape. Being falsely arrested as Alexander Liddicoat for more than twenty robberies was slightly amusing. Having Wilson and Gomez contrive real charges against I.M. Fletcher for drug dealing was totally alarming. The police had not appeared at Fletch’s apartment. They were not now visible in the street.

But Wilson and Gomez had every reason to believe Fletch would show up at the Gabais apartment.

“Has anyone been here?” Fletch asked. “The police?”

Again the woman shook her head no. Her eyes were dull.

She wheeled her chair aside. Perhaps she next would close the door in his face.

Holding the door open, Fletch stepped into the foul odor of the apartment. “I’m looking for Felix Gabais.”

Expression briefly came into her eyes as she looked up at him. She was surprised he was still there. “He